TM [P(DO[lC/A[L W®\k^al$ OF 11€H®]LS®M. qJ^ (Bom-u/l iccAoukTriy POEMS BY JOHN NICHOLSON, TEE AIREDALE POET. (EDITED BY W. D E A R D E N, AUTHOR OF THE "STAR SEER," &C.,) WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS- BY JOHX JAMES, F.S.A., AUTHOR OF "the HISTORY OF BBADFOIID," " THE HISTORY OF THE WORSTED MANUFACTURE," ETC. i- , • « ^ -) . . o >i ' " •» »> * ' ^ LONDON: W. H. YOUNG, BISHOPSGATE, AND J. HARRISON AND SON, YORK PLACE, BINGLEY. MDCCCLIX. (tlNTI^KED AT STATIOXKilS HALT..; J. iiAtirasoN AID soy, iraMLiis, bixgley. ADYEETISEMENT. The friends of the deceased poet, in publishing this new edition of his poems, have had two objects in view : the one, to gratify a desire that has been fre- quently expressed throughout those parts of the country where the poet and his works were known and adinired, but where copies of those works have become exceedingly scarce, if not altogether unattain- able ; and the other, to realize for the widow, now in her 08th year, by the profits of this publication, a sum sufficient to place her for the remainder of life in comfortable circumstances. The proceeds of the last edition, published shortly after the death of her husband, enabled her to send her youngest son five years to the Bradford Grammar School ; and she has the satisfaction of knowing that he has not abused the educational advantages he received, nor failed to e\ince his gratitude for her kindness. This son, and two exemplary maiden sisters, cling to the maternal home with filial piety and affection. In this edition the reader will find many j)oems that have never appeared in any previous collection of the poet's works, and several from original MSS obtained chiefly by the industrious research of his brother, Mr. T. Nicholson, whose exertions in promo- ting the success of the j^resent undertaking, are worthy of praise. A poet from among the ranks of the people, to gain *■' a fit audience" at the present day, must possess higher qualifications than were expected from one of his grade some twenty or thirty years ago, — so refined, since then, has become the taste of all lovers of poetic literatm-e. He must not only possess the soul of poetry, but, as his name implies, he must be able to create for it a foim of expression through which it may " breathe and burn." That John Nicholson had the poetic element in no ordinary degree, few will deny ; but that he did not ahvays embody his thoughts in the most coherent and intelligible diction, every reader of discernment will be free to acknowledge. This 248202 ADVERTISEMENT. fault, wliicli a benevolent criticism might attribute to defective education, would, on that score, have been venial, were it not asserted by those who knew him best, that he was deaf to any suggested improvements in his lines, from whatever quarter they might eman- ate. " What I have written I have written, and it shall stand," he was wont to say with the air of one who understood the divine right of kings. This conduct, to say the least of it, was very unwise ; and it has necessitated a revision of his poems, in which, where practicable, such emendations have been made, and such only, as would render the ideas more intelligible and agreeable to readers of refined taste. It is but right to state, that the three leading poems in this collection had passed through the press before the writer of this article formally undertook the responsibility of revision. To endeavour to anticipate criticism by making alterations in a work that has long been in the hands of the public, by whom its excellences and its defects have been more or less canvassed, would be a perilous undertaking. Few readers like to see a poem or a story changed into a form different from that in which it originally won their attention and regard, merely to gratifv a critical taste. No such liberties have been taken with Nicholson's productions. The reader will find every incident with wliicli he has been familiar, and the vraisemhlance of every idea, faithfully preserved. In short, he will meet with the poet, in this edition, identically the same as he has met with him before, though somewhat, perhaps, more respectable in ap- pearance, and more polished in address. The Widow gratefully tenders her acknowledg- ments to the numerous Patrons and Subscribers, who have so nobly responded to the appeal made in her behalf. W. DEAKDEN. Brunsivicl- Place, Bradford. May, 1850. COjS'TENTS. PAGE. ADVERTISEME^-T ... . iii. Life of John Nicholson vii Lyre of Ehor The Poacher .. 1 53 Airedale in Ancient Times ... .. 71 Genius and In temperance Lines on the Grand Musical Festival at York, 1825 91 121 Vale of Ilkley ... May Day ... Mary of Ma rley Evening in April ... Love on the Heath 134 141 142 144 145 Fairy Song 147 On Love 148 Lines Spoken at the Anniversary Meeting at Leeds, to celebrate the Birth-day of Burns, 1826, 149 Alas! where are they ? 151 On Visiting a Workhouse 153 January ... 155 The Snoiv Drop 156 Mary, I will think of you ... 157 To a Friend ... 159 Solemn Reflections... Lines Written in Sickness 160 161 I will lore thee, Mary 162 Psalm XVIII. parapjhrased 163 Lines on 'Long Toni' 165 The Faithful Wife , The New Church at Wilsden 167 168 On the Ascent of a Balloon 170 Written at Tong Hall 175 Elegy on the Death of Lord Byron ... 176 CONTENTS. PAGE. The Commerce of Bradford ... ... ...177 Reflections on the Eeturn of tJie Sivallow ... 183 Psalm CX1.YUI. jmrajjhrased ... ... ... 187 On the Old Oak Tree lately standing near Spink-well 191 ImpromjJtu, ... ... ... ... ... 193 Female Constancy ... ... ... ... 194 Melpomene... ... ... ... ... ... 195 The 2Iaid of Loivdore ... ... ... ... 196 The Storm 198 Man's Life 200 The Wakening of the Poet's Harp.., ... ... 202 An Impromptu Epitaph on a Landlord ... 203 Ode on a Wounded Seaman ... ... ... 204 A Fragment ... ... ... ... ... 206 Lines on the Consecration of St. PauVs Church, Shipley 208 The Malt-kiln Fire 210 A Night Scene 212 S2Jorts of the Field 213 Dirge ... ... ... ... ... ... 214 Lines on the Death of T. Coojyer, Esq. ... ... 216 Lines on Laura ... ... ... ... 218 The Muse 219 The Vanity of Human Affairs... ... ... 220 On the Death of a Young Lady ... ... ... 222 From, a Mother to her daughter in London ... 223 The Absent Lover ... ... ... ... ... 224 Morning in May ... ... ... ... 226 Lines written at Goitstock ... ... ... ... 228 The Deserted Maid 229 The Drunliard's Retribution ... ... ... 231 On a Calm Summers Night ... ... ... 232 On the Death of Lady Rickitts ... ... ...233 So)ig 234 Love 235 On Returning from London ... ... ... 236 The Dying Lor er 238 On the Death of the Poet's Child in London ... 239 The Hunters Dirge 240 On Binqley ... ... ... ... ... 241 To the Critics 243 A Prayer ... ... ... ... ... 244 LIFE OF JOHN NICHOLSOX. In every walk of life misfortunes are strewed thickly around, but in the lives of men of genius, in every department of literature and science, they have greatly abounded. The poetic race, in j^articular, appear to be doomed to a state of misery ; for their calamities have in all ages been proverbial. If the mantle of Elijah foil upon one of the inspired, it seems also inse- parable from the lot of dwelling by the brook Cherith. The lives of the poets may in general be smnmed up as comprising every species of human woe : and the blanket of Boyse, the loaf of Otway, the glass house lodgings of Savage, and the poison cup of Chatterton, are merely some of the more prominent incidents in the sad history of the poets of our own comitiy. Nor have the bards of other lands been more fortunate. The reason of this almost universal wretchedness attendant upon poetic pursuits, seems evident. For the possessors of poetic genius, being ever of strong pas- sions, ardent imagination, and exquisite sensibility, which indeed seem the first requisites of a poet, ai'e naturally disposed to indulge in day dreams of gay hope, and disregard, until too late, the stern monitions of pi-udence. They consider the world as a garden of Eden bloomin^- with roses, and find it, too late, a Till. THE LIFE OF waste of briars. Genius has also, along Avitli its noble attributes, concomitant failings ; and like its type, the great and glorious luminary of heaven, the stronger its power, the more clouds it draws around it from this lower world. High aspirations, sanguine hopes, are supplanted by the severe realities of life , and the dis- appointed bard too often droops through life neglected and in poverty, — a prey to the gloomiest melancholy, or to reckless dissipation and despair. *' 'Tis his, to fall from inspiration's heaven, And feel the wretchedness that has no name ; His, to be often blam'd — less oft forgiven ; His, frequent penury, and not seldom — shame : His, fierce extremes of glory and of gloom, — Perchance an. early fame — too olt, an earlier tomb." But if, by his constitution and feelings, the poet is peculiarly exposed to the blasts of this boisterous stage, he alone is truly alive to the great beauties of the phy- sical and intellectual world. He has, in the sunny mo- ments of his existence, a heaven within him which passes the understanding of the vulgar sons of men ; and his exquisite sensibility gives a tenfold zest to the charms of nature and society, and adds additional grace to every pleasing scene of life. Among those of the uneducated poets who tasted deeply of the cup of misery, may be ranked pJohn Ni- cholson. He was born at Weardley, a village lying within a mile of Harewood House, in one of the most pictu- resque parts of the beautiful vale of the Wharf, and sur- rounded by woodlands. The village consists of five or six farm-houses, and a few neat and pleasant cottages, interspersed with gardens and orchards. In one of these farm-houses, a fine old English homestead, the poet's grandfather, whose family had resided in the house for more than a hundred years, kept during the middle of the last century, an Inn, known by the sign of ' The Star.' It was a noted old hostelry in that locality ; and much frequented by the farmers and husbandmen of the neighbourhood, on a leisure JOHN NICHOLSON. IX^ evening, and quite realized Goldsmith's delightful description of the road-side Inn, in the ' Deserted Village' — the old house AVhere nut-bro-wn. draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired ; Where village statesmen talked -with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. A description of the capacious kitchen of ' the Star/ will, it is presumed, not be unacceptable to the reader : one end was taken up by a large jutting fire-place, with its corner ' ingles.' At the opposite end, stood an ancient canned oaken dresser, or amnbry, polished like a mirror, over which rows of pewter dishes glistened in the glow of the bright log-hre A^•hich roared up the ample chimney. The other two sides of the room were occupied with black oaken long-settles, which had borne, for successive generations, the village Fal- stafFs. To complete the picture, over head the massy balks were well furnished with quarters of beef, and flitches of bacon, evidences of the rude plenty of the landlord. He was in easy circumstances, and being fond of hunting, could afford to keep a hunter or two for his amusement. When old age approached, he retired with his wife, upon a small competency, to spend the remainder of his days in the rustic cottage at Weard- ley, sho'v\Ti in the vignette to this work. At this time he had two sons, Thomas, the father of our poet, and William. The latter, excited when a mere youth by the perusal of Falconer's ' Shipwreck,' travelled on foot to the nearest seaport, went to sea, and lived and died a sailor. Thomas, the eldest son, who, on the removal of his father to the cottage, employed himself in agricultural labours at Weardley, became an enthu- siastic admirer of poetry, and in his boyhood committed to memory a large portion of Young's ' Night Thoughts,' and other standard poems of the last age ; especially those of a religious cast. Whilst yet young, he married the daughter of Mr. Francis Whitley, a prosperous faiTQer at Eldwick, near Bingley. They X. THE LIFE OF were united at the parish Church of Harewood, and ■went to reside with the aged hmdlord of the ' Star,' in tlie cottage so faithfully represented in the vignette di-awn and engraved by Mr. G. Burton, of Bradford, who has generously j^i'esented it for this edition. Here, in this cottage, was born on the 29th Nov., 1790, their eldest son, John Nicholson, the poet. In a few weeks after his birth, the poet's father removed to Eldwick, where, being assisted with some small capital b}'^ his father-in-law, he commenced the busi- ness of worsted manufacture ; and soon acquired, by steadiness of conduct and persevering attention, the position of a respectable tradesman. He was a man of a contemplative, serious turn of thought, who unceas- ingly endeavoured to impress upon the minds of his children the love of that which was noble and beauti- ful. In the evening he usually gathered his family round him, and beguiled the hours with reading choice passages from Shakespeare, Milton, Young, and Pope ; and descanting on their beauties with all the feelings of an enthusiast. Under such training, it is not surprising that young Nicholson, whose temperament was eminently ardent and poetic, caught the divine spark, which set his whole soul on fire. At an early age he penned rhymes ; one of these, of a sarcastic nature, and written when only eight years old, bears sufficient token of his natural genius and precocity. It alludes to two scolds who were great pests to the poet's maternal grandfather, upon whose barn door he scribbled : — Good God of Truth, take Mat and Ruth, Unto thy heav'nly throne ; Then good old Frank may live in crank, And be disturb' d by none. The first rudiments of education were taught him by his father at the wool-sorting board : and aftenvards he was sent to school to a person named Briggs, who for lack of obtaining a sufficient livelihood from the occupation of school-master, united with it that of besom-malier. The school-house, used during the JOHN NICHOLSON. XI. season as a sliooting-liouse, is seated on the very summit of the wild momitain tract of Romald's Moor, which, stretching from Skipton eastwards sixteen miles, divides Airedale from Wharfedale. Here, on smnmer afternoons, amidst the smell of wild flowers and the whirling hoom of the mountain hee, the hesom-maker, like a peripatetic j)hilosoplier, led forth his little band of scholars, to teach them lessons while they pulled the blooming ling for his besoms, which he sold in the surrounding villages on the Saturday holidays. Under this rustic schoolmaster, who possessed, notwithstanding his humble station, considerable scholastic attainments, and, above all, the happy art of communicating them to his scholars, young Nicholson made a remarkably rapid progress. After remaining with the Romald's Moor school- master a few years, he was, at the age of twelve years, sent to Bingley Free Grammar School, then in high repute, and taught by the late amiable and learned Dr. Hartley, He only remained about a year at this school, during which time he had, by attention and good behaviour, joined to quickness of parts,* obtained the favour of the master, who afterwards, with his characteristic kindness, revised "Airedale" and other early poems of our poet, and assisted him on many occasions through life. On leaving Bingley School, Nicholson's father destining him for the business of a worsted manufac- turer, as a preliminary step, put him to the sorting oi wool. The pursuits of poetry, and an unsettled mind, prevented him from ever becoming a manufacturer, or commencing business for himself, and he remained all the days of after life either a journeyman wool- comber or sorter. * The Rev. "W. Cartman, now the respected master of Skipton Grammar School, lately stated to Mr, Thomas Ni- cholson, the poet's brother, that Dr. Hartley often in conver- sation mentioned that John was one of the quickest scholars in his school, and he felt sorry that the boy could not stay longer under his tuition. The Doctor also remarked that he "Was always playing off some frolic while at school. Xll. THE LIFE OF During youth he had, like all men of vigorous and intellectual minds, a strong inclinaticn to reading, and perused with avidity every book that fell in his way. His favourite authors were Pope's Homer, Shakespeare, and Young's Night Thoughts. The former he inces- santly read, and had a considerable portion of it upon his memory. To the love of Homer maybe imputed the partiality he evinced through after life to battle scenes. In " The Lyre of Ebor," published in the following collection, some of the battles which have been fought in this country are vividly described. He was a great admirer through life, of the terrible and sublime ; and these three authors suited his taste in that respect. Whatever plausible reasons may be advanced to the contraiy, experience fully shows that long indulgence in the pleasure of poetry, or the graces of polite literature, unfits for the drudgery of menial occupa- tions : — "Where once those fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.'* Such effect had also the pleasures of poetry upon young Nicholson. When he grew up, his parents found that the love of readinj]^ ,'ICHOI.SOy. XIX. department of literature again, and produced tlie *' Siege of Bradford," founded on the events of the Civil War, whic-h was acted in the year 18'20, for the benefit of Mr. ]\Iacaulev, one of the players, and yielded the sum of £47. These two pieces, which were represented several nights, and were extremely popu- lar, quite revived the drooping fortunes of the manager: but the author received no heneiit from their represen- tation, though he had been induced to believe that a share of the profits of the last piece would be allotted to him. He, however, printed it, and two editions were required. This w-as the first of his printed l^ieces. In the same volume wdth the " Siege oi Bradford," were included the *' Commerce of Brad- ford," and the beautiful "Prayer" which concludes this volume. The fame of Nicholson had now been firmly esta- blished in this locidity. He had fairly launched into j)oetic pursuits, and henceforward his whole mind was devoted to them. In the year 18^Q, he removed to Harden Beck, a small knot of houses near Bingiey. Elated with the success of his first publication, he began to contem- plate another work, and finally fixed upon "Airedale." While engaged in this task, a circumstance happened which, doubtless, determined his lot as a poet. He had ever been remarkable for impromptu verse-making, and one day, J. G. Horsfall, Esq., who resided in the vicinity, passing the poet's house, requested a drink of water, when he was obligingly handed a draught of beer. JMr. Horsfall, in a jocose manner, said, " Nicholson, they state you are a poet, let us hear what you can say about this pot of beer," when without premeditation he improvised the following : — **0 for an everlasting spring? Of home-brew 'd drink like this ! Then with my friends I'd laugh and Bing, And spend the hours in bliss ; Then come old Care, link'd with Despair, For I, with thee made strong, Would plung them over head in beer. And make them lead the song." ■ XX. THE LIFE OF Mr. Horsfall was so much pleased with this prompt effusion, that from that time he encouraged Nicholson to pursue his poetical labours, and bestowed on him many substantial marks of patronage. Underthese auspicious circumstances, he proceeded to complete " Airedale." While comj)osing the greater part he did not follow his daily occupation, but was enabled, through the labours of his wife at a worsted mill, and the generous assistance of Mr. Horsfall, to devote a considerable portion of time to the compo- sition of " Airedale," and many of the short pieces which first appeared with it. But several of the sweet- est of the lyrics which appear in the following pages were produced at the sorting-board, and dotted down r on its greasy surface with a skewer. Most of my J readers will know that the labours of a v/oolsorter are Ucongenial to habits of thought and meditation. The mode of study he pursued after the hours of work was characteristic. While engaged on a poem containing sombre or sublime thoughts, he loved to stroll late at night on the banks of the babbling rivulet which ran close to his dwelling ; and while the moon, "sweet regent of the sky," shed her mild rays on the spot, study his subject. A small picturesque cascade, in a dell near Goit Stock, is pointed out as a favourit^> resort of our poet while ruminating on the topics of many of his choicest poems. Several of them, of a gay and cheerful nature, were written early in the morning, especially " Lines written at Goit Stock," *' Morning in May," and " Return of the Swallow." In summer he generally rose at four o'clock, and strayed to his accustomed spot for poetic contemplation and expression, — a huge flat rock which overlooks the pleasant valley at Harden Beck. His life at this time was one of industry, for, if not engaged at the sorting-board, he was earnestly employed in poetic composition or reading. He had hitherto been a sober steady workman, distinguished only by superior mental attainments and lofty sentiment. After the completion of " Airedale," he removed to Hewnden, (about a mile distant from his foimer JOHN NICHOLSON. XXI. residence,) and was tliere employed three years, as a woolsorter by Mr. Stephen Skirrow. Hewnden lies embosomed in woods, at the bottom of a deep glen, through which He\^Tiden Beck winds its pictm-esque course. After passing the hamlet of Hewnden, it enters Hallas "Wood, and here rushes down a cataract some twenty-five feet in height, into a deep pool. On a calm night, the sound of this waterfall, when the stream is swollen with floods from the western mountains, can be distinctly heard for two miles. The scenery round 'Hallas Lumb,' as the waterfall is called, is peculiarly romantic and solemn. On the one hand, are towering rocks upwards of lOO feet high, hinged with gnarled oaks, whose roots are thrown out in fantastic shapes ; and on the opposite side, a shagg;y' wood overhangs the scene. The whole place has a sombre and sublime air, which suited the tempera- ment of Nicholson. Often during storm and flood, when the 'fall' was in full roar, he wandered to this spot, even at midnight, to meditate pensively ; and here some of the sublimest passages in his poems were composed. A short poem in this edition, en- titled ''A Night Scene," descriptive of the place, he WTOte on a particularly wild night after visiting the cataract. While at Hewnden he wrote " The Poacher." All the incidents in the piece, with the exception of one, in which the principal hero is at last drowned, were faithfully drawn from real life. At that time, a daring and desperate band of poachers resided in the neigh- bourhood; and Mr. Horsfall having suggested the subject of " The Poacher," Nicholson commenced obtaining materials for the work by frequenting the company of poachers. Treating them liberally with liquor, they furnished him with full particulars of their modes of catching game, and poaching exploits. He was accustomed to sit up whole nights with them for this purpose; and they have been known to desj)atch at one sitting a couple of gallons of the poet's home-brewed beer. Two persons of the names of Jack Moore and Dan Ingham stood for the pictures XXll. THE LIKE OF of Ignotus mid Desparo. I lately met with the latter near Hewnclen ]\Iill, and casually asked him how much game he had hagged as a poacher in his life; he answered, with the most innocent simplicity, " As much as that mill," pointing to it, " would hold if well 2)acked/' He had heen fined some forty times for poaching, and been several times in the House of' Correction for not paying the fines imposed upon him. From these men Nicholson readily obtained materials for the composition of " The Poacher." He wrote the Poaclier's Song previous to the other parts, and in the internals of their narration of poaching adven- tures and stratagems, it was sung by Despnro and Ignotus with great glee over the poet's tliin home- brewed, or the more potent liquor of the neighbouring public house. The Song is still a favourite in the neighbourhood, and there are scores who, to the tune of the Farmer's Boy, e.^diibit its lyric excellence to the best advantage. Having now completed the manuscript for his first volume of poems, and having obtained a numerous list of subscribers, he committed the work to the press in 1824. Although unversed in the strict rules of composition, yet it may once for all be mentioned,. that, with the exception of a few grammatical inaccu- racies or verbal alterations, the work was altogether the fruit of his own thought and pen. A gentleman of excellent literary taste — the late Mr. Hudson of Bradford, made several of these verbal alterations in tbe first volume of j^oems ; and he stated to me that,, with the trifling exceptions before mentioned, the work was wholly Nicholson's. It may be necessary to say this much, because a notion is prevalent that the excellence of the first volume, comprising the choicest of the following pieces, owed much to other hands. In jiassing through the press, many ortho- graphical errors, arising from the imperfection of the author's education, would be rectified.; but further, he OAved nothing to the printers. And now commenced the unfortunate portion of his life. The calamities so often attendant upon the career JOHN NICHOLSON. XXlll. of a poet, from this time pressed heavily upon him. Unfortmiately, the pubhcation of " Airedale," &c., in- duced him to quit his emplojiiient, and roam about the country with the volume, to supply those who had subscribed to it, and to obtain other purchasers. The work, fromahand so unpolished and unpromising, excited surprise; and a poet being at that time a phe- nomenon in this locality, he was greatly caressed for a time by the "countless troop of talent's friends — persons who affect but have not taste." In his long and fre- ([uent journeyings, he unavoidably fell often into the company of men who were ever willing to treat him with liquor for the sake of his original and instructive conversation, and to witness his feats of impromptu verse making. In that respect he had few equals, and might be compared with the Troubadours or Improvisatore of old. This talent often seiTcd him in shaking off the incredulity of parties upon whom he Avaited with his poems, as to his being a poet, so broad-shouldered and uncouth was his appearance. I have a number of these impromptu verses before me, which have been . preserved by his friends. The one subjoined I think extremely happy. He had a letter of introduction to a gentleman at Iluddersfield, and on presenting himself, the fact of his being a poet and author of the volume of poems which he offered for sale was disputed, and he was desired to prove his identity by writing a verse. He had before him at the time a glass of new- drawn porter, and taking a pencil instantly wrote — " The gallant, the gay, and the sporter, Have here but little to stay ; For life's like the froth on that porter, And quickly doth vanish away." The gentleman at once convinced of the poet's identity, became a warm friend of his. There are extant several other happy and witty verses produced by him in the same ready manner, but none convey a more instructive moral. XXIV- THE LIFE OF He often exercised the faculty of imj^romptu versi- fication in a satiric way. One verse is Avell remembered. A person to whom he had a great disHke, and who was not noted for veracity, once asked Nicholson to write him an epitaph ; when he immediately replied in the following coarse but witty stanza : — ** Old Beelzebub sent his best servant on earth, To fetch him a wonderful liar ; Hah ! hah ! how the devils burst out into mirth. When back he returned with old F r." Another of these sallies may here be printed, not be- cause of any peculiar excellence in it, but because it affords a specimen of his frequent use on those occa- sions of the Yorkshire dialect ; and at the same time gives an opportunity^ of introducing the opinion of the late Mr. Thomas Crossley, of Ovenden, a true poetic genius, on Nicholson's talent at impromptu. A letter from Mr. Crossley, now lying before me, written soon after Nicholson's death, contains the following extract : — " I have heard him hit off many a good extemj)orary stanza, which, though deserving a better fate, has now gone for ever down the stream of Lethe. At impromptu, I think he stood unrivalled. The following on a landlord, of the Malt Shovel Inn, Halifax, (whose habits of intemperance were well known), I think very hapjDy." On one occasion Nicholson called at the Inn, when the landlord, excited ■with liquor, met him at the door, and seizing him by the hand, exclaimed " Bless thee, poet ! — Come give us a verse." Nicholson instantly complied with the request, and gave the following : — *' Oh Jack ! Oh Jack ! be not a fool, But take good care of thy broad Shool ; For if thou dost not, I'm afraid, Thy * shool ' will dwindle to a spade. The firstlarge edition of "Airedale and other Poems" was speedily sold at six shillings a volume, though not containing above half the pieces in the ensuing pages. A second edition was struck off in 1825, and our author JOHN NICHOLSON. XXV. again started as a vendor of liis works. He had now contracted inveterate habits of dissipation, which he never aftei-^^ards shook off, but which proved the bane and curse of his hfe. His claim to a high rank among the uneducated poets of the coimtrv was fully proved, ^ind he at this timewaswidely patronized, and received substantial favours from the great. Had he possessed the least foresight or prudence, the produce of the poems, and the presents he received in this the heyday of his popularity, might have secured him a moderate competency for life ; but regardless of tlie entreaties and endeavours of friends, he riotously wasted his money amongst bacchanalian companions, and seldom returned from book-vending excursions wdth a penny in his pocket. Having disposed of the greater portion of the second edition of the first volume of poems, he began to pre- j)are for the publication of another volume ; and in the intei-^-als of his wanderings, wrote the "LyreofEbor," and the other pieces which form the second volume of poems published by him. These in all the requisites of genuine poetiy, ai-e much inferior to the poems which appeared in the first volume. He had indeed from intemperate habits lost much of his former energ}- and delicacy of thought. The tenor of his hfe was now unsuited to poetic exertion. He had become nerveless, and a prey to all the evils of intemperance. Early in 1827 the '-Lyre of Ebor and other Poems" appeared. He then resided at Bingley. In this in- terval, the trade panic of 1825-6, had occurred, which made employment in woolsorting not easily obtained. The evils of poverty now stole swiftly upon him. His family now consisted of six cliilcfren, and the improvi- dence of his conduct had not abated, but rather increased. While at Bingley, he often by his freaks amused the social meeting at a neighbouring Inn. One of these may be here instanced. The hostess, one of the Dame Quickly class, possessed an ancient punch bowl of remarkably large dimensions, which she paraded in her bar-parlour, where it often formed the XXVI. THE LIFE OF topic of Immoroiis conversation. On one occasion, the landlady sportively declared in the presence of Nicholson, that if another of larger size could be pro- duced, she would fill hers with the choicest liquor, for the benefit of her guests. The poet soon remembered he had seen an old stone vessel of capacious size,, supposed to have once been a baptismal font, but which had long been thrown aside. At a convenient opportunity, he had it carried (weighing about one cwt.) to tjie Inn, and claimed the forfeit. The hostess, joining heartily in the joke, readily fulfilled her promise. The two bowls were placed side by side in the bar, and oft were filled amidst the jovial glee of her customers, who delighted to twit her on having been outwitted by the Airedale poet. He made at this period of his life many excursions.- One to the Lakes of Cumberland," much delighted him, and formed, in after life, the subject of many a theme. The sublime scenery of the '-Lakes" violently excited his mind and his descriptions of it in his letters were exceedingly vivid. During his visit to the lakes of Cimiberland, he became acquainted with the steward of George Lane Fox, Esq., of Bramham, who recommended Nicholson to the notice of that gentleman. Being pleased with the perusal of Ni(iholson's poems, and hearing of his distress, ^Yith characteristic generosity, he gave the poet twenty pounds ; and ever afterwards welcomed him to the hospitalities of Bramham Park. There he often quaffed the contents in strong beer of a horn, holding about three pints, called " Long Tom." * When on one of theSe excursion?, he visited the grave of Septimus Witidop (a noted composer of psahn tunes), in the churchyard of Illing worth, near Halifax. Nicholson, who at all tiroes exhibited a deep respect for departed worth, found to his surprise, that no memorial marked Widdop's grave. He instantly commenced a scheme to raise funds for the purpose. An Oratorio was announced, -which proved successful, and sufficient funds were thus realized to place a handsome grave stone over Widdop's grave. JOHN NICHOLSON. XXVlI, The clever lines to " Long Tom" were written while under the inspiration of this bacchanalian hom. But Mr. Fox's kindness to the poet did not stop here, for at various times he presented him with money, to the amount of more than £100 ; and after his death he hefriended his widow, and promoted in a manner never to be forgotten by the poet's family, the success of the last edition of his poems. But who shall assist him that is recklessly deter- mined not to be assisted? Nicholson, after receiving ]\Ir. Fox's handsome present of twenty pounds, imme- diately determined to visit the gi'eat metropolis ; and leaving a portion for the maintenance of his family, departed in October, 1827, with the rest of the money for London, takin,^' v;ith him a large stock of books. Here he was introduced to the late Dr. Birkbeck, by Mr. Richard Nichols, brother-in-lav/ to his late master, Mr. Skirrow. The Dr. treated him with his accus- tomed urbanity, and gave him introductions to a large circle of acquaintance, amongst whom Nicholson found numerous purchasers of his volumes. The Yorkshire poet, no doubt, cut a picturesque figure in London society ; for he was dressed in a blue coat, corduroy breeches, and grey yarn stockings. During his stay in London, a period of three weeks, he sold a large number of his books, and was treated generously by many friends. Through their kindness he visited every place in the metropolis worthy ot note. He was particularly gratified by a visit to Chan trey's works, at Pimlico. Not knowing Chantrey's person, he obser\^ed to a bystander, while viewing the bust of His IMajesty George the Fourth, "What merit does! Theartistisnotnow sellingmilk in Sheffield." It turned out aftei'^^ards that the person he so addressed was Chantrey himself. After enjoying a long conversa- tion with Allan Cunningham, Nicholson departed without knowing that he had been in company with the great sculptor. Upon being informed, he sent to Chautrey an apology in verse for the error he had committed. XX\'lll. THE LIFE OF While in London, a bust of the poet in plaster of Paris was taken by one of Chantrej^'s workmen. It is in the possession of the poet's family, and conveys an admirable likeness of him. His stay in London was at last shortened by an mitoward, but laughable affair. Having gained the acquaintance of a barrister from Yorkshire, he intro- duced Nicholson to animiber of gentlemen of guy habits, who lounged away their time in the cloisters of the Inner Temple. They Avere delighted with the rustic appearance, eccentric conduct, and witty sayings of tlie Yorkshire poet ; jind induced him, morning by morning, to j)artake of refreshment in their chambers. On the 15 th of November the carousal of the morning lasted the whole day, being spent by these gentlemen of the bar, well assisted by the poet, in riotously drinking wine. In the evening they jiroposed that he should proceed with them to Drury Lane theatre, to witness the jierformance of the opera of Artaxerxes. They paid for him to the dress-boxes, and then took him into the saloon, where, either intentionally or through inadvertence, they left him. His odd dress and apostrophes to Shakspeare, soon collected round him a number of cyprians and their beaux, who having never seen such an exhibition before in the place, were inclined to extreme merriment at his expense. A great uj)roar was the consequence, and Bond, the officer on duty at the theatre, took Nicholson to Covent Garden watch-house. As he had committed no offence, except apostro- phizing a bust of Shakspeare, the officer, after awhile, offered to set him at large ; he would not, however, be so released, but demanded a hearing before the magis- trate. Accordingly in the morning he was brought before Sir Richard Birnie, who, on hearing all the cir- cumstances, and laughing heartily, discharged him, but not before the poet, in showing the magistrate how rudely he was treated by the officer on dragging him from the theatre, had shaken Bond very roughly and pulled him round the office. AYlien he had just quitted Bow-street ofhce, he met his friend the barrister, who, JOHN NICHOLSON. XXIX. having been informed of the misadventure was coming to his aid. As will be readily supposed, the scene at Bow-street was graphically sketched by the ready pen of the short-hand writers, and reports of it, dressed up with the usual condiments, appeared in all the daily papers, duly headed "• The Yorkshire Poet in trouble." Knowing well that his wife, upon hearing through the newspapers that he had been imprisoned, would instantly joroceed to the metropolis, without further delay he quitted it for home. Whatever opinion he had formed of London previous to the adventure at Bow-street office, it was aftenvards far from favourable. In a pamphlet he published soon after his return, giving an account, in prose, of this journey, he depicts the city in dark colours, and makes a contrast between it and his favourite Romald's 3Ioor, much to the advantage of the latter. He adds, " Ii peace is to be found, 'tis in the cottage of the peasant, where neighbours and friends meet, reading the Bible after returning from church, and then "with honest devotion retiring to rest. This I have seen imder the wild mountains of Romald's Moor." Throughout the pamphlet many original and striking observations are scattered. One I shall transcribe, because it fomis the best excuse for the inveterate habit of intemperance which he had contracted. After moralising on the in- firmities and calamities of poets, he j^roceeds, " Walk to their monuments, and see their ages at death. Could they speak and disclose what they had felt, even the most enthusiastic admirers of their works, could they become superior to them all in point of genius, would shrink from the overwhelming anxiety and woe that too oft cut short a poet's life. The public answer, they should not drink; but of the veiy persons who are advi- sing them, the next sentence is — come take a single glass with me, a single glass cannot hurt you. The poet refuses — again is pressed; he knows it hurts him, but is afraid to disoblige his friend — he is a subscriber; — points out the beauties, the defects, &c., of the work. The next gentleman he meets with does the same : perhaps another enters — another glass is the conse- XXX. THE IJFE OF quence ; the poet's heart warms — forgets his constitu- tion — till in a few years, like lime with water, he falls iiway and drops into the earth." *' Chords that bring the sweetest measure Trill the deepest notes of woe.'' A letter which he sent to a distinguished friend, shows very vividly the state of mind and feelings of our poet at this time, and elucidates some passages in his life. Rewrites, '"Days, weeks, and months pass away, and adversity and the rhymer have become familiar. At the beginning I cringed and bowed to every blast of misfortune, but my mind has at last strengthened, and I meet the storms of life with a kind of despairing resolution. I am sat in my cottage this morning, and praised be the Giver of every gift, we have not a want but this day is supplied — all in good health, and a few pounds to spare. I have been for some time back safely at anchor with my father, whom I shall ever respect, and if ever I can vejyuj him I will. I cannot reflect with pleasure on the quantities of stimulus I have lately swallowed. I felt my own "bosom, and thought it was giving way under the accu- mulated load of anxiety. I was afraid of the lunatic asylum. You smile at this, but consider hopes flying among the stars - ■•'-. I cannot help thinking if I have good conduct, and sell all my present works, that I can write something better than I have ever A'et written. This may be vanity ; but I know one thing, I have been greatly deficient in reading, and have accidentally hit r.pon some lines very like those of others which the public may think I have borrowed, but which are in reality my own. After my composi- tions were put together, I never could either write new in their 2)lace or correct the old, for the anxietv which pressed on my mind smothered invention. I have just read the introduction to Clare's poems. What have I had to suffer compared to what he had ? 'Tis true my family have been more numerous ; but then I have had more friends. When he, poor man ! had worked hard for his twenty shillings to pay for JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXI. thi'ee hundred copies of a very humble prosj)ectus, and when they were all distributed, what was the number of subscribers? Seven ! 1 1 Only seven. Oh ! what must he have felt! He had no one to whom he could unbosom his mind, at least who had any influence. I sadly want to know my fate; but if my works should clear me forty or fifty pounds, I would be well dressed, take a day when I thought, and scribble over another poem. You will say. What, not tired yet! No, Sir; I loiow I can leave my children no other legacy than a volume of tiifles, if they can find a real friend to publish them. I will tell you what I am afraid of — many will compare my works with those who have had far greater privileges, and then they will be found wanting." The disappointment he experienced on the first visit to the metropolis did not prevent him, after the lajjse of a few months, vv'ishing to try his fortmie there again. He believed that London was the great mart for the works he had published, and tliat he had not used proper means to bring them before the metropolitan public. His wife having sufficient evidence of the fruits Avhich might be expected from the intended journey, used every persuasion to deter him, but in vain. She therefore determined to be a partner in the trip, and endeavour, if possible, to bring home some portion oi the money which the sale of his works might produce. Being aware she would pro^'e a great check on his excesses, he endeavoured to escape from her, but failed; and after a laughable journey, they reached the metropolis in the Spring of 1828. All his former friends received him with marks of kindness ; and he even became intimate with Bond, the officer who took him into custody when before in town. The five weeks he remained in London this second time were marked by none of the eccentric conduct or excesses of the former. While there, he buried a fa- vourite infant child, and wrote on the occasion some verses which were printed in the Morning Advertiser. accom];)anied with flattering remarks on the poetical abiUty of the author. During his stay in the metro- XSXU. THE LIFE OF polls he obtained, through the kind offices of j\Ir. Nichols, and the intercession of Dr. Birkbeck, a grant of ten pounds from that meritorious institution, the Literary Fund Society. When he returned home, that kind-hearted and generous man, Dr. Birkbeck, (peacebewithhis manes!) spontaneously presented Nicholson's wife with four pounds, besides having on other occasioas given him considerable sums. The demand for his works in the metropolis was,, compared with that in the country, not so large as he had been led to expect; indeed it could not be sup- posed, except by the most inexperienced, that a poet, unknown to " fortune or to fame," would at once attract notice in that great arena of literature. The Yorkshire newspapers had, by favourable notices of his publications, greatly assisted the sale of them in this district. James Montgomery, Esq., a poet of great merit, edited at this period the Sheffield Iris, a paper of wide circulation, and penned a most flatter- ing review of " Airedale, &c." As a consequence, Nicholson sokl more copies of the work in Sheffield, than in any other town. ^Mr. Montgomeiy also wrote a letter to him, in which, with the true generosity of genius, he bestowed great praise on Nicholson's poeti- cal powers. This letter he greatly prized, as coming from so high an authority, and being printed in the local papers, contributed much to spread his fame. He numbered among his patrons the late Earl of Harewood and Lord Ribblesdale, and from both re- ceived considerable pecuniary gifts. There are several anecdotes related of the kind condescension both these amiable noblemen showed to Nicholson. He v;as ever a welcome guest at their mansions, and never return- ed from them without having partaken largely of the owners' hospitality. The late Lord Eibblesdale, an amateur artist, presented a painting by himself, to Nicholson, and which is now in the possession of his family ; it was highly valued by him on account of the noble giver. His Ijordship frequently gave our poet trifling articles of dress from his own person, such as JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXDl, silk handkerchiefs. Tong Hall was another place which Nicholson often visited ; and there, and Bram- ham Park (as before alluded to), were the spots he most loved. A circumstance now occuiTed which put an end to his book-selling journeys. The person who had printed ;md published for him became insolvent, and on an execution being levied on his goods, a large stock of Nicholson's publications were seized. In vain he remonstrated against this proceeding, and showed that he had purchased the paper on which these publications were printed. During several days, they were offered for sale by the hammer, — realising about half their value. Nicholson did not quietly submit to the in- justice ; he came to Bradford, and pulled the auctioneer from his stand while selling the works. The sale, howeve)", was S3 great that compositors were employed to set some of them in type, and they were sold wet from the press. Henceforward the demand for them in this quarter was glutted, and the source whence Nicholson had for some years drawn the main portion of his supplies, cut off. No other resource now remained besides his trade ; but employment in wool-sorting notbeing easily obtain- ed, he was obliged to earn a livelihood by the laborious jind ill-recompensed occupation of wool-combing. He removed from Bingley to Bradford in 1833, and here remained during the remainder of his life. For a period of nearly ten years, he obtained employment in the warehouse of Titus Salt, Esq., who, to his honour, retained him when very few masters would have suffered the annoyance of his broken and disjointed labours. During the first few years he resided in Bradford, he was in easier circumstances than he had been for some years previous. Several of his family had now arrived at an age when they were able, by working at the staple manufactures of Bradford, not only to sustain themselves, but oft, too oft, when their father neglected to bring home the earnings of the week, supported the whole of the household. He had the advantage of having industrious and affectionate G XXXIV. THE LIFE OF children, who, if he had been unable to work, would cheerfully have laboured for his maintenance, and were ever ready to sacrifice their own ease to his happiness. In 1830, he became a convert to temperance princi- ples, or, to spea]: more properly, put them in practice : for it cannot be doubted that the heart-aches, bitter reflections, and woo, he had brought upon himself and others near and dear to him, taught him years before the folly of his conduct. The advocates of temperance were numerous in the neighbourhood of Wilsdcn, and published an unique collection of poeti- cal pieces in favour of their views. " The Drunk ird'&i Eetribution," in the following pages, was thus publish- ed. After abstaining from intoxicating drinks for a long period, alas ! he returned to the old path of dissipation. VvTiile at Bradford, he vras engaged by Mr. Richard Oastler, then in the zenith of popularity, as an advocate of the rights of factory children, to write a poem depicting their sufferings, and urging their claims upon the philanthropist. He remained at Fixby Hall during the composition of this piece, two or three weeks. After it was published, the j>oet and his patron dis- agreed. Nicholson's claim upon the Literary Fund Society was again urged in 1837. E, C. Lister, Esq., M.P. for Bradford, having been requested to apply to the Society, exerted himself in our poet's behalf, and finally obtained another ten pounds for him. It must be mentioned, that Mr, Geller greatly assisted in obtaining this last donation. The remaining portion of Nicholson's sad history is soon narrated. His life was henceforword a chequer- ed scene of labour one day. and reckless conduct the next. He never gave up the pleasure of composing poetry; and at intervals wrote 'A description of the Low-Moor Iron- Works,' 'A Walk from Knaresbo rough to Harrogate,' and other pieces, some of wliich are of considerable length, and were published. It was evident, however, that he had lost a considerable portion of the inspiration which he formerly possessed. One of these. JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXV. Iiowever, *' England's Lament for the Loss of her Con- stitution,' VvTitten at the time of the passing of the OathoHc Emancipation Act, and predicting that it would only tend to increase the demands of the party it was intended to satisfy, contains passages of great power. He wrote also in verso against the Socialists and Ohartists, who were, with the great Agitator of Ireland, the especial objects of his hatred. A fev/ short poems which he wrote in the latter portion of his life (inserted in the present collection) are worthy of his best days. Immediately preceding his death, he commenced a poem on the Afghanistan war. I have tlie fragment before me ; it was written in blue ink, v.ith a ling stalk, as a substitute for a pen. We now approach the time of his melancholy end. On holidays he almost invariably retraced the footsteps of youth on the wilds of Eld wick. It was a common saying of his on such occasions — ''I'll be off to Eld- wick, to breathe a little mountain air, and get my throat cleansed from the smoke of Bradford;" and he usually started thither the night previous to the holiday. The evening before Good Friday, April 13th, 1843, he left Bradford for the purpose of visiting his aunt atEldwick, and called at several places on the road. When he left Shipley, time was fast approaching midnight. He was observed to proceed up the bank of the canal in the direction of Dixon Mill; and at this place, it seems, attempted to cross the river Aire by means of the stepping-stones there, so as to take the most direct course to Eldwick. The night was dark and stonny, and the river swollen. It is conjectured, that in en- deavouring to cross the stepping-stones, and on reach- ing the farther part of the river, he missed his footing imd fell into the current, which runs deep and impetu- ously at that point. From the appearance of the place next morning, he had been carried away eight or ten yards, when he caught hold of some hazel boughs, and, by a great effort, got out of the water. The marks of his struggling were visible on the side of the bank, which is steep. It must have required great ])reseDce of mind and physical strength to enable XXXVl. THE IJFE OF him to extricate himself out of the river. Afterwarfls he had crept on his hands and knees through a hole in the hedge which fences off the river, a part of his coat heing found in the hole. Exhausted and be- numhed, he lay here until about six in the mornii},c(, when a half-witted fellow, passing near, hoard hiin groan, and saw him rise into a sitting posture. The man was terrified, and. witliout rendering any assistance, hastened to the farm-house whither he was going for milk, — did not mention the circumstance there, and returned another way home. There is no question that Nicholson's life would have been saved had this person either rendered assistance, or stated at the farm- house what he had seen. Two hours after, the poor poet was seen by a farm-labourer who was proceeding to his work, and upon calling out and receiving no answer, he, without further investigation, ran to inform his master at Baildon, who instantly returned with him to the place, where they found Nicholson dead ; but life had only been extinct a short time, as he was quite warm. The body being removed to the Bay Horse Inn, Baildon, a medical gentleman quickly attended, who pronounced death to have been caused by apoplexy, owing to the body having been long exposed to water and cold. The coroner at his inquest on the body recorded a verdict in conformity with the opinion of the surgeon. On Tuesday, the 18th, Nicholson's remains were deposited in Bingley church-yard. A large concourse of people, out of respect to his memory, met the corpse on the way, and at the burial a thousand persons at the least were present : a full choir joined in the sub- lime burial service of the Church of England ; and a, mourning peal was rung. Soon after his death, the poet's widow, with assistance from George Lane Fox, Esq., erected a neat tombstone over his remains, with a suitable inscription. He left his wife with eight children, two of them of tender age. The desire he expressed in the letter before quoted has been fulfilled. Several ' real' friends JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXVll. have been found to publisli the legacy of trifles he ha,s left to his children. The portrait of Nicholson, by Mr. Geller of London, with characteristic generosity presented gratuitously *for this as well as the last edition, conveys a faithful representation of the features of the original. He had attained, when the portrait was taken, forty years of age ; and time and intemperance had not made much havoc in his look or constitution. There are some points which the burnisher of the artist could not bring out. Our poet was of a very ruddy complexion, with a dark ])rown eye, in which fire seemed to roll at the bottom. His eye and massy overshadowing brow were the only indexes in his countenance of the intellectual power he possessed. He was about five feet ten inches in height, of robust make, broad shouldered, and rather stooped. Indisposition he was humane, kind-hearted, frank, and without deceit. The words of Churchhill may most happily be applied to him ; for he was truly — " Foe to restraint, unpractised in deceit ; Too resolute from nature's active heat To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by ; Too proud to flatter, too sincere to lie.'' His great and sole vice was intemperance. Without partiality, it may be said that he had no other. In the train of drunkenness often follows a host of attendant sins, such as lewdness, profanity, lying, evil speaking. Of these he wiis guiltless. As was written of another frail son of genius, in allusion to his besetting sin — "Oh! call it not vice, it might be but woe" ; so may it of Nicholson ; for when in the most distress, or stung in soul, he endeavoured to drown his cares in oblivion's cup. Nicholson's brother Thomas, who is most inti- mately acquainted with all particulars in the life ol our poet, and has funiished a large portion of the ma- terials of this sketch, states that for years before his death a couple of glasses of ale were sufficient to make him tipsy. When under the influence of intoxicating liquor, he seldom misbehaved in any other manner than raving in poetry. XXXVlll. THE LIFE OF Hovv irreconcilable are the ways of man ! At the time of his M-orst conduct he was deeply impressed with religions precept?;, and took parent care to instil them into the minds of his children. On Sundays, he delighted to read the sublime passages in the prophets, and ol'ten declared they were the perfection of mighty poetry. In the better moments of life, he was sin- cerely devout; and has, it is not presimiptuous to believe, found that mercy which he so affectingly im- plored in the admirable prayer with which this volume is suitably closed. Few men in the same lowly station of life had more sincere well-wishers and admirers. There are indeed to be found thickly scattered through the mass of society, men who gloat with envious pleasure upon any faiUng which the sons of genius may possess, or which all the arts of hell can, if possible, impute to them, though without foundation. These shooters in the dark of slander's arrows, conceive that whatever lowers those favoured in intellect or the gifts of fortune, elevates, in comparison, themselves. That Nicholson had many such enemies, who were glad that by his conduct he somev/hat lowered himself to their own mean level, there is no doubt. Then again, the very genius and superiority of a man, tend to draw upon him the scrutinising eyes of his neighbours, and to magnify defects of character, which, in ordinaj'V- people, would almost pass unnoticed : — "The hrichter that we find tlie gem The darker seems the speck." Reader ! if within tlice glows the purest fire oi' heaven; if thou art distinguished among men for mighty genius, or mentol attainments; if thou hast many sincere and influential friends, and the gifts of fortune are within thy power, let the life of poor Ni- cholson serve in part as a beacon to show that all these will not compensate for the want of prudence and good conduct, but will rather hasten thy passage to disap- pointment, tribulation, nnd certain woe. "Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he frtll." In reading Nicholson's poetry, the mnn of taste and judgment will often find blemishes which are peculiar JOHN NICHOLSON, XXXIX. to the eompositioTis of uneducated poets. It must always, however, be borne in mind, that he hiboured under all the disadvantages in writing which arise from want of education. It would be highly unjust to judge of his works as compared with those of our polished and educated poets, who have fortunately been able to give a high iinish to their productions. He, too often, " threw c'o vn his pearls in heaps before the reader, rather than be at the pains of stringing them ;" hence want of method and arrangement- are frequently apparent. The best apology for the imperfections of his works is to be found in the preface to "Airedale." He there observes, •' The volume deprecates the severity of criticism, and claims that indulgence which the author is confident would be extended to him, were the circumstances known under which it has been v/ritten. The truth is, that it is the produc- tion of one self-taught, and living from his childhood on the edge of a wild uncultivated moor — the rocks his summer evenings' study, and a few borrowed books his sole companions — destined to labour for the support of a numerous family — deprived of all intercourse with the literary v/orld, and even destitute of knowing what passes in it." Although his educa- tion was so scanty, yet, like the class of operatives to which he belonged, his mind Wk!s stored with much, general knowdedge ; for I may digress to observe that the wool-sorters are, as a bodv, among the best read and most intelligent of working men. Without claiming for Nicholson a high seat in the august assembly of British bards, his right to admit- tance will, I think, be indubitably shown by some of the compositions in the ensuing pages. The first, "Airedale," abounds in beautiful descrip- tions of the variegated scenery in the valley of the Aire. He excelled in descriptions of this kind, which he draughted from Nature herself, in a vivid and cor- rect style. During the time he wrote " Airedale," he was in the full vigour and prime of poetic conception ; the thoughts and expressions are, notwithstanding, chaster than any of his succeeding productions, and xi. THE LIFE 01«' tt has fevrer faults in either plan or style. To the antiquary and lover of olden times, the scenes bygone, which, with the mngic of poetry, he brings as it were before the corporeal eye, are highly interesting both for their faithfulness and the stirring emotions which they produce. The versification of this poem is surprisingly correct when it is remembered that it was almost his lirst essay, but is sufficiently accounted for by the fact that he had attentively read from his youth upwards the best English poets. Throughout life his ear was very acute in detecting slips in rhythmical compositions. "The Poacher" was written next. It has obtained a wide circulation, being read through the length and breadth of the land. He has happily described the hair-breadth escapes by land and flood of his hero poachers. Nothing is exaggerated ; but, as the author in his preface to it stated, — " The incidents are taken from real life, in which the imagination had little to do, except to aid in turning them into verse." The death of the poacher's wife, and the kindness of a neighbouring peasant in taking the infant, are no imaginary themes, but in all their circumstances ac- tually occurred. The Poacher's Song is so spirited, its measm^e so unusual, and its touches of a poacher's careless life and manner so striking, as to require the highest i)raise. It will ever be a favourite for its faithful delineation of the incidents in a poacher's life. " Airedale" and " The Poacher," along with the greater number of the small pieces in this collection of his poems, were comprised in the first volume he published. In the next published by liim, the "Lyre of Ebor," holds the leading place. This jwem is, iiv my oj^inion, inferior to " Airedale." It undoubtedly contains passages of exceeding beauty, and some of the descriptions, especially of battles, are animated and well conceived ; but. as a whole, it is irregular, and destitute of that sustained energy and method which are indispensable to such a composition. With the "Lyre of Ebor" originally appeared "Ge- nius and Intemperance." The state of the drunkard which he there pictures, is often merely the transcript JOHN NICHOLSON. xli. of his own mind at the period he wrote it, for it was composed in the intervals of drunken adventures. It is not equal in vigour of concej^tion, or happiness oi execution to some of his other labours ; hut contains, notwithstanding, many fine strokes of imagination and feeling. The sketch of the calamities of genius is well drawn, and filled up with veiy appropriate examples of the miserable lot of poets. No one was better able to show in its true colours the inevitable result or drinking too often at that cup of Circe, — the bowl oi intemperance. Alas ! how deceitful the heart I how frail human nature ! — that he who Imew and could depict so well the fatal evils of the habit, could not shake it off! " Reflections on the Return of the Swallow'' appears to me to be, according to its length, the bestproduction of his pen. It is in many parts deficient in rhythm ; it must, however, always be kept in view that poetiy is the soul, diction merely the body ; but then, to be per- fect, they should be in harmony — beautiful thoughts in beautiful language. This piece is in almost every line imbued with the very soul of poetry. I have read it repeatedly, and confess, that if Nicholson had written nothing beside, it would have been sufficient to give him a high place in my estimation. It was 'vsTitten upon the before mentioned rock at Harden Beck, on first observing, in the year it was written, the swallow skimming along the surface of the pool of water below. The passage commencing " Search for great Hannibal," is an excellent ej)itome of the vanity of human great- ness. =;- It would be a lengthy task to mark the varied excel- lence of the minor pieces in the following pages. Several of them are full of originalitv, grace, and * On reading this, the noble poem of the great Roman Satirist Juvenal sujigests iti^elf to the memory, though I be- Jlieve Nicholson never read it: — '• The urn of ashes to the balance bear, A.nd mark how much of Hannibal be there." Tenth Satire, Badharns Translation, xlii. THE LIFE OF feeling : and would not disgrace a collection of the choicest pieces of English poetry. "He has written his heart in his poems." and it may he there legibly read. He was no pander to vice. It is greatly to his credit that neither in his puhlished nor unpublished writings, are to be Ibund (os I remember) any immoral sentiments. Almost all Nicholson's pieces were written on sub- iects which came within the sphere of his own obser- vation., ' Mary of IMarloy,' ' Maid of Lowdore,' ' Sdly on the heath-vestured hills,' had all their Hving originals, with whom he was acquainted. His genius was naturally suited to the sublime and vast. As an instance, he has rendered or paraphrased the eighteenth Psalm in a manner more worthy of the grand original- than any other person v/ho has at- tempted it. Some parts of Steiiihold and Hopkins' version, especially the verse beginning " The Lord de- scended from above," have been much praised by many of the best judges of poetry, but Nicholson's *' Bending heavens obeisance made" is unmatched. I particularly point to this x^^^i'^pl^i^'ise, as showing where his poetic strength lay. He has also admirably paraphrased the 148th Psalm, but it is infinitely infe- rior to the other. * I have in vain endeavoured to find among the compositions of the poets of antiquity one equal to this. The noted de- scription by Virgil of the ffrVcts of Japit^r's wrath, and which hasheen compared with this Psalm, falls miserably short oi it, for it transcends in sublimity all others. The following is "Virgil's ; — ''The Thunderer, throned in clouds, with darkness crowned, Bares his red arm, and flnshts liglitnings round : The beasts are fled ; earth rocks from pole to pole ; Fear walks the world, and bows the astonished soul. Prone Athos flames, and crushed beneath the blow, Jove rives with iiery bolt Ceraimia's brow ; The tempest darkens ; blasts redoubled rave; Smite the hoarse wood, and lash the howling wave.'' First Gcorffic, Sotheby's Translation. Let the reader compare this with the ei-^hteenth Psalm as rendered bv Nicholson. JOHN NICHOLSON. xlill. His poem entitled "The Storm" is also of the like class, and may be noticed ns affording a vivid descrip- tion of a ship in a storm. He lias not amused himself with little fancies on the occasion ; but has " gathered together those circumstances which are the most apt to terrify the imagination, and which really happen in the raging of a tempest. "=- Over such subjects he had in truth a marvellous mastery, which clearly betokened the bent of his mind. The lines on Burns may be particularly noticed, a.s they are among the best he ever wrote. Two poetical friends of considerable eminence lately declared to me, that the last verse contained the tinest tribute to Burns that had ever been penned. In corroboration of this opinion, an unimpeachable authority can be produced. — A copy of these vei'ses on Burns being sent to Lieut. Colonel Burns (when at the Glasgow Centenary Festival, in honour of his father), he wi-ote in reply to our poet's widow, that he and his brother thought very highly of them ; indeed he states — "We think this poem superior to, and more to the purpose than many of the centenary poems." There is a peculiarity in Nicl ol son's poetiy, namely, that it suits both the grave and the gay. Though he has written many light and sprightly pieces, yet his excellence lay in the sombre path of poetry. The thoughts and feelings ^^hich he has embodied in his compositions were drawn, with very few exceptions, from the fountain of his o^^-n heart : he detested the vile conceits of affectation. Whatever he wrote was generally on the impulse of the moment, — the sudden bursts of emotion of his strong-tonedmind, — the inward promptings of the spirit. For instance, the parajjhrase of the* eighteenth Psalm was composed one Sunday morning while he was partly undressed : and produced with the greatest rapidity. Three-fourths of the short productions of his pen were in like manner struck off. Had his powers been cultivated, there can be no doubt he would have ranked very high as a poet. His * Spectator, No. 489. iln. LIFE OF JCH^' NICHOLSON. great natural poetical abilit}^ covered, like as green and pleasant ivy conceals a defective building, the scanti- ness of his acquirements. The quaint remark of old J?'uller,made on one of the mightiest lords of intellect, Shakspeare, is not inapplicable to Nicholson — " One is not made but born a poet. Indeed his learning was but little; so that as Cornish diamonds are not polished by any lapidary, but are pointed and smoothed as they are taken out of the earth, so nature itself was all the art that was used upon him." Naturalness of style and truthfulness of conception, combined with considerable imaginative jDOwer, char- acterise the poems of Nicholson and recommend them cordially to the hearts of Yorkshiremen. The hills and valleys, the rivers and streams of West Yorkshire, remain the types of his faithful and vivid descriptions ; and the wide-spread popularity of his poetry among all classes is a trite test of its unison with their sen- timents and feelings. Indeed the liberal patronage which has been accorded to this and the last large edition of his poems, is the best proof of the lasting impression he has made on the minds of his country- men, and the most enduring monument to his fame. The melancholy circumstances of Nicholson's deatli elicited from the best of our local poets funeral poems of great beauty. As the writers, being free of tlie poetic craft, were better able to form a just estimate of his works, and were intimately acquainted with all the main incidents of his life, I have thought it wellto print these poems. The writer of one of them (Mr. Crossley)has since descended "untimely to the grave." His memory claims " the passing tribute of a sigh." He possessed all the requisites of a true poet and noble- minded man. " Bard ! rest thee sweetly in the grave!" xlv. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN NICHOLSON, BY KOBERT STORY. '' We bring our years to an end, as it -^ere a tale that is told.'^ Mute is the Lyre of Ebor ! cold The Minstrel of the streamy Aire ! The "years" are pass'd, the '-'tale" is told: Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare ! The tale is told — what is the tale ? The same that still the ear hath won, As oft as in life's humbler vale, Genius hath recogniz'd a Son. First comes the magic time of life, When boyhood sees nor dreams of gloom, And when within the breast are rife Thoughts that are made of light and bloom. Then youth, with all it's burning hopes Of fame and glory ne'er to die, When manfully with fate he copes, And will not deem a peril nigh. At length he gives to public gaze The transcript of his glowin: iiought ; And vulgar marvel, high-born praise. Seem earnest of the meed he sought. Now round him crowd where'er he wends. His mind yet pure and undebas'd, The countless troop of talenfs friends, Those who affect — but have not — taste. These bid him joress to eager lips The double poison of their bowl — Flatteries that weaken as he sips, And draughts that darken sense and soxlI. xlvi. Oh ! for a voice to rouse liim up. To warn hirn, ere too late it be, That Frenzy mantles in the cup, And that its dregs are — Misery ! Days pass — ^}^ears roll — the novelty That chann'd at first, is faded now ; And men that sought his hour of glee Kepel him with an alter'd brow. Where is the bard's indignant breatli ? Alas I the bard, from habits learn'd, Is powerless to resent ; and Death Kindly receives him — sj)ent and spurn'd. Talk ye of fa^.ie ! Oh ! he hath borne Contempt alive ; but praise him dead; Aye, mourn him — whom ye left to mourn ; . Give him a stone — ye gave not bread ! No more. — The old, sad tale is told. Prepare the shroud the gi-ave prepare ! For mute is Ebor's Lyre, and cold The minstrel of the streamy Aire ! STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF JOHN NICHOLSON. BY THOMAS CROSSLEY. Ai-As, that Genius should be doom'd In life's unnumber'd ills to share I While vain Pretence has oft assuni'd The honours she alone should wear. Too soon she meets the frown of scorn ; E'en Genius palls on Fashion's eye: — The flow'r that shar'd the smile of morn, Unnotic'd, ere 'tis noon, may die. xlvii. Alas, that she, with all her charms, Thro' life's rude thorny path should wend ; And then at last, in Misery's arms, Untimely to the grave descend I Such fate was thine, O gifted bard ! Tho' Fortune hath her boon denied, Yet Poesy, with hii^h award, A more than golden mine supplied. Thy steps she led by banks and braes, O'er heathery mountains seldom trod. Where thou eoukVst simr in touchinfjr lavs. Of Nature and of Nature's God. Aire ! thou didst win his fond regard — Thy lovely glens — thy peerless daughters ! Alas, that thy devoted bard Should perish in thy treach'rous waters ! Or if, amid the desperate strife. He stemm'd at last thy bounding wave, — Traitress 1 thou spar d'st one spark of life. And then a clay-cold death-bed gave. A requiem sad thy night-winds wove, 'Mid vernal foliage gay and green ; The stars of heaven, which gieam'd above. Sole witness of the mournful scene. Prostrate in Death's em.brace, alone. There to the eye of opening day, (The sptYit to its Giver flown,) The wreck of tuneful genius lay. Ah, thou art gone I thy lyre is still, Which thro' the glens of winding Aire.. From rock to rock, from hill to hill, Pour'd forth its magic music there. xlviii. The dreary fell, the pathless wold, Pteturn'd the echo, sweetly wild ; And many a rocky vale re-told The minstrel strains of Nature's child. The Hai-p of Aire, by abbey old, Of raptm-e yields no more a token ; The hand which wak'd its fire is cold. And all its thrilling chords are broken ! The spirit of old Ebor's sires How well his living verse portrays, And l^'-nner'd towers, and battle-fires. And sylvan sports of ancient days ! But say, shall those for whom to mirth. Or sadness his wild harp was strung. Be left without a friend on earth For whom his tenderest strains were sung ? And for whose w^eal the gentle rhyme He sang with Nature's gifted powers. Like minstrel of the olden time In princely halls or lady bowers ? No ! Gratitude forbid ! and thou, Oh Pity ! with thy dove-like eyes, Tjook up, and gently stem e'en now, The widow's tears — the orphan's sighs. Bard ! sleep thee by Aire's silvery tide ! Friends shall thy hclj^less orphans save ; For them shall generous hearts provide : Bard ! rest thee sweetly in the grave ! Where Friendship's grief shall freely flow And Memory's sigh be gently borne ; And Genius shall her tears bestow, Bright as the dewy flowers of morn ! xlix. LINES TO THE EIVER AIEE, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF JOHN NICHOLSON, BY EDWAED COLIINSON, Cold were the ^inds that swept along Thy far-fam'd waters, Aire ! When on thy banks thy bard repos'd Till death releas'd him there. Oft had the music of thy wave — The gushing of thy streams — Infus'd a music in his heart And mingled with his dreams. In childhood's young and laughing hours, Ere sorrow touch'd his brow. He lov'd to sport where he could hear Thy murmurs, deep and low : In youthhood's more ambitious time When stirr'd with hope of fame, He lov'd thy haunts by wood and glen, And proudly spoke thy name. When vex'd with care, or scorn's dark frown, He lov'd to wander where He could forget the world's neglect. Upon thy banks, sweet Aire ! And when his tuneful harp he strung To strains most bold or mild. It was to link thy name to song. And all thy legends wild. And when the hour of death drew nigh. In midnight's solemn gloom. He sought,— he battled— ^iemm'^ thy wave- As if it were his doom, To have from thee, us from their source, Alike, his fame and death ; Thou didst inspire his soul with song, To thee he s-ave his breath. ERRATA. Page 18 line 26, read— 27i« fight •where many bosoms ceased to heave. Page 82 line 21, reaA— Where Olicano's rocky station rose. Page 86 line 32, read — Aire's silv'ry streams produc'd the needed fish. Page 91 line 7, read— Such were the sons of Leeds when Towton's plain. Page 38 line 28, read— Was neither yet too little, nor too much. Page 134 line 6, read — And kept through ages the imposing scene. NICHOLSON'S POEMS. » » > J 1 THE LYEE OF EBOE. Let Xortliern Poets sing of liiglilLincl glens, Their rocky caverns, and their som])re dens ; Their heath-clad mountains, and their high cascades ; Their gurgling streams, and moonlight faiiy shades ; Their rugged towering rocks, gro\\ii gray with years, ; On whose scai-r'd front the bilberry bloom appears ; Their ancient oaks, by Nature tmnbled down. O'er whose huge trunks the mossy robe is thrown ; And scenes which triumph o'er description's power — All these are seen near Barden's ancient tower, Where peaceful dwelt, some centuries ago. Those that durst meet in anns the Border foe ; Or climb the hills, in ancient hav.king skilled. Or bear the bow and brazen quiver filled, Then send the arrow from the povreriul string. Arresting the fleet salmon's finny wing ; Or, did the eagle soar above his head, A shaft flies svv'ift — the soaring eagle's dead. Oft, when at eve, he wandered near the rocks, And on their shelves beheld the wily fox. Swift flew the ai'row from the well-strung bow, And brought his victim to the vale belov/. In this romantic, wild, and hidden place. The sons of Graven oft enjoyed the chase ; When Clitfords for a time hung by their arms, And lived secure amidst their vallcv's charms. % LYRE OF EBOR. The deer and fox tliey seldom then pursued, But monsters, that oft stained their tusks with blood. To which the traveller feared to fall a prey, Aftd mothers wept for children borne away. A crimson robe o'er Sol's bright orb vv-as spread. Which tinged the hills, and every mountain's head, When near the rural stables, foiined of wood. With horses fleet, the sturdy vassals stood ; Then the old horn, with long-forgotten sound, Sent forth its notes to all the woods around ; The woods, as though they each possessed a liom, Gave softer tones to rouse the jocund mom. The ancient Cliffords, with the bow and spear. In hunting dress of bristled hides appear ; Their vassals send to range the forest o'er. And find the cavern of the furious boar. Prinio gave mouth, as down the hills they v/ent. Where the rough monster late had left his scent : As bees, when swarming, near their queen are found. So gather'd round the best, each favourite hound. The various deep-mouthed notes, distinct and strong. Flew to the woods, as echo flies along ; The deer, affrighted, climbed the park's high hill, Eanged for the worst, in silence all stood still. The boar, enraged, the loosened earth upheaves. Bares his huge fimgs, his den reluctant leaves ; Ten years of rapine had improved his strength— His tusks and bristles each a foot in length. Then were the sons of ancient Barden near. And thosq of Buckden, who the chase could cheer ; Bolton's strong youths, and those of Hazlewood, In rustic pride upon the mountains stood ; LYEE OF EBOPw 3 And on tli-oir steeds old Skipton's sons came o'er The rocky Mils, to hunt tliis miglity boar. Then v.-ere no dandies, delicately laced, With all the beauty of a Frenchman graced ; But each was such as might have met in war Foes on the rock, the mountain, or the scar. And such as for their country had been tried, V\"ith those vrho for their dear-bought freedom died ; Such as had fought, but none could make them yield, Wlien front to front they met on Flodden field, WTiere many left their neai'est kindred slain. But ne'er retuscd to meet their foes again. The sand young Clifford held was half nm do^^ll, AMien for the chase the cheerlul horn was blown ; Then was the best of Craven hunts begun, The Lords e'er saw, or hotmds could ever run. Dov\-n bent the bushes as he rushed alone;*, ^Miile every hoiuid joined in the enlivening song. Old Barden's oaks so low their branches spread. That none could ride, but each his hunter led. Oftthnes the monster stopped, as in disdain, Then heard the shouts, and hastened on again ; Till from the woody shades he burst his v.-ay. And with him burst the glories of the day I 8cme sunk in bogs, and nearly buried, stood, V.liile others, shouting, issued from the wood. Beheld the hounds spread on their scented way, While Posforth Gill just kept them from their prey. Clifi"ord rode first, and swift the chase he led, V.liile the black heath was dimpled as he fled ; Next Skipton's sons, and those of Barden Fell, FoUovred in quick succession through the dell : 4 LYEE OF EBOE. Anon, the youths of Bolton led tlio way, Then Eastby hunters rode the first that day ; While Piilstone riders shovved themselyes to be Far better horsemen than the moderns see. The footmen stopped behind, half filled y.ith fetirs' Lest the boar's liide be proof against their spears ;• Then higli o'er Hobcr hill, wliose sable crest Oft with the furious monster had been prest, The cheerful tenants of the woody yale Shouted sometimes, then told a hunting tale, Till, svrelling on the breeze, they hear the sounds Of hunters' shouts, and cry of eager hounds. The answering shouts from its high top arise, And hats and caps are cast toyvard the skies ! Ofttimes the l^oar would striye to seek repose, Then front to front would meet his coming foes ; And, as he found his eyery effort yain, He hastened, panting, further up the plain. At length he found a chasm, where oft he"d lain, Half filled witli bones of yictims he had slain. The hunters came, and raised their glittering spears- His blazing eye-balls sliowcd lie knew no fcai's. The fiercest British bull-dogs stood around, At length a mastiff his deep cayern found ; Three bull-dogs followed, two of which were slain, Before they brought him to the light again. A rash youn.i.^ hunter would liiiye thrown his spear, But Clifford raised his arm, and cried " Forbear I The sun has i-eached not the meridian sky, Let there be nobler sport before he die." The streams of Wharf roared not in rapid flood. But sung in semichorus through the wood. LYKE OF EBOR, 5 The hunters saw him rise the western hill, Then those were tried vrho had true horsemen's skill. CiitFord stopped not at "Wharf to ask how deep, "iMien each had swiftly galloped do^wn the steep, But crossed the ford, and on that sporting dav, The horsemen whitened Wharfs hroad stream with spray. The waters curled around each horse's mane, ^^llile the heat foam fell on their heads like rain ; But soon all forded safe, and every care Was thi'ovrn like feathers to the empty air. The calling of the IMuse is grown so stale. And in the foremost lines of every tale. Such invocations by each scribbler's penned. That she'll no more to poets' j^rayers attend ; Else for her aid would I sincerely pray, T' inspire me while I sing that glorious day, When swift to Simon Seat's dark rocky height. The bristly monster took his rapid flight ; Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near, As oft he tm-ned, and stopped their speed with fear. Since Wharf's clear stream within the Strid was bound, The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a somid ; Is or all the hunting of the fox and deer Could equal this in true heroic cheer. The hills and vales in echoing conceit sung. Till near the rocks the hunters' bows were strung ; Then was the glory of the limiting crowned. And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hormd, All on an acre of the rocky hill. Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill. Low on the earth the savage monster sate. And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate : 6 LYKE OF EBCR. Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide, But, weary, thrice, fell panting at his side. Though hotter steeds for hunting never met, The brightest bays were changed to bro^Mi with sweat ; And such had been the chase, the stoutest there Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear. But brave young Clapham, of old Beanisley Hull, Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall. "Wliile low was laid the tyrant of the Avood, Each hound seemed ravenous to lap his blood : But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain, And dared his various foes to approach again ; Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath. Before the mighty monster fell in death. Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead, Took his bright spear,and pierced him through the head. In death his bloody jaws were opened wide. While the red foam was thrown on every side ; The vale of Barden now with shouting rung — This song the hai-pers have for ages sung. Young Clifford, the hunter, who rode on that day. From Barden's strong portals first hasted away ; His horse was the fleetest that e'er trod the moss, And the best that the streams of a river could cross. IVliether hounds were pursuing the fox or the boar. He seldom was left on the wild heathy moor. Three times to the Strid his brave master he bore, And thrice on that day the deep gulph he leaped o'er. Whenever they hunted the boar or the fox, The hoofs of his hmitcr would ring on the rocks : LYEE OF EBOE. 7 A better in Craven there never was tried, And none but brave Clapham could come near liis side. The foam from his mouth as the feathers he throws, Or white as the flakes, when it silently snows ; He is fit for the mountain, the valley, or scars. And he champs his bright bits when he goes to the wars : As good as the steed was the rider he bore, And his equal in Craven shall never breathe more. Strike the harp to his praise, and the praise of the fair. May blessings attend them wherever they are ! If the soft kiss of peace be the lot of the bride. Or the tear-drop of love, when affection is tried, "WTien happy at home, or engaged in the field. May her prayers be all answered, and heaven his shield ! The monster dead, the valleys rung mth praise, In louder shouts than those of modern days ; Then from this dreaded powerful beast of prey, With Clifford's sword the head was cut away : Then vassal, tenant, shepherd, lord and knight, To Bai'den haste to spend the festive night. Whate'er gi^eat Clifford's table could afford, Was then enjoyed by vassal, knight and lord; Then o'er old Barden Bridge young Clifford led His comrades, shouting, with the monster's head. But clouds obscured the fast declining sun, To rumble deep the thunder had begun ; The pouring torrents, lightning, hail, and rain. Hid Whernside's top, and deluged all the plain. 8 LYRE OF EBOR. The mountain rocks, clad in tlieir moss array, Reared their high heads, by time half worn away. The ponderous blocks were hurried down the steep, Hurled o'er the cataracts to the foaming deep. Old oaks, which long in Bolton Park had stood. Wrenched from their stations, plunged along the flood ; What once were weak and tinkling crystal rills, Eolled rumbling, foaming, dashing, do^ni the hills, — Clothed in a brown and muddy robe of spray, Bearing the rocks, like captives forced away. The ponderous bridge, perhaps three centuries old, Gave way, and gn the dashing flood was rolled. And stones which on the battlements had stood, Where hurried far down Wharf's deceitful flood ; While every torrent from the heathy brow, Gushed in grand cataracts to the floods below. The Vale of Desolation was a scene Which for long changing years ne'er once had been. The massive rocks, which had for ages stood, Were tossed like pebbles in the boiling flood ; Torn off" the mossy robes they'd borne for years — And left the valley as it now appears. Rough, Avaste, and wild, in every varied form Marked with the terrors of the thunder storm. The river's brink with withered roots is hung, Roots which had lived pei-haps ere Chaucer sung. Broad in the east the sable cloud was spread. The lightning's flashed o'er Chevin's lofty head ; Wliile o'er the west an azure robe was cast. Spangled with stars, which showed the storm was past. Then mirth began in Barden's ancient hall. The huntsman gave again the morning call ; LYRE OF EBOR. Inspired, with good old ale his hoiii he took. They shouted till the massive pillars shook, "VMien Clifford brought the boar's terrific head, With vdiose huge fangs a thousand deer had bled ; Then, as in mirth the evening passed along, A Craven warrior smig his favourite song : — I have been on the stormy wave, And fought upon the gory field. Laid manv a warrior in his i^rave, I\Iy lovely Jane of Hellifield. On northern hills I met the foe. Where furious strength my svrord did wield. And she who made me use it so, Was my deai- Jane of Hellifield, I thought upon her lovely fonn, And knew 'twas death, should I once yield ; Love, honour, glory, like a storm, Raged for my Jane of Hellifield. I thought each warrior gains the praise Of all, if he's the comitiy's shield ; Then rushed amid the battle's blaze. To fight for Jane of HeUifield. The Higiiland Scots came boldly forth. And bravely did their clapnores wield, Fierce as the tempest of the north — Then I forgot sweet Hellifield. 10 LYEE OF E30E. We met ofttimes, each side pursues, And uiLuiy a steel-cased warrior reeled ; At last they fled — I hoped the news Would reach my Jane of Hellifield. The English ranks they could not break, While these with spears and lances kneeled ; And Scotland's anny soon grew weak, Or I had ne'er reached Hellifield. But, marked with scars, with pension blest, ]My heait's with scenes of battle steeled ; Yet, there's a place within my breast That still loves Jane of Hellifield. Now will I drink unto my King, ]\Iay subjects ever be his shield. And time fly swiftly on the wing With me and Jane of Hellifield. The bard was called — to Craven then unknown, WTio oft his fingers o'er the harp had thro^\'n ; Nature to him had such a genius given, That his wild fancy almost soared to heaven. The bard appears, and with a modest air He struck his haq), as merit's self v/as there; True native genius beamed in either eye, And on his lyre hung wildest melody. He borrowed not his airs, nor learnt the chords. But both composed, while nature brought the words ; His harp he touched in ancient concert fine, While rapt attention hung on every line — LYEE OF E30E. 11 They hoped to hear some cheerful sportive air, But wildly thus he sung, as in despair : — The nohle hall, where beauty reigns, The hall that's now a peaceful home. Shall soon be lost, and youth, and bliss Shall fade, and ruin hither come. Tliis night I saw a spectre bard In martial chords sweey) o'er his lyre ; I saw the wai'rior chiefs prepared. In shining ai'ms and bright attire. I saw the lovely lady, fair, Weep as she parted with her knight ; And heard her breathe a fen-ent prayer That heav'n would shield him in the fight. I heard the whizzing arrows fly. And saw the battle-axes broke ; The stoutest of the warriors die, When death was victor ev'ry stroke. I saw the great portcullis fall, ^^^lich shook the gateway \dth its power ; Beheld the engines at the wall, ^liose force could shake the topmost tower. !My fancy saw the bloody field, WTiich stretches into yonder plain ; On its dread space was many a shield, And pale the features of the slain. 12 LYRE OF EEOR. I tliouglit ill this dread scene I stood, Tiioiigli trembling, yet I longed to star, Though moonbeams glittered on their blood, And plund'rers took their spoil away. The harper struck a martial air, Ruin and desolation came ; A brand was hurled by wild despair, And every tower was soon on flame. Their aims were nerved with dying pain, And every blow they struck the last, The soldiers lay with nobles slain — So this portentous phantom past. No cheerful strains upon my lyre The bard this night can bring to you, The scene of Barden, wrapt in lire, Has made me think 'twill soon be true. Prepare — prepare these arms in rust, Bring forth Saint George's banner red I These towers must shortly kiss the dust — He ceased — and all their joys were fled. But Clifford's noble soul was not opprest, His father's fire yet glowed within his breast ; He said — " Tho' long in rust our arms have lain, Turn point to hilt, they spring out straight again. Now let the song of Craven knights be sung As when on Scottish shields their weapons rung." Come forth from thy hall, gallant Lister, come forth, Let thy sons of the Eibble be armed for the north ; LYEE OF EBOR. 13 Tell Tempest, the Borderer's standard is nigh, And the do^^•nfall of Craven's the Highhmders' cry. The shade of some bard late has heen near om- hall, He has sung to the Avinds that these turrets shall fall ; But not by the Northerns, for \"\^iarf s crystal flood Ere \Ye yield, shall be changed to a torrent of blood- Let Hammcrton mount on his high-mettled steed, And gather the horsemen of Skipton vdth speed ; Let the Parker's belo-\y, in old Bingley's fine yale, Bring their followers cased in the brightest of mail. Braye Vayasour, rise from thy oak-coyered den, Blow strong thy old horn, and the best of thy men Will be cased in their armour, and as you march nenr Giye a shout, and bold ]Middleton's youths yvill ap- pear ! Three times we have seen the great cross of our sires Destroyed as a brand in the plunderers' fires ; But now we have armour, and now we will stand Till the cold grasp of death keeps the sword in each hand. Shall the piljrochs of Scotland be heard in our yale ? Shall the sound of her pipers be borne on the gale '? No, no — we will meet them where wild rushes wave, .\nd, instead of rich plunder, we'll giye them a grave. We have Eshton, as firm as the rocks where he dwells, Who has many brave youths on the edge of the fells ; They will sound the war chorus till Hartlington know, And the red plumes of Craven will wave on his brow. The white rocks of ]Malham Avere never more strong Than the lines of our Imights, when once cheered with a somr ; 14 LYRE OF EEOn. They need but a whisper, they all will awake, And the rocks they ride o'er with their horses will shake. Our children, our maidens, more blithe than the morn, Shoiild vre yield, they would surely insult us with scorn ; Our steers and our heifers, our oxen and sheep, Would join in the mourning, and help them to weep Where Simon, the warrior, looked down on the vale, The flag of green Craven shall wave to the gale ; If once draA\Ti our swords, the sun may go down. But they shall not return till the day is our own. By Surrey's order, o'er the mountains came The gleam of many a beacon's pointed flame. Then every knight, and every northern squire Soon Imew the cause of each portentous fire. The blazing pitch on penighent fell dovrn, And old gray Pendle bore a fieiy crovrn ; Next Hober blazed, and its once dark brov»-n head Shone bright with fire, till Wliarf^s broad vale was red ; \Miile Ingleborough, king o'er all the rest, Ul)reared to heaven his mighty ])urning crest. Then heralds mounted, and rode swift away — Through the thick wood, the beacons showed the way ; "Wliile those they left behind took little rest. For other thoughts filled every warrior's breast. *' Our aims must be prepared," brave Clifford cries, " And now's the time for every knight to rise ! " The silver helms the noble ladies took, And made them sparkle as a crystal brook, When springing from a mountain rock it runs, And seems to glisten with a thousand suns ! LYRE 0? EBOE. 15 Then on tlic whirling stone the swords were laid ; The metal brightened of each tempered blade ; And as they tried each edge with mighty stroke, DovvH fell the boughs from many a stubborn oak. As when the woodman, on the mountain top. Makes the green honours of the forest drop. His tempered axe grows brighter every stroke, 80 stood each sword, and not a blade e'er broke. Where Bolton Abbey rears its ancient head. The field, ere noon, was quickly changed to red ; Brave dauntless Lister brought his hundreds there, VvTio well could wdeld the sword or sharpened spear. Pudsay, and Hammerton, and Heber brought Strong lusty warriors, who as bravely fought ; While Parker led his followers o'er the moor. Shouting to see their comrades were before. Though not adorned ^^■ith lace of shining gold. They each could fight as Britons fought of old ; Fearless of death, each bore a dauntless mind. Which priests had blest, but learning not refined. The best old ale the abbey could afford Was brought in plenty to the warrior's board ; Wives, daughters, mothers, deep in grief were sunk. But Craven youths grew cheerful as they drmik ; Told vrives and lovers never more to mourn — All crov.-ned with fame, with Clifford vrould return. The word was given, and as they marched along, Huzza'd and left old Bolton with a somr : — o We all wiU bravely stand, my lord. Or where's our homes and lasses, If Scottish Jamie with his sword But once through Craven passes ? 10 LYRE 0? EBOE. Let us meet tliem o'er the Tweed, And fight for fame and glory : And if our men are doomed to bleed, Let Scotland's plains be goiy. At every village we march through, Our numbers are increasing ; And England, if we beat the foe, "Will give us all her blessing. If, leagued with France, tliey would come dov;n. To rob our halls and burn 'em ; Like mountain sheep, when once wo meet. We'll kill, or take, or turn 'em. Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth. Crossed o'er the Borders, and laid waste the north ; But dauntless Bulmer, with his little band, Ee-took their spoils, and dvoxQ them from the land. Eight times his numbers Buhner met in tight, And Scots' great Hume just saved himself by liight ; Villi, as some drops oft fall before the shower, So this l)ut warning gave of Scotland's power : Her army, then a hundred thousand strong, Shaded the mountains as they marched along ; Led by their king, their bosoms were on flame For England's downfall, plunder, and for fame. 'Twas this great Clifford from Earl Surrey heard, Then marched to meet them, nor their numbers feared. The trumpets sound, the cheerful liautboys play, As o'er the mountahis Clitford leads the way ; LTEE OF EEOE. 17 Tlie tale goes round in mirth, while others sing, And when they halt, their bed's the purple ling ; And there they slept, though not on softest do^^-n, Yet more at peace than he that wore the crown. Six days they marched o'er moimtains, rivers, riUs, Ere they met Percy on old Branston Hills. Percy and Howard much rejoiced to see Clifford lead up his horse and infantiy ; Dacres and Stanley welcomed every knight, "WTiose loyal men had come so far to fight. Then Surrey gave to Percy and the lords, And those they led, these energetic words : — *•' Howard and Dacres, Percy, Clifford, Scroop, In you is placed your coimtry's finnest hope ; Let Yorkshire knights their ancient valour shew. And Durham's sons stand firm, thouc^h thev be few ! Sons of old Cimibria, your true valour shew. And, Westmoreland, lay many a Scotsman low ! Clifford I aU Craven youths I leave to thee — Fight hke your fathers, youi*s is victory ! " The eagles from Helvellyn's crag.gv' height. Spread their broad wings, and hastened to the fight ; And from the rocks which overhang Lovvdore, i^Miere in all forms the bursting cataracts roar) Croaked the dark ravens, as they flew away. To feast at Flodden, on that bloody day. The pibrochs sound, and eveiy kilted clan Grasped their broad clajTuores ere the fight began ; A thousand flashes from their blades ai'ise, Bright as the stars, when frost has cleai'ed the skies. In shining mail, and on a steed of fire. From Barden went the noble-hearted Swire. B 18 LYRE OF EBOE. With horse and harness rode the sons of Carr, Stout, brave and fierce, as ever went to war. From Lan.cjcliffe rode the fiery-hearted Browne, Whose well-ahned Shafts twice forty Scots struck down. Fearful, at first, the meeting aiinies close ; But fear soon fied, and fierce confusion rose. Brookdcn and Hammond, and determined Chew, Through ranks of Scots like fiery meteors flew. Gai'forth and Eastburn, Currer, Shaw, and Wood, FouGfht till their horses' hoofs v^'ere red with blood. All those who v>'Ould describe that bloody day, Ivlust from a task so, mournful turn away. Describe till death, no living mortal can Give a true picture of each varied clan. 'Twas such a day as ne'er can be forgot. While live the lines of great Sir Walter Scott. But I, an hmnble bard, had Flodden left. Had not great Clifford mam- an helmet cleft ; And led a thousand warriors to the field, Stout sons of Craven, who would never yield. But Homer has such mighty battles smig, Virgil and Lucan their grand harps have strimg To sing of Dido and Pluu'salia's plain, That few new thoughts for hmnbler bai'ds remain. To greater fancies humbly will I leave To fight where many bosoms ceased to heave. 'Twas fierce as rage could blow revengeful fire — 'Twas deadly as the grave could e'er desire ; The field so gory that the birds of prey A moment stopped, then, sated, flew away. There many a mother wandered near the field. For fear the sons of Scotia should yield. LYRE OF EBOR. 19 The inourniiig virgins see the battle's shock, Their eyes just raised o'er some adjacent rock — Trembhng, when sounds of battle reach their ear, Last some dear father should lie slaughtered there. Not like a battle where the warriors are Wounded or slain in hostile lands afar, Stretched bloody, cold, and pale, in deadly sleep, With none to close their eyes — ^^vith none to weep. Then Hed the Scottish chiefs, and all was still. Save dying groans on Flodden's goiy hill. Frantic among the slain the women ran, To seek the v\'ounded of each valiant clan. " Ochin Iro I " in Highland accents broke, ^^^len youths were found, which never more awoke ; And many a Highland maid, in snowy vest. Stained it vdth purple on a bleeding breast, "V^liile banners of the \-ictors waved on high, And trumpets sounded o'er the victory. The sons of Craven, anxious, marched away. To tell at home the glory of the day ; Marton rejoiced, and Langcliffe youths were glad. But Halton's warriors mai-clied but slow and sad ; Few were their numbers — they had left the best Cold on the field — Smith, Burley, Shyres, and West. Garfortiis had fought till all their horses fell, But at their side were Tempest, Scott, and Stell ; Or these fom* brothers had at once been slain, Nor hunted in the vale of Aire again. Hundreds of names with cai-e great Clifford kept Of tliose v.'ho centuries in the dust have slept, — Who fought at Flodden, by their chieftain led. Nor sheathed their swords till every foe was fled. 20 LYPiE OF EBOR. Marton sent forth bold Arnold in his mail; Four noble Tennants fought from Longstrodale ; Hawkswick and Flasbv, and old Hellifield, Sent Listers, "who were never kno^Mi to yield. Arnchffe and Sutton in the triumxjh shared ; For these had sons avIio dangers never feared ; Old Giggles wick, beneath her craggy scai', Had fifty sons, who bravely fought in war. Stackhouse and Preston, with good bow^ and bill. Fought, with the Brayshaws, on old Flodden hill ; The Summerscales, from Settle, cut their way, Through files of Scots on that eventful day ; And Keighley's warriors, led by Smith and Hall, Unparted fought, and made the Northerns fall. When these brave youths with Clifford marched away O'er misty mountains, till the closing day, They slept near fires of rushes, turf, and peat, One side all cold, the other scorched with heat ; Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork, To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork : And who would scorn to have the supper there, With triumph, appetite, and such good cheer ? "NMicn rose the sun, and crimson was the morn. While light and shade the western hills adorn ; The clouds of mist slow through the valleys rolled, Tinged with the morning, like a sea of gold. As in the east the beams of light advance. Like burnished gold, shines every polished lance ; All faces then a joyful aspect wear. When native hills and native vales appear. The heralds soon arrived at Bardcn tower, And told the downfall of proud Scotland's power ; LYRE OF EBOE. 21 The virgins dance, the aged butler sings, And "\Miarf s sweet vale with shouts of triumph rings. All Craven Imows, as swift as sounds can fly — Shout answers shout, proclaiming victory ! Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough. The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe ; The churn is stopped, while listening stands the maid ; The aged ditcher rests upon his spade ; WTiile jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play. Shout o'er the fields — to Barden haste away ; The frugal dame, who spins some wealth to save, Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave. Then on the hill which overhangs the vale. First comes proud Clifford m his shining mail ; Wliile on each head the plmnes of Craven dance, A thousand flashes varying from each lance. The victors' shout is answered in the woods. And echo bears the triumph down the floods ; Sweetly the meUow bells of Bolton rung, Woods, hills and dales, in jo}'ful concert sung. Panthig, the npnphs and swains the hill ascend, To meet a lover, brother, or a friend ; And many an arm'd head is turned aside In loving glance to his intended bride. Among the number, beautiful and fair. Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire. The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast. And went to see her youth among the rest. The Skipton troop rode past — he was not there, — The hardy sons of ^Miarfdale next appear ; She views each hehnet o'er, but sore oppressed. Sinks her fond heart as vain she seeks the crest. Formed of the ribands which once decked her head. But stained at Flodden, where her warrior bled. 29 LITE OF EBOR. She asked his fate, while heaved her ^Aiovry hreast — Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed : — *' Anna, j^repare thyself the worst to hear, Nor eA-er hope to see thy Henry near. We left him bleeding, and too near his heart Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart ; Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes, Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise ! Thus was he left upon the northern hill, His features pale — his pulse, his heart, w^ere still." Poets may sing of woe, and painters tiy To place the tear of sorrow in the eye ; Poets and orators, and painters too. Would fail, though greatest — hers was Nature's woe ; Such as we feel when on the earth alone, Our hopes all blasted, all our pleasures gone. Poor Anna ! yet methinks I see her stand, The ring he bought her glistening in her hand, And his last letter blotted o'er with tears, While on her cheeks the hectic flush appeal's : Soon did she fade, and never smiled again, But sung these verses over Henry slain : — Thou purple heather on the rocky fells, Wither and droop, and hang thy head like me ! Bloom not, ye cowslips, with your honied bells, But fatle and weep o'er Anna's misery ! Ye opening daises, every eye-lid close ! Ye skylarks, sadly chaunt when soaring high ! Ye thrushes, mourn, as if ye felt my woes — Sing, all ye birds, of Anna's misery ! LYEE OF EBOB. 23 Thou tliorn, where last v\'e met, no blossoms bear ! Thou garden, if fail* flowers should bloom in thee, May pinks and roses bend with many a tear, And lihes weep o'er Anna's misery ! This earth has nothing now^ this heart to cheer — No bliss with him but in eternity, When Heniy comes, my mourning soul to cheer, And take me with him fi'om this misery. O, Henry ! if thou canst on Anna wait, Or canst petition heaven to set me free, Eat my tired spirit soon regain its mate, And bid farew^ell to earth and misery. 0, cruel warrior 'of the furious North! What had my youtliful Henry done to thee. That thou shouldst send the fatal arrow ferth. When on its point was Anna's misery ? Could I but tell where cold in earth he lies, On wings of love to his lone grave I'd fly — There would I weep till death had closed, these eyes. And this sad heart forgot its misery. Time, spread thy wings I — I know not where he lies ; Haste with my spirit to the bridal day ! Come, lovely death, and close these weeping eyes ! Come, Heniy, bear thy Anna's soul av/ay I Thus did she mourn and wander in the vale, Till echo learnt her melancholy tale ; 24 LYRE OF EBOE. But few licr days that mournfully she sung, Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung. The Hall of Barden now shines I'icli in state. Her warriors march in triumph through her gate ; The ancient bard upon the rampart stands, The willing strings obey their master's hands ; With eyes of raptm^, loud their deeds he sings. As if his soul was living in the strings. All joined the chorus, till the neighbouring wood Echoed their song to Wharf's clear rolling flood. The song was ended — and brave Chfford sprung From his black charger, and his aniiour rung ; The aims of Tempest answered to the sound. And spears and scabbards clashed upon the gi^ouud. Each brave foot-soldier then his anns uproars, Till in the court they fonn a pile of spears. The waiTiors enter, each a welcome guest — The brave are ever worthy of a feast — The strength of England, beef in Craven fed ; The spacious horns, with foam upon each head ; Ale which slew every anguish, care, and woe — Such as they brewed tliree hundred years' ago. Bereft of sons, the mothers came to moum ; For many went who never could return. The sorrowing fathers left the scene of mirth, To seek the dead, ere they were laid in earth. The harper's lyre, the victor's patriot song. The widow's grief more poignant made and strung ; IMusic brought sorrow — triumph brought a tear — Despair still whispering, "01 my son's not here!" LYEE OF EBOK. 95 And, pale the widow stood, witli gi-ief oppressed, The child, unconscious, smiling at her breast. Such are the mournful scenes the warriors see. Though triumph crowns their aiTQs with victory ; Such feasts in days gone by have often been, With bursts of joy, and mouniful thoughts between ; Joy for the conquest, then the solemn strain Swelled on the lyre, as dirges o'er the slain. What names extinct, and families no more, Since Craven youths the vales and hiUs mai'ched o'er I Some names, who then to nothing could aspire, Ai'e titled now with baron, laiight, or squire ; While those who noblest com^age there displayed, Are hid in Time's impenetrable shade, Those who from Barden cheerful marched away. To reach their homes the next approaching day, \Mien, through respect, the ladies carried far. For those they loved, the weapons used in war. One youth a quiver takes, and proudly walks, W^iile of the battle his brave brother tallvs ; Another in a helmet takes delight, And sore regrets he was not at tlie fight. Thus to their hamlet each one hastes away. To tell their friends of Flodden's bloody day ; Mothers, expectant, saw their sons return. Wept tears of joy, and there forgot to mom-u. Peace and soft rural charms the warriors greet. And Scotland never more durst Craven meet. "WTien Sabbath comes, to Bolton each repair. And praise is foUowed by the fervent prayer ; Warrior and yeoman, peasant, join the throng, And help to make the Jubilate strong ; And hundreds w^ent on Clifford's fqrm to gaze, Wlio for the triumph gave his God the praise. ^0 LYEE OF ECOIl. O Bolton, what a cliange ! but still tlioii art Noble in ruin, great in every part ! When we beliold thee, signs of gi'andeur gone, Live on thy walls, and shine on every stone ; Thy shades are lovely through each varied day. Thy woods, thy rocks, thy streams, where beauties phiy ; Lovely, when rosy in the east, the sun Shows the high hills the cheerful day's begun. Throughout the day, in all the hours that shine, Peace, beauty, and rich sceneiy are thine ; But, when the evening shades, like cui'tains, are Thro"SMi o'er the wheels of day's resplendent car ; When the broad moon, as though she rose to see The hoary columns of antiquity ; Then, solemn grandeur greets the changing queen, And ^^Qiarf s reflection helps to light the scene. At eveiy well-selected point of view, Fresh scenes appear, as beautiful as new ; There the broad river glancing in the smi, And there the streams in eddying circles run : Deep roars the Strid in snow-white robe of spray, At rest below the wearied waters stay. Thus have I seen the rock-verged deep at rest, The foam, like mai'ble, vaiying on its breast ; The hy bower, secure from summer's heat, For contemplation, what a blest retreat ! Where the gray ruin, and each varied hill, Exceed in beaut}', fine descriptive sldll. There may the rural poet sit and write, The learned astronomer survey the night ; The love-sick lover there may sit and dream, Lulled into slmnber by the murmuring stream : LTEE OF EBOE. 27 But streams and woods, and waterfalls and flowers. Lovers' retreats, rich la^\Tis, and shady bowers, Have all been sung in lovers' verse so fine, No room is left to hold another line. Muse of the svlvan shades, if yet thou dwell Amid those scenes which make my bosom swell, Descend, and to niy pensive mind impart Such thoughts as thrill the breast, and wann the heart ; To sweetest measure tune my humble tyre, Since Bolton's groves demand the purest fire ! The brave, the good, the noble warrior now Sleeps with his fathers in the tomb below ; The noble Chfford now no more can be True to his king in honest loyalty ; The earl has left his helmet, sword, and shield, And rides no more, imdaunted, to the field, To combat treason m its darkest foiTQ, And meet, unmoved, the Northern's fiercest stonn. Peace to the dust of those Avho bravely fight In honour's cause, and for their coimtry's right ; In praise of such the bard should ever sing, '\^^lOse duty tells them to defend their king ; And worthy is the baron, knight, or lord, VHao in his country's cause unsheathes his sword ! AMiarfedale, no more the sounds of wai' annoy, But all is changed to peace and rm-al joy ; Here can tlie aged spend a peaceful day, Beguile sad grief, and to their ]Maker pray ; The widow, weeping o'er depai^ted love, Is helped to mom-n by many a mourning dove ; 28 LYUE OF EBOE. Aiicl hidden here from any mortal's ken, May weep in silence o'er the best of men, WTiose cai'es, and joys, and sorrows, hopes and fears. Had bomid them closer through successive years. Here may the poet, Nature's " helpless child," Wliose soul is bomidless, and whose thoughts are wild, Imagine things beyond the torrid zone. And how the ancient Grecian temples shone ; How earth, and every orb, was formed on high, Till his full soul burst out in ecstasy : — " Ye trees, ye leaves, and every varied flower. Were nothing else, ye show Eternal Power ! The verdant grass on every hill that groAvs, The goodness of the great Creator shows ! Insects and birds, that dwell amid the grove. The creej^ing worm, and things that soai' above ; All beasts, however varied their abode. Proclaim the power, the majesty of God I The shining orbs, that deck the arch of night. Orb above orb, till distance dims their light ; Planets by circling motions show his skill, ^\llile others burn through ages and are still." Grand are the heavens unto the feeble eye ; But when the poet can the tube apply. New wonders open, and new worlds appear. Which tell tlie mind. Infinity is there ! Lost in the thought, his ardent fancy bums. He thinks — and to himself with reverence turns ; His soul is fiUed with solemn hopes and fears. To think he's co-existent with the spheres ! E'en when no more one ray of light they give, His bosom holds what must for ever live. When sun, and moon, and stars, and skies are lost. And Nature's self is to old Chaos tossed ! LTEE OF EBOS. 29 Now as the ^Tiarf to Olicano moves, And leaves the rocky Strid and Bolton's groves, Old Castleberg, the toiTent-wasted scar, Uprears his head, where Romans met in war, AYhen on its topmost point the watch-tower st»od, And deep below, beheld the tiunbhng flood, Britons and Saxons have contended there. And on the ramparts mingled spear ^ith spear '. The warriors tnmbhng headlong down the steep, Pressed with their armom% plunged into the deep : But Time, who leaves behind all earthly things. And overtakes fresh objects with his wings, Has left so far behind swift-pinioned Fame, She could not reach us with a warrior's name. Through shades of oak which have for centuries gi-OA\-n, \\Tiarf winds her vray to Illdey's ancient tovvii : No altars now unto her streams are raised. As when the Roman sacrifices blazed ; Yet she rolls on, when Romans are no more, Unworshipped, hastes to mix ^ith ocean's roar. ]\Iore worthy is the mighty King of all, Vslio raises kingdoms, speaks — and empires fall ; "vMio made all systems, and who formed the sun, AMio spoke, and bade yon ciystal foimtain run. Praise to receive, and glory, power, and might, Through Time, and in the bhssful realms of hght ! Illdey, thy healthy mountains, wells, and air, Can cure the nervous, trembhng in despah ! Upon thy crags, to climb the granite rocks, .. Aud see the sportive youths pursue the fox, 30 LYKE OF EBOR. Would make the trembling liml)s be finn again, And banish jMelancholy and her train. To tliec, how many on their crutches come, Soon dance without them, and run smiling home ; Then to their friends in highest raptures tell How strength imj^roved at Ilkley and its well. Here tliey can walk amid the valley fine ; The angler into crystal throw his line. And watch the trout, though in the water deep — Behold his eyes, which ne'er are closed in sleej)- Peace, Love, and Solitude neai' Illdey dw^ell. And Health sits smiling at her mountain well : Thus did she sit, and made tliis vale her home, Before invading Caesar marched from Kome. Denton, thou rural village, little known, Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne ! When Fairfax, with a patriot feeling strong, Was led by false designing Cromwell wrong, A race courageous from tliy shades arose, Who feai'ed nor foreign nor domestic foes. In civil war, the numerous fields were red, Vvliere Fairfax fought, and where his brothers bled ; But now 'tis peace, — ^no warriors from thy hall Kide forth in armour at the ti'umpet's call. How blest the land, when martial days are o'er, Like tliose of Towton or of Marston Moor ; When regal power, and law were laid aside, And Britons by the swords of Britons died ! From J\Iarston to old Tockwith spread the line Of those who fought against the royal sign ; LYEE OF EBOn. 31 The stout right wing Sir Thomas Fairfax led. And seemed another Hector at its head ; Lord FairfcLx led the centre to the fray. The left, grim Cromwell's stern commands obey. DoT\-n in the plain the royal anny stood, ^^llo for their monarch soon must shed their blood ; True loyalty was spread from wing to wing, And each forgave the follies of his king. Dreadful the sight, when thus two annies meet. All softer feelings sunk beneath then- feet. And those who hung upon the selfsame breast, Taught by one father, by one mother blest, Waiting the signal for the deadly fray, "WTiere brothers take their Idndred's lives away ! But so 'twas here, when young Prince Rupert led The right vdiig, brave as e'er a banner spread. ^Yhile General Goring led the centre on. To meet the Scots, as oft their sires had done ; Lucas and Porter often rode to cheer The wings, the centre, vanguard and the rear ; Tvliile those who marched at great Newcastle's word. Were brave as any that e'er wielded svrord. Novv^ ready stood each fierce embattled host, WTien all distinction in their dress was lost, "VNTien handl^erchiefs, and shps of red or white. Were all that showed the king's-men whom to fight. The trumpet sounded, and the march began, Fairfax and Cromv\'ell leading forth the van ; Th' usui'per cried — " For battle all prepare !" Then the arch-hj^ocrite breathed forth a prayer ; As if Omnipotence could smile to see Britons o'er Britons gain such victory. "\Miile Cromwell's files marched rapid doT^ii the hill. Firm in their lines the Pioyalists stood still ; 32 LTEE OF EBOPt. With no impetnons haste Lord Goring led — The foes appeared, hut not a king's-mau fled. Now front to front the hostile annies are, Each hosom feels the dread of civil war ; Awful the silence — not a sound is heard Of drum, or trumpet, or commander's word, But just a solemn hum hefore they fire, For brothers wished from brothers to retire : And, truly, but for Cromwell's haughty pride, All had been friends, and not a warrior died. \\liat anxious breasts were left in every hall, Lest the loved lord should in the conflict fall ! The lady, often, with her children prays For heav'n's protection in the battle's blaze. As when a thunder storm the valley fills, The rapid rivers tumble from the hills. Falling impetuous from each rocky height, So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight. The Royalists, though few, like ramparts stood ; Or, as the sea-beat rock defies the flood. From their close-serried files no warriors fled — Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread : His legions cheered, then like a raging flood Pom'cd on the Royalists, who bravely stood ; But when the brave young Rupert spurred his horse, The royal anny burst with such a force, Their foes gave way — but Fairfiix, quick as thought, Wlieeled round his steed, and man to man they fought. Then came the Scots ; — but Rupert, like a flood, O'erwhehned the bold, and stained their flags with blood. LYRE OF EBOE. .S3 As ^Yllen on seas two rolling cliannels fight, And furious waves are tui-ned to foaming white, Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears, Till ^Major Fairfax in the slain aj^peai's ; Till not a weapon but with gore was red' — So fought both wings, till great Sii* Thomas fled. Wlien Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain, In such a space were fewer warriors slain. The noble Prince, whose loyalty was wann, 0'ei's\'helmed the sons of Scotland like a stoiTQ ! But see Lord Goring the finn centre lead, VvTiile fiiTn they folloY/ his dnrk prancing steed ; Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn, And Cromwell's musquetry they meet with scorn ; Close in their ranlcs, the dauntless warriors stand, And hard the spears ai-e grasped in ev'ry hand, Kushing hke fire, or, as the lightning red. They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled-! Again the brave Sir Thomas Fairfax tnrns, Meets Kupert's colmnns, and the battle bm'ns. The lines are broken — muskets useless lie. Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly — E^ge, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood, Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood ! With more detennined rage no aimies met, ^or eai'tli A\ith nobler gore was ever wet. At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again, Woiuided himself, and his brave brother slain : Thus Kupert fought, though loth to take the field, Yet, when once waimed, his heart would never yield- Now \ictory seemed the Royahsts to cro^^^l ; The banners of their foes were trampled dovra ; The noble files whom valiant Porter led, O'erwhelmed all force, and every General fled. c 34 LYRE OF EBOR. But as the tlmuder stoiin, when once 'tis passed, Turns with a ten-fold fuiy on the Wast, WTiile qniv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze, And make the boldest that they dare not gaze. So came proud Cromwell, leading on the horse, Dark as the storm — ^^vhat could withstand his force ? The Trojan warriors never better stood, The Grecian Phalanx never was as good. As those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled. And conquered oft, when great Newcastle led ! The heaviest charges of their foes they met. And each succeeding charge their foes were beat ; Nor would they fly, nor would a warrior yield, Till half their numbers fell upon the field. Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast- He need not glory that his foes had lost ; For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled. Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease. Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these : — *' O ! why should war, why should the sword and spear, And hostile annies in the field appear ? Why should the haughty pride of man destroy Youth, sti'ength, and beauty, and a parent's joy? Has not disease itself a rapid way To turn the greatest mortals into clay, But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire. Against the race of mortals must conspire ? The soldier at the front of battle smiles. Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files ; His fame, his honor, then his chiefest care. And little leisure has he left for prayer : A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies Swift to his heart — the warrior falls and dies. LYEE OF EBOE. 35 ^Mien shall the lovely days of peace appear. That sheathes the falchion, and that breaks the spear ? I praise thee !" and much more the usurper said, Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head ; For God dehghts not in his creatures' pain, Kor will he hear his praise sung o'er the slain. "With luckless fate, and in an evil hoiu'. The haughty conquer'd, not by skill or power, But by suj)erior numbers gained the day, "SMiile braver youths were driven far av/ay ; Youths, who their triple number often met, And fought till all their swords with gore were wet Dacres and Lambton fell upon that day, And Slingsly's noble soul was sent away ; Fenwick was lost, and Luddon was no more, And Gledliill's coqDse was scarcely Imo-^ii for gore, Meetham, the brave, the loyal volunteer, Heaved his last breath for his loved monarch there ; Then -^dth neai' thirty womids brave Graham bled, T^Tio never in the fiercest contest fled ; To Norton Hall his warriors bear him slow — Then what a scene of undescrib'd woe ! I hear his Lady's sighs — she caimot weeji — Hope, love, despair, sink in her bosom deep : The bleeding stops — she hopes her lord will live, And for his hfe would every blessing give. Now a bright beam is lighted in his eyes. Then pale, the brave, the dauntless Graham sighs ! The statues of the ancients ne'er could show Such silent grief, such eloquence of woe, As in his lady's features were expressed. When the last struggle shook her wai-rior's breast : 36 LYEE OF EBOE. "WTien the last kiss inlialed the parting breath, And all she loved on earth was still in death. Slowly and sad the weeping servants come, With noiseless feet, and look into the room, To hear their master's voice, or once behold The features of the loyal, brave, the bold; But they no more behold his piercing eyes — The only sounds are broken-hearted sighs Of his sad widow, in Avild agony Of fervent prayer, that death would set her free. Boast not, usurping Cromwell, o'er the dead — With hah" his wounds thy bravest knights ha4 fled. Prince Eupert, then, whose valour ne'er would yield. Again returns, in hopes to gain the field ; The firmest of his troops resolved to lie Cold on the field, or gain the victory ! But not a friend they met — all, all were fled, Except the wounded, dying, and the dead ; A^^iile foes in thousands stretched upon the plain. Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain. He had a heart, and such had all his men, They had not shrunk to meet them one to ten ; But when five hundred must engage a host, E'en Cromwell's self must o^vn the day was lost. TOien in the west the sun in grief had sunk. That Marston ]Moor such noble blood had drunk. The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh, For Yorkshire then was true to Koyality. Through eveiy line the haughty conqueror rode, Exliorting all to give the praise to God ! Thanking the men vrho had the victoiy gained, When fai' from balls and swords the Earh;> remainedr • Earl of Manchester, LYRE OF EBOR. 37 He seemed to mourn tlie day so far was gone, That nothing for the wounded could be done ; But, if they waited till the break of day, All shattered limbs should then be cut away ; Balls be extracted, eveiy wound be dressed, — Both friends and foes with surgeons should be blessed! Then well to sup he galloped off the ground, And felt no pain — for he received no wound : And so it is in battles, nine for ten, Leaders get praise, and victoiy's gained by men. The scene was a"\vful, when the light began To shine on featm-es gory, pale, and wan ; Some, who had plundered in the shades of night, Slunk swift away, as though to shun the light, WTien morning, with a crimson colour, spread Her beams upon sLx thousand waiTiors dead, WTiat would the feelings be of tliose who sought A son or husband, who had bravely fought ? "\Miat shrieks were heard among the ghastly dead, Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head, O'erwhehned with woe — of every hope bereft. And nothing but her starving children left ! These were the scenes on Marston's gory plain, And such would be in Anarchy's dread reign. Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore, When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore. Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt, U]3braided her with all the blood she spilt ; WTien wai-'s red bolts through Italy were hurled. And half destroyed the garden of the world ; And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field. Ere Piussia to the pride of France would jield, WTien Natm-e's self was armed with frost and snow, And slew what Eussians never could lay low. 38 LTKE OF EEOE. Eetiirn, my muse, what are such scenes to thee ? Thine be the task to paint antiquity ; Let Harewood's crumbling towers by thee be sung, Grey with old Time, with sober i^y hung — Home of brave hunters, warriors, and the fair. When mirth and song, and merry dance were there. Here, in the ruins, sat the rustic bard. Whose way through life was sorrowful and hard ; Still were the winds, and beautiful the night, \^Tlile in a large half circle spread the light. The herald to the moon, night's modest queen, W'liose waning orb soon in the east was seen. The shadows of the towers and risinoj Avood Stretched through the vale, and trembled on the flood ; But as she rose, the trembling shades withdrew. And showed the silvery Wharf broad in the view ; With wandering w^eary, tired with study deep, The poet's eyes were soon sealed fast in sleej). He dreamt of airy praise, of empty fame, And to his fancy Ancient History came : A mural crowai was placed upon her head, A link-mail cuirass o'er her breast was spread ; A belt of silvered silk around her waist. From end to end with Saxon verses graced ; Saxo-Monastic words were on her vest — The cross was ruby that adorned her breast ; A scroll of ancient parchment there she spread. While to the poet's fancy thus she said : — " Take courage, youth, and I will give to thee These dark- writ pages of antiquity ; Here are the records of those ancient towers — No mortals fear, but try thy utmost powers. LYEE OF EBOE. 39 Each passage read, nor o'er tliy wealmess mourn. Strike tliy wild harp, and soon ^y\R I retm^n : Let bold heroic measui'es be thy strain ; Sing on, nor think thy song will be in vain. Take up thy harp — why is it thus unstmng ? 'Tis thou must sing of deeds which ne'er were sung 1" The bard arose, as sweet she tuned his strings, Then swiftly spread abroad her ahy wings ; The moon-beams glittered on her robes of light. But quick as hghtning was the transient sight. When he beheld the Saxon language there. To him 'trv'as sealed — he sighed, and dropped a tear. Awhile next day he in his grot reposed. Then in despah the ancient records closed ; Anon, these words, borne on the wiugs of air. Came softly whispering — " Never thou despair ; ^Tiy do these records fiU thy breast with pain ? The latter will the foimer pai't explain. There's not a bard that here his harp hath sti'ung, But every verse is there that e'er he sung ; There's not a tale of love, or lady fair. But it is told in glowing nimibers there : — Natm^e attends thy bosom to inspire ; And in thy bosom is a spai'k of fire, That spite of coldest ice or frozen snow Neglect heaps on it, brighter yet wiU glow." He heard no more, but many a leaf he turned, "WTien soon his lightened heart T\dth raptm-e burned; The poet's muse had led him to the foam WTiich is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb ; Where roUing thunder forms the sable cloud That wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud ; Mocks the di^ead roaring of the raging deep. When wild despair forbids the sailors weep. 4b LYEE OF EBOR. There did he sing, as though he saw the storm Its varying terrors rouse in every fonn. He saw great ^Etna to tlie clouds aspire, Seeming to set the arch of night on fire ; While on each hand the boiling waves appear Eed with the light, as if the flames were there. Scylla below, the thunders from above, Volcanoes bellowing till the mountains move ; As if great Jove had seized his mighty lyre. And touched the strings with his tremendous fire. The poet cons the mystic record's strains — These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains. When the fine arch is spread for miles each way. And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May : So soft the ancient bard his harp had played, That to his verses listened many a maid ; He sung the dream of Mary on the hill, Which showed the secrets of a ladv's will. *' How sweet, how cheerful, sound yon bells Within my native vale ; And every tone blithe echo tells. That flies along the dale ! And thus, my Henry, shall they sound When we together join. And H}Tnen has our wishes cro"svned, And thou art ever mine. Contentment, hovering on its wings, Shall at the wedding be ; And viols, with their tuneful strings. Shall thrill sweet hannony. LYRE OF EBOR. 41 The hautboy and the shepherd's flute. Shall breathe a joyful air ; The dulcimer and mellow luto. Shall swell the octaves there. The njinphs, and all the cheerful Nine, Unseen, shall each inspire ; While Bacchus brings the choicest wine, And Yesta hghts the fire. The virgins, with their tresses bound By many a wreatli of flow^ers, Shall ^^dsh their swains, Hke mine, were found, And all their bliss like ours. The world that day may roll away ; But all, so blest with love, Shall scarcely know the eve from day, Nor think the moments move." Thus thought the maid — 'twas ti'uth she spoke, As she in raptures slept ; But, disappointed, when she woke, That ail was air — she wept. Far weightier strains next tremble on the lyre — Strams, which the coldest bosoms would inspire ! 'Twas on the evening of a hunting day. The bard reheai^sed the deeds of an affray, Of which the warriors to their children spoke— WTiat lords were slain, what ladies' hearts were broke, 42 LTEE OF EBOR. When two great hosts marched forth with sword and shield, And met in conflict on old Towton's field. The Earl of March, Plantagenet's true heu', From Pomfret came, and all his host was there ; At Fenybridge the great Fitzwalter stood, The pass to guard o'er iVire's deep rolling flood. Northmnberland and Clifford knew the plan ; And Somerset, that brave, and loyal man. Led on his files — but fierce and short the fray — Fitzwalter fell before the break of day : High as the battlements were heaped the slain, And few could meet at Pontefi'act again. To Edward's camp the noble Warwick rode, Then di-ew his sword, long, shining, sharp and broad, Vowed from his monarch he would never part, Then plunged the weapon to his charger's heart To show that for his king and countiy's right. On foot great Warwick never feared to fight. Edward proclaimed, " Does any soldier feai-? Let such return, nor spread infection here ! March forth, ye brave, whose souls with valour burn ! Cowards, fall back, and you that fear, return ! All you who fight, and me, your king, regard, Shall reap, ere long, a bountiful reward : But should a coward, when we meet in fight, Turn from the foe, to save himself by flight. Whoever shall such trembling dastai'd slay. Shall be promoted when we gain the day." When morn first broke, dark, stormy, and severe, To Towton's plain all Edward's host are neai'; LTEE OF EBOR. 43 Wild, gloomy, red, the a^v^ul morning came, As though the east were one vast sheet of flame : Upon the Western hills, in every form. Hung the dark clouds, and hail hissed in the storm. It was the Sabhath broke upon the plain, Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain ; Not in warm tents, but on the dampy ground — Thousands of waiTiors sleeping there were found ; WTiile others watched to feed with wood the fires ; And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azm'e smoke- Such was the scene when first the morning broke. The chiefs, each mounted on his prancing steed, Eode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed. A finer band of foemen never lay On battle-i)lain, for war to sweep away ; Nor tnier youths than Edward's ever found, To guard, in war, the monarch they had croTMied. The trumpets to the' onslaught shrilly pealed; And eveiy wannor slumbering on the field, Sti'etched his strong hmbs, half stiffened by the frost. Many stout yeomen had all feelings lost, And there had perished, had not good old wme Wanned their cold bosoms ere they fonned the line. They quickly rose — but not their garb to don — No hasty buckhng of their aimour on ; No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear — All this was done before the host marched there. Grand was the martial sight on Towton's plain ! A sight which England ne'er may see gain. A thousand breasts be-starred, a thousand swords, In Henry's cause had armed a thousand lords ; 44 LYRE OF EBOR. His was no common cause — ^tlie king was cro\Mied- Thousands of youths for him lay on the ground. An'ows were useless in the dreadful fray — 'Twas sword to sword on that eventful day. The liver, soon retarded by the slain, Stood like a lake, and deluged half the plain. How httle thought the pious peasants near, That York and Lancaster contended there I At Saxton church the rustic peasants met ; ^^Tien they retm^ned, the willows all were wet With noble blood — astonished there they stand — Thousands lie bleedin'g there on either hand. Now with the fire of battle — ■ Swords, and shields, and helmets ring ; Dreadful was the deadly rattle — Either host fought for a king ! Eed with blood the wamors' feet. Shattered many a brazen shield ; Again they turn ! — again they meet ! — Death his name stamps on the field. Thus Northumberland addressed. His bold warriors on the plam. As they stood with spears in rest : — " Half our foes in fight ai-e slain ! " Foi^'ard, men ! the day is om'S ; Forward — fiercely meet the foe !" Darts and arrows poured in showers. Laid the mighty leader low. LYKE OF EBOR. 45 Now the charge, and now the flame Burning in each warrior's heart ; Each forgot, or Ufe, or fame. Scorned the sword, the spear, the ^% Wave the red rose and the white — Ranks are broken — ^rage is Idng : Mingling man with man they fight — Lost the centre, and each wing. Beaumont falls — a thousand more Fight around the corse of Grey ; Every face is red with gore — Death is sated with his prey. Raging comes the furious stoim, — Either host is lost in snow ; Rage so fierce — no line can form — In the drifts are thousands low ! White the stoi-m falls from the sky ; When upon the plain 'tis spread, Soon 'tis tinged with gory dye, — Swords, and snow, and fields are rod. Now the centre meets the vdng ; Clash the swords, and break the speai'S ; Now the targe — the helmets ring, Death in every form appears ! Limbs are lost, and heads are cleft, — Thousands fall to rise no more : Oh ! v\-hat widows then were left O'er their orphans to deplore ! 46 I^YRE OF EBOR. Now tliey fly, and now tliey turn, By tlie battle's fury driven ; AH their breasts with anger burn — Death with every blow is given ! Now the last effort of King Henry's host Was such as w^ai-like Britons never met. Upon the plain he twenty thousand lost. And those that fled, before w^ere never beat. The red rose fell before Prince Edward's force ; And when the storm was o'er, and clear the sky, Of Henry's host w^ere neither foot nor horse — Terror, confusion, panic, made them fly. Now evening came, and sorrow's darkest shade Shrouded the lovely features of the fair ; CJold in their gore w^ere forty thousand laid. And many a brave young warrior was there. Then ladies' cheeks were wet with many a tear, And for their souls' release the Friars prayed. All England mourned — e'en those that gained the fight, Sighed o'er the slain, so awful was the sight ! Thousands of helmets, lances, spears, and swords, AiTOws, and breast-plates, and of battered shields, Each stained with blood the weltering plain affords. And richest gems are spread upon the fields. At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields. And eyes that seldom weep are wet with teai^s ; Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched plain Groaned with the gory bui'den of the slain ! LYEE OF EBOE. 47 The widows wept — but women soon forget The husband's death has snatched fi'om thein away; Theu' cheeks with tears a month or two are wet, But love again soon bids their hearts be gay : They reason thus — •' We hve not by the slain ; These ne'er return, though widows we remain :" This did the bard obsers'e through wasting years, And placed but little faith in woman's tears. Sad was the morning of that moui-nful day, \Mien relatives the dead and dpng found ; Some from the field were lifeless borne away. The rest, promiscuous, huiTied to the ground. And many — fai- from their loved place of biilh. By hands of foes were tumbled into eaith. To hghter strains the bai'd his harp now strung. For he too much of bloody scenes had sung. Eegret not, dear ladies, the fate of the brave, "Who fight for the king and the fair ; An halo of gloiy encircles their grave. And fame wets each corse with a tear ! They feared not the trimipet, the bugle, nor drimi. The banners nor swords of their foes ; But their watchword was, '• Let all our enemies come. We soon will each phalanx enclose !" Their aimour was bright when they rode forth at morn ; Their spirits were never dismayed ; The spears on the shoulders of wai-riors were borne. And high were the banners displayed. 48 LYRE OF EBOB. The strains of the trumpets were "Edward, our long !"' The song was " Long life to the brave !" And next I could hear the young warriors sin^, ** Far vic'tiy, or death and the grave !" Then weep not, dear ladies, your lords are asleep,. All peaceful, they Imow not your cares ; Drive anguish away, 'tis too late now to weep, For their spirits departed in prayers. To Harewood castle gallant Lisle returns — No more with anxious grief his lady mourns ; His noble friends in brilliant armour shine, And drown tbe terrors of the day in wine. While York's strong gates were open to their king,. And sounds of conquest swelled from ev'ry string, High blazed the torches on the lofty towei^, And swiftly flew the glad triumphant houi'S ; x\nd many a day, in festive mirth and glee, Spent the brave Imights o'er Edward's victory. At length the dance, and love's soft joys gave place To nobler sport — the pleasures of the chase. From Harewood Castle, at the break of day, With horse and hounds the Imights rode SAvift away The top of Almus cliff was red With cheerful beams of morn ; The sun upraised his golden head, When echo heard the horn. LYEE OF EBOE. 49 The hounds into the valley ran ; The fox his cover hroke ; The sounds cheer'd every sportive man — The hills — the valleys spoke. Across the plain he took his way, The hounds in music sung ; There ne'er was such a hunting day Since Eugimont was young. At Arthington the stream he took — The hounds, the horses neai', Crossed the hroad river like a hrook — They all were hunters there. To Kirkby Hill they see him fly As rapid as the wind ; The hounds pursue in tuneful cry. With horsemen close behind. The nuns of Arthington beheld The glories of the chase, And almost wished to quit the veil. Though modest was each face. As swift the fox runs o'er the hills. And close behind the hounds, Borne on the vands the echo swells The ever-var}-ing sounds. From Eugimont the sportive Lisle Eode on the fleetest horse ; No hedge or river, gate or stile, Could stop his hunter's course. D 50 LYRE OF EBOR. Dreadnouglit and Eaiiger led tlie pack, And Hector ran the third ; f^cxt Skilful sung, and deep-niontlied Jack- Such sounds were never heard. To Eiifas Wood sly Eennard hies, The best of hounds pursue ; The notes into a chorus rise — All have him in the view ! In vain he nins — he turns in vain From hunters, hounds, and steeds ; He struggles hard the rock to gain, But at its foot he bleeds. The dying fox seized many a hound, "WTiile struggling hard for breath ; The gallant Lisle arrived the first. And shouted at the death. The hunters wished that he had gained His hold amid the rocks, For AATiarfdide never yet contained For sport a better fox. Then lord and bai'on, loiight and banneret. In honest true old English friendship met ; Eeturned to Hare wood, talking of the chase, And pleasure shone on eveiy noble face : For nothing drives old wrath so far away As such a chase as they had seen that day. No city's pomp, no pampered courtier's pride Yields satisfiiction like the sportive ride, LYEE OF EBOK. 51 TVlien the wliole mind in hunting takes dehght. And Pleasure greets returning Health at night. Songs of the chase that evening were not sung, — To strains hke these the minsti-el's harp was sti'ung : " The fields have heen red where the battle was burning, The horse, man, and leader have fallen so fast, That the joys of the fair have been changed into mourning, But such a dread carnage is surely the last. To the floor of the hall let the ladies bring flowers — At rest is the battle-axe, bow, and the quiver ; The enemy's fled, and the victory's ours, And peace shall reside in our valley for ever. This night we rejoice not that thousands are wounded ; No music shall sound o'er the myriads that fell, Ere Edward's shrill trumpet the victory sounded, And soldiers did actions no language can tell. They may sing of famed Cressy, where wai-riors did wonders, WTien the clang of their ainns to the skies did ascend. But wai' sends not forth its most terrible thunders. Till, raging, fierce Britons with Britons contend. Then bursts in wild fuiy the lightning of battle ; The clash of the sv»'ord, of the lance, and the targe Is borne on the wind, and the horrible rattle Swells louder and louder, as quicker they charge ! LYEE OF EBOE. Let time throw a veil o'er the dark scene of terrors Depicted in gore on the breast of the plain, And wine drown the sad recollection of horrors That stalked in all forms on the field of the slain. Then rose the hard, his harp aside was lain, And gravely spoke in this prophetic strain : " These towers shall fall, and bury deep in earth The floors where once was seen the dance of mirth ;\' But there shall rise a mansion richer far. When England rests secure from civil w^ar, AATiose lords shall be respected by their kings ; And here shall other minstrels touch the strings, Below shall patriotic bands appear. Led by commanders to the monarch dear ; True British valour firmly shall unite To guard the throne, and every Briton's right. A finer dance, a richer sight shall be, .' Than all thy ancient masks and reveliy ; A better chase, when these the fox pursue. And fleeter hounds than ever Piedman knew, Shall cross the hills, and in the valleys sing, Till woods and vales with cheerful echo ring. But what are all the trifling things of earth, The highest pleasures, or the greatest mirth. The fairest scenes where every beauty is, And all that can compose terrestrial bliss, The love of sport, the finest dance or song ? — All quickly fade, and cannot please us long. ' The short-lived pleasures which. this earth affords. To poorest paupers, or the greatest lords, THE POACHEB, 53 Are all but shadows, or like passing showers, — Transcient their sweetness as night-blowing flowers T\Tiile Virtue is more lasting than the sun, And pleasure yields when eai'thly joys are gone. THE POACHER; A TALE FROM EEAL LIFE. *• The receiver is as bad as the thief," — Old Proverb. This subject wants no Muse the breast f inspire, Deep learning, — nor the Apollonian l}Te ; Fine tropes and figures here can nought avail, 'Tis but a plain and sunple rustic tale, — A tale of poachers, partridge, grouse, and hares, Gamekeepers' acts, their dangers and their fears ; And who the persons that ai^e most to blame. Or those who buy, or those who steal the game. But, in description little is my pow'r, — I never took a hare at midnight hour ; Experience cannot teach me how to sing, — My shot ne'er broke the Pheasant's glossy wing ; No partridge in my hands resign'd its breath, Ts or moor-cock clos'd its beauteous eyes in death ; For when I found them yoiuig upon the bent, Far from their nests in spnpatliy I went. 54 THE POACHER. Though low the theme, yet lords it has engag'd^ - And famous Imights have oft at Poachers raged. They act such deeds as make e'en harons swear, Break down their fine park walls and take the deer ; In every hedge suspend the murd'ring snai*es, And from their hest preserves fetch bags of hares. Nor is it strange — a child may know the cause Wliy daring Poachers break the nation's laws ; When for one night they gain far more reward Than for a week of honest labour hard, Game laws, they think, are made by gi^eedy-elves, Who want the free-created game themselves ; The partridge, snipe, and grouse, for ought they Imow, Belong to them just eqiial with the crow. The youthful Poacher first a terrier keeps. And where the conies haunt oft slyly creeps Till one is caught, — and then the foolish boy Is elevated with a ruinous joy. His parents chide not, nor his actions blame. But praise his skill, and gladly take the game. Growing in vice, such implements he gets As powder, shot, a fowling piece, and nets. His parents then too late their follies see, Pass days of grief, and nights of misery ! Absent from home — he ranges far and wide, His comrades are his ruin, and his pride; Daily they s]3end the money they obtain ; Half drmilc at night they sally foi'th again : Dangers on ev'iy side they heedless scorn, If they with hares and pheasants can return. Ignotus was a man who work could get, Had he not more than working loved his net ; THE POACHER. oS On the l)ro\Mi fallow lie the grain could throw, Could use a flail, a sickle, scythe, or hoe ; To rustic youths he had no cause to yield, A better workman seldom took the field. Had not his failing been the death of hares. Keeping a dog, and making nets and snares. An old experienced Poacher, neai'ly done, ^^^lO scai^ce could walk, yet gloried in the fun, Learnt him to call, and how to temper wire, With rushes, straw, or shapings set on fire ; Told him what money on a night he made, When he was yomig, and fewer of the trade ; An evening long he lengthen'd out his tale, Spoke of his feasts on spirits, beef and ale, Then prais'd the persons w^ho had bought his hares, — Forgot his wants, his miseries, and his cares I Though old, infinn, and rack'd with many a pain. He almost wished to pass such nights again ! WTien sportsmen some notorious Poachers fine, On game at taverns they should never dine. For fear it was their own the week before. Hung in their parks, or shot upon the moor ! But here we scarce can tavern-keepers blame, They wish to have a wide extended fame ; And but for Poachers, what could such men do. When for a feast they w^ant a hare or two ? If there be supper, or a private ball, Be there no game, it does not please at all ; The beaux and belles go home dissatisfied With ev'ry dainty, roasted, bak'd, or fried. The ladies blame the master of the house. If in the feast there be nor snipes nor grouse ; ^6 THE POACHER. For that is ever held the choicest dish, That comes in secret, he it game or fish The ladies tlien in ecstasy declare What ixirt they took of partridge, grouse, or hare ; Describe the dainties when they each get home. But ne'er consider how those damties come : For wdiether Poachers steal from squires or kings, This is the cause whence most of Poaching springs.- The epicures of ev'ry trading town, "VMio get a hare or pheasant for a cro^^Ti, Have done more harm than all the murd'ring wire That e'er was temper'd in the Poacher's fire. The hards of genius sing the orphan's woe, The rise of nations, or their overthrow ; Otheifs describe the shipwreck'd sailor's fate, The terrors of th' ensanguin'd field relate. — Mine be the task to paint unto the hfe, The deep distress of a poor Poacher's wife. Who in the worst of huts is forced to live, Where winter snow comes thro' it like a sieve ; The furniture, were it put up for sale, Would scarcely make a crown to buy him ale ; His children to the utmost famine driv'n. Quite destitute of clothes but what were giv'n. By one whose heart could at misfortunes melt. Who knew their wants, and for their sufFriugs felt. He sees them shiv'ring oft without a fire, And what should buy them coals is spent in wire ; Two-thirds lain out in powder, shot, and nets, The other part the well-fed landlord gets, — And when the night of danger's past away. While others Avork, he sleeps throughout the day : THE POACHER. ^f But oft liis sleep is broke by sudden fears, He starts, — and thinks some bailiffs voice he hears, — He lifts his head, — 'tis famine all and dearth, His famish'd children clinging round the heai'th : Disease destro}ang ail his partner's channs, And tears fall on the inf\int in her aiTQS. His conscience wakes, tho' nearly hard as stone — He turns hun o'er, and heaves a hea^T gToan ; Vows like an honest man's his days shall be — At last con^inc'd his deeds bring misery. His weeping wife hears the repentant sighs, In anguish t'ward him turns her tear-drench'd eyes, Thus speaks, with looks that would the mai^ble move, While weeping o'er the pledges of their love : — *' Thou once, dear youth, for whom I all forsook, " To me and mine, give one thoughtful look 1 " "WTiere shall we fly ? — om- credit all is o'er, '' Thy e^il deeds have made and keep us poor. '' My mother, wearied out, no more can do, " ]\Iy father's bosom wasting with his woe ! " Thou, while at enmity with ev'ry friend, " Dost only to the worst ad^dce attend. " Bring tliou but constant wages, I could rest, '' And with a certain pittance should be blest. " "While others sit in plenty and at peace, " As years roll on their nuptial joys increase, " Here is our eldest and our only son, " "\Mio blest us first ere sorrow had begun, " Without a shoe to travel in the snow, " By rags defended when the cold winds blow ; " \Mio knows not yet an alphabet or prayer, " Nor ever yet engross'd a father's cai^e. " Such tilings as these sink in my bosom deep, " And hours imseen I sorrowing sit and weep ; 58 THE POACIIEE. " And see those little innocents beside, " More than half nak'd, while clothes are wash'd and dried. *' While other children are with raiment bless'd, " And twice upon a Sahhath-day ai'e di'ess'd, " Ours stand aloof upon the holy day, *' Or weep, upbraided with their rags at play. " Debts undischarg'd, while thou enjoy'st thy cheer, *' Forgetful of the wants and sorrows here. " How well could we be cloth'd, — ^how well be fed, •' If like an honest man's thy life was led ; *' that the purchasers of game could Imow *' My children's wants — the burden of my woe ! " While thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came. Extensive orders he had got for game. From a rich man in whom they could confide, Theander, whom the Poachers long had tried. To those who bought his goods he presents made Of hai'es and pheasants, yet he ne'er betray'd The youths who brought them from the distant wood. And risk'd their lives to bear them o'er the flood ! Then to the distant parks with steps of haste. They cheerful cross'd the wide extended waste. The moon's resplendent orb w^as hung on high, Tho' hid were half the diamonds of the sky ; While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air. Shrouded the heav'ns, — excepting here and there The moon-beams darted thro' a misty veil, And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale. Two dogs attended them across the moor, — A double-barrell'd gun each Poacher bore : The hares were feeding on the turnips green, But Wharf's broad stream roU'd rapidly between, — THE POACHER. 59 So deep the ford, it scarcely could be cross'd, They greatly fear'd their journey Tv'ould be lost. But soon they found the horse they oft had tried, Which ne'er refus'd to cross the torrent \s-ide ; Without a bridle to adorn his head, The peaceful creature by his mane was led. A while they on the brink consulting stood. Then mounted both, and A'entur'd in the flood. The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong, — Yet, in the midst, they himmi'd the Poacher's song, To kill their fears ; for who could help but fear ? Broad was the river, and the whirlpool neai*. The aged horse his oft-tried strength now lost, And on the rapid stream they both were toss'd ! Theh homes the Poachers ne'er had reach'd again. Had not Ignotus gi-appled fast the mane ; Despai'o seiz'd his friend — 'tTi\'as all he could. And thus, half-dro^u'd, they ferried o'er the flood. Upon the bank they search for ball and string. And in the oU-case wrapp'd, they quickly bring, Across the stream their implements of sport. And with them to the farmer's house resort. The fruiral asfed dame is fill'd T\ith fear. Lest some should say they harbour'd Poachers there. Her son — a sporting youth, then goes and di^aws A jug of ale — regardless of the laws : Then vows, — nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop, Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop ! He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat, And soon the Poachers' clothes smoke with the heat. The aged fanner, griev'd, ^^ith locks turn'd gi'ey. Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away ; Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out. To listen if the keepers are about ; 60 THE POACHER. "\Miile clown his furrow'd cheeks the tears run fast, Afraid A^ath him that year will he the last. His landlord angry, — now no hope appears ; But his good farm, possess'd for forty years, He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone, Thro' the had actions of a wicked son. With eyes suffus'd Avith tears, the poor old man To reason with his son then thus hegan : " O that I could persuade thee to giye o'er " This cruel sport, which n»kes and keeps us poor ! " Would'st thou hut honestly attempt to liye, " My little all to thee I'd freely giye : " But now each field, untill'd, neglected lies ; " Thy flail the heasts with fodder scarce supplies. " WTiilst thou art ranging mth thy nets and gun, "Our cattle and our farm to ruin run ; " Among thy comi-ades all that little spent *' Which should haye paid my long aiTcai-s of rent. " Nothing hut deepest anguish is my lot ; *' I would have liy'd at this my native spot, " \\T.iere I so many years of lahour pass'd, " And where I first drew hreatli, have hreath'd my last! " But now the workhouse" here his anguish strong O'ercame his soul, and sorrow hound his tongue ! The harden'd Poachers could not help hut think ; But soon they took the quart, and swore "Let's drmk!" Ignotus yow'd that was no time for fears. The squire must have his score of living hares. The rich Theander, gi'own by commerce great, Had purchas'd with his wealth a wide estate ; Then down came ev'ry edge and ev'iy wall. And ev'iy humble cot was doom'd to fall. THE POACHEK. 6J Upon tlie rising liill each plan was drawn, Of villa, gardens, grove, and sweeping lawn ; And planted thick were trees of ev'iy hue, The oak, the ash, the sycamore, and yew, The fir, the larch, and plants not native here, The poplar, with its waving leaves, were there. The rills, collected, form'd a lake for trout, — And who that has a park w^ould he mthout ? With a high fence the Avhole was chcled round, But in the modern park no hares were found ; No pheasants in the new plantation hred, Nor partridge chirrup'd its young brood to bed. But what's the villa, garden, or park wall, E-xcept the hares are frisking round them all ? What pleasure in the grove and cooling breeze, Except the pheasants glitter in the trees ? The partridge whirring from beneath our feet. In our o\Yn grounds, is surely pleasure svreet I So thought Theander, — who from Poachers bought ' With cheerful heart, all lining game they brought. But stop, my pen — let it not be said That great Theander would have bought them dead ? The Poachers, vath their nets, theii^ dogs, and groi,' Directed truly by the fanner's son, Then left the house, and hasten'd to the wood ; In sileiLce there a while they hst'ning stood. Just when the hammer of the tillage bell Twelve times heav"d back, the midnight hour to tell.. Then natui'e such an awful silence kept — The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept ; The wither'd rushes, on the heathy hill, Were scai'cely mov'd — the tallest pines were still. 6Q THE POACHEK. The waning moon a bloody vesture wore, The only sounds, the distant cataracts roar. And deep-mouth'd mastiffs, struggUng in the chain. Fierce barking to their echo'd noise again. This solemn scene no deep impression made On hearts of flint, so harden'd with the trade. Tlien tliro' the thick-grown briars they wander'd slow. Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough. Ignotus swore they would not fire that night. Till they beheld between them and the light Ten glist'ning bh^ds within the ti^ees at rest ; For oft before they number'd many a nest. And when the powder flash'd, and shot had flo^^'n, Dried sticks and leaves were all that timibled down. The number in the wood was quickly found ; They left them there, and rang'd the open ground. That night the Poachers did their utmost strive. To catch the rich Theander hares alive. Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went. Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent ; And when the flying hare was just before. Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more. But fatal for poor Stormer was the night. Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight, liOvell'd their pieces at the vital pai't, And shot poor faithful Stoimer thro' the heart ; While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued. And left her pai'tner struggling in his blood. The echoing woods convey'd the swift report, — The Poachers guess'd the end of that night's sport. Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries, — Eage fill'd each breast, and blazed within their eyes ; Ignotus swore, " This lucldess night I'U die, <* Ere Stonner, woiuxded, on the field shall he ; THE POACHER. 53 " And slioulcl a legion of gamekeepers come, " The shot of both my barrels shall fly home ! " Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew. As to the fatal j^lace the Poachers flew ; And when arriv'd, Ignotus rais'd his head, Then heav'd a sigh, and deeply swore, " He's dead I " O Mend, Desparo ! such a dog ne'er went " Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent. " Poor StoiTner ! look Desparo, where he bled ! — " How oft to us he has the hares convey 'd ! " How oft have I, with exultation great, " Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet ; " But now his turning of the hares are o'er, " And he must pant close at their heels no more ! " No sooner had these words escaped his tongue. Than four arm'd keepers, lusty, stout, and strong, Leap'd from the bushes with tlie full design To malvc these bold marauders pay the fine. O'er Stormer's death their bosoms were enrag'd ; In desperation, one with two engag'd. Around the Poachers many a pellet flew. Before in war they either trigger drew ; Then all at once their double barrels went ; The shot whizz'd past, — its force in air was spent ; No time to load again, they met in blows, The Poachers struggling with superior foes. His piece Ignotus by the barrel took. One adversary's arm in splinters broke ; He groan'd and fled, his piteous case to teU ; Another stroke, — and strong Ignotus fell ! WTiile bold Desparo, ^nth his sti'ong butt-end. Made his antagonist to earth descend. 64 TPIE POACHER. Now two disabled, furious was the fray, Both sides Avere stupid, neither would give v/ay. The barrels broken from their carved stocks, And on the field were strew'd the torn-off locks. \ Enrag'd, Ignotus rose and drew his knife, And cried, " Desparo's freedom or your life ! " = The keepers dreading much the fatal blow. Took to their heels, and let the Poachers go. And -.where' s the squire who can such keepers blame ?> They fought, 'tis true, — but who -would die for game ?. Next night, of game Desparo made a feast, ^ And ev'ry well-known brother was a guest. Not to the ale-house did the group retire, But drank and smok'd around the Poacher's fire : Pheasants and grouse,and Stormer's last-caught hare,- — Domestic fowls, unbought, were roasted tliere. Their liquor, home-brew'd ale and smuggled rum ; And each was aiin'd had the excisemen come : But these as soon durst fierce banditti meet, As force their way into the lone retreat ! The supper ended, what a jovial crew ! Each show'd his nets, of those they had not few. From friend to friend the cheering bumpers ran, • The viol tun'd, the merry dance began. O that some greater bard had present been, ; And touched with verse burlesque the festive scene Their tatter'd clothes were such as might have grac , Some farmer's scarecrovv- in a wheat field plac'd : Thus doth misconduct bring the richest dov^n, And clothe with rags the Poacher and the clown. THE PO^CHEE. 65 » Ducando was a man of careful heart, He seldom paid a sixpence for his quart ; To sip the smuggled drops was his delight, — With such a group he spent the jo"vial night. The keeper of the neighhouring squire was there;. Enjoy 'd the sport, and in it drovvu'd ah care. Inspired hy drink, who can be silent long ? The Poachers could not, hut hecfan this sonc^ : — SONG. Come aU ve brethren of the niirht, T\Tio range o'er hill and dale, And in the moonshine chase delisrht — May friendship never fail ! Then drink around. Tour cares confound. Ye champions of the wire ; The field — the moor, Will we range o'er, Xor care for lord nor squire. The parhament, us youths so spry, With laws may strive to bind ; But they as soon in cords might tie The lightnings or the wind ! By the moonbeams. We cross the streams. To fetch the game away ; . Then here we rest, With bumpers blest. And banish fears awav. 66 THE POACHER. So long as planets rise and set, Or tim'rous hares can run, The Poacher true ^vill hang his net, And level sure his gun ; Tlie high park wall, Spring-guns and all, And keepers strong ^dth beer, We value not, Nor shun the spot, If hai'os are frisking near. The lord upon the hunting day Such pleasures never knew, WTien Echo bore the sounds away, — The hounds — the fox in view, As when the hares Are caught in pairs. Upon the glittering frost ! Should we be fin'd, "\Miat need we mind. Since others pay the cost ? We stop not at the rivers deep. The frost or winter's snow ; The lazy keepers soundly sleep, AMien tempests wildly blow. Of rain and hail. Let Jove's great pail Be emptied from on high ; The darker night, The more delight, And greater nimibers die ! THB POACHER. 67 The song was ended ; — and Ignotus drew The plan of ev'ry distant park he knew ; Described each gateway where he hung the net, And eviy hedge, where oft his wire he set ; Mark'd out the fish-ponds, and the river's flood, The pheasants' haunts, and where the villa stood. *' Upon this spot," said he, '•' one stormy night, " When dai^kest clouds obscur'd the moon's pale light, ■*' I stood alone, while Stormer rang'd the plain, " And five strong hares within my net were slain ! " And here the place where I my tackling hide, *•' When lusty keepers press on ev'ry side ; ^' And here, within the wood, the lonely dell, *' "NMiere oft I fir'd, and sleeping pheasants fell. " Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied, " And there my game across the river ride ! " Then I the bridge securely ti-*vel o'er, ^* And none take oath that mm-der'd game I bore." The junior Poachers, silent, sit and gaze, And give with joy the senior Poacher praise. Their sj^ort to swell upon this festive night. These bungling verses did a rh}'mer write : " The Poachers on the heath, the fields, the wood, ** Or where the shining fishes cleave the flood, *' Against the laws will yet pursue their sport, *' xVnd to the parks of distant lords resort, " Tho' half their incomes were to keepers paid, ** Tho' traps were set, and ev'ry scheme were laid, — " The Poachers, heedless of the fine or shame, *' In spite of aU. would sometimes steal the game. *' Then those who would their game in safety keep, *' Must catch and couple them like straying sheep ; 68 THE rOACHEE. " And lords ^vllo would make property of game, " Cut short their wings — like poultiy keep them tame. " For 'tis a truth, and let it once he kno^^^l, " A Poacher's shot rings sm-er than your own." They laugh'd — they shouted — when the rhymer ceas'd, (For fools, half drunk, with feeblest verse are pleas'd.). Then fom- strong keepers hurst the shatter'd door, And stood well ann'd upon the dirty floor. Desparo and Ignotus forc'd their way ; The rest, o'erpov\^ered, were captives forc'd to stay. Game, newly kiU'd, was in the cellar found, Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread around: The Poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport, To meet the di'eadful audit of a court. Desparo and Ignotus knew their cares, Supplied their wants, and kill'd the squire his hares ; Death and destruction thro' his grounds were spread,, Till scarce a leveret on the clover fed. With sorrows worn, and ehhing fast her life, Unhelp'd, unheeded, lay the Poacher's wife. He spent his days in revehy and mirth ; "Wliile she, too weak to give her infant birth, O'ercome with grief, and of her suff ring tu-'d. Neglected, starv'd, and penniless, expir'd ! No husband there, her fading eyes to close, — To own his guilt, and mitigate her woes. WTien he was told that death had eased her j)ain. He smil'd, and sAvilled the tankard deep again; Untouched with sorrow, anguish, or remorse. He never dropped one tear upon her corse. He left his home the two succeeding nights, To gain a sum to pay the funeral rites. THE POACHER. 09 His starving cliildren o'er tlieir mother mourn d, — A neighbouring i^easant o'er the infant yeai-n'd ; In pity took and nursed it as her ov.ti, — And sure such deeds are worthy of reno^^-n. Freed from his ^ife, with Avhom he jarrmg hv'd, His children bread through charity receiv'd. One night he spent where Ues fam'd Eobin Hood, The next where Harewood's ancient castle stood ; The beauteous vale of Wharf he wander'd o'er, — Expecting wealth, but still was always poor. What he in dangers got at taverns Avent, Or in rich treats was on his comrades spent. Bead this, ye rich, who stolen game receive. And think how wretchedly the Poachers live : Far from your feasts prohibit lawless game, Caught in disgrace, and bought with guilt and shame ! Ye rustic plunderers, who sport by night, And fearlessly invade another's right. Cold A\dnds and storms yom- frame will soon impair, And sickness waste the strength ye proudly bear ; Though fiiTQ your sinews as the hardest steel, Your constitutions must your follies feel : The sport, the bowl, the glass, the cheering quart, Soon, soon will fail to animate the heart. Y'e who purloin by night the haimless game, Ere youth is past, old age shall rack your frame. No days vrell spent can you look back to view; At last convinc'd this axiom is true, — ^' If injur'd lords no punishment prepar'd, *•' Drinking and poaching bring their own reward." On lost Ignotus' fate a moment gaze, A\Tio in his cups oft gain'd the drunkai'd's praise : 70 THE POACHEPt. He swiftly hasted with his pilfer'd load The hridge to shun, und oft-freqiiented road. Beneath a sheet of ice the river slept, Half o'er its course the thoughtless poacher stepp'd ; Around his feet the yielding crystal hends, And, dreadful ! in a spreading circle rends. He heard, — he trembled, — hut it was too late — The ice gave way, and sealed for e'er his fate. Till morning came his faitliful lurcher stopp'd, — Howl'd near the chasm thro' which his master dropp'd. His frantic children view'd the fatal cleft, Though injur'd, — their affection still was left ; Their grief, and anguish ne'er can be express'd, — Imagination must depict the rest. His corse, though sought, Avas never brought to land,. But somewhere lies deep shrouded in the sand. His neighbours wept not, though he ne'er return'd, And for his loss alone his children moum'd. Of distant parks he ev'iy winding knew% IMience at grey dawn the waking pheasants flew ; The lonely streams where speclded fishes bred, And where the hares upon the mountains fed. The dark brown heath upon the trackless moor, With dog and gun he often wandered o'er ; In winter's frost, upon some rocky spot, He call'd the list'ning grouse within his shot,. Then on his uprais'd knee he levell'd true, — '^ The trigger pull'd — the moorcock never flew ; But now, the hares may feed, the fishes play, The pheasants sleej) unscared by him away ; The grouse secure may in the rushes rest, / The speckled pairs of partridge foim their nest ; The keepers now their watchings may give o'er, Ignotus, prince of Poachers, is no more ! 71 AIEEDALE IN ANCIENT T I :\I E S Though greatest Bards have sung most earthly things. And scarcely left me room to touch the strings, Yet humbly would I from the crowd retire, And strike, though feebly, the responsive hTe. By Nature's hand, 0, may my harp be strung. While I attempt to sing what ne'er was sung ! Spirit of Ancient Times ! my genius tm-n To scenes long past — and make my fancy burn ! Genius of Hist'ry ! Learning's loveliest maid, Around me let thy mantle be display'd; Let aU thy pow'rs together be combin'd. To illume my spirit, and support my mind ! Lead me, O Muse, along Aire's winding course, To sing of Gordale — its tremendous source — ■ There terror sits, and scorns the poet's pen. The painter's pencil, — all the pow'rs of men : There sons of science oft confounded stand. To view this wonder of the Almighty's hand ! Here, in dai^k shade, the rifted rocks appear ; The bm'sting cataracts assail the ear ; Projecting masses to the clouds are pil'd, And Grandeur revels in her palace wild ! 73 AIREDALE. E'en those that to description would aspire, Gaze mute with awe, and silently retire. Here fierce banditti once securely slept. And joyous revell'd, while the plundered wept. We now, secure, these a^^^ul cliffs sui'vey. Nor dread to fall the fell assassin's i)rey. But softer scenes on Malham Water view, When its smooth breast reflects the heavenly blue ; Or when the skiffs, departing from its shore, Convey the lovely njmphs of Craven o'er — The still lake ruffled by each rower's stroke, And its smooth surface into surges broke. The circling woods return their cheerful song, As maids and swains harmonious glide along ; While at the flies the glitt'ring fishes bound. And twice ten thousand eddies play around. Anon 'tis ruffled like the foam-white sea. Then smooth as glass reflects each rock and tree ; The lofty fells upon its breast are seen, Bro^vn here with heath, and there with brackens green ; Health, rosy Health, diseases diives away. And Pleasure loves amid those scenes to stray. Fimily fix'd near, like the great throne of Jove, Stands, rudely great, old Malham's lofty Cove, From whence, in storms, the bm'sting streams are hurl'd. Met by the winds, to misty vapours curled. Here the brave Percies, foremost in the chase. Were follow'd by the sons of Clifford's race ; Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn, Obey'd the cheerful summons of the horn ; AIREDALE. 73 Malliams and Martons, on their himters fleet, Scatter'd the moorland moss beneath their feet, — Eode do^^Ti the rocky hills mth rapid force, And still undaimted held their ardent com'se, WTiile nodding antlers of the mountain deer Topp'd the high hills, — the hounds, the hunters near : Next took the vale, and with ambition tried "VMiich rider dm-st o'erleap Aire's infant tide. The shepherds in the valleys left then- flocks, Mounted the hills, and shouted on the rocks. But, oh ! how soon does human greatness fall 1 How long has ruin reigned in Clifi'ord's hall ! The baron, and the wai-rior now are still. And mute the horn on Elso's lofty hill ! The sons of Craven now are happier far, — No Scottish clansmen wage the cruel war. As when the sons of Gargrave saUied forth To meet the fierce invaders from the north ; WTien on the shields the battle-axes rung, Speai'S broke, helms cleft, and many a bow was strung; Death through Northumbria's fields had mark'd their way. And mothers wept where hfeless fathers lay ; Friends, kindred, lovers, on the earth expir'd. Their dwellings plundered, and their churches fir'd ; The holy crucifix away was borne. And from the shi'ines the sacred relics torn ; The sacramental ^\ine they rudely quaff'd, Smil'd o'er the flames, and at destruction laugh'd ! But when these hordes arrived on Craven's height, The sons of Gargrave met them in the fight ; 74 AIREDALE. Percy and Garii made a noble stand, And fouglit tlieir tliree-fold niunbers hand to hand. His well-tried sword hrave Garri whirl'd around, And brought three Scottish leaders to the ground ; The blade of Percy bore the fray so well, Beneath his arm, five northern chieftains fell ; Their helms he cleft with many a mighty stroke, — His temper'd weapon bent — but never broke. No banner wav'd, no trumpets sounded clear, To fire their breasts — 'twas silent conflict there. The brackens green, where the hot battle bm-n'd. To crimson with the warriors' gore was tm^n'd : But soon of Percy's band but ten remain'd, — The mountain stream with human gore was stain'd; The deep-dy'd waters crept, meand'ring slow, As loth to tell the tragic tale below ; There many a hero, pillowed on the slain, With pale, parch'd lips, lay wtI thing in his pain. With conquest fir'd, the Northerns sallied down. To plunder Gargrave's lone deserted to^m ; The blazing brands within the church they hurl'd, And soon tlie flames around the altar curl'd. While from the burning roof the molten lead Dropp'd on the ancient tombstones of the dead ; The blood-red sun sunk slowly in the west, As by the dreadful scene of woe oppress'd : But plunder ceas'd not in the shades of night; The blazing ruins lent a baleful light, Till Skipton's sons appear'd, with banners red, — The Scots beheld their glitt'ring amis, and fled ! Slight cause have we, in our day, to complain, Throughout our isle, that war has ceased to reign ; AIEEDALE. 75 Our fertile valleys, in improving channs, With commerce smile, secure from war's alaims. How chang'd, since Skipton's ancient tow'rs arose, Their countiy's strength, and terror of its foes ! "Wliere Meschines, the long ejected heir, Led to the altar Cicily the Fair, Obtaining thus, what many a life had cost, With his fair bride, the lands his father lost ; — All those domains which Edwin once possess'd, "WTiere fai'-famed Eomili fix'd his place of rest. By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought The aims with which the Normans fiercely fought ; Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigandine, Worn by the warriors of the Norman line. Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear, Lances and swords, have oft been polished there ; Banners, which wav'd when shields and helmets rung, Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung High in the tower, as in a place of trust — NoAv wasted all, and worn away with rust. Here, gorgeous, glitter'd, once in days of old, Satins of various dyes, adorn'd ^\'ith gold ; The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er, v And silver'd robes the ancient Cliffords vrore ; Their arras was of silk, with silver ting'd. And velvet canopies ^dth gold were fring'd ; W^hole butts of wine were in the cellai- stow'd. And in the hall the vessels oft o'erflow'd ; Upon each dish the dragon was portray'd. And underneath a gory lion laid ; Warriors and amis were graven on the plate. To show the sons their fathers once were gi^eat ; Upon their cups emboss'd was many a shield, And this strong charge — " The Chffords never yield!" 76 AIREDALE. Upon tlie wall tlieir bright steel annour Imng, With dints allmark'd, where many a spear had rung. Here many a sumptuous lordly feast Avas kept. And ladies here o'er warriors slain have wept. Brave lords have hunted through their wide domains, Hode o'er the rocks, and gallop'd on the plains ; Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard, Pass'd not unheeded nor without regard ; Here many a night of jollity has been, And festive mirth enlivened every scene : But how can scenes of cent'ries long gone by. With all the ancient feats of chivalry — Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport — Their imitations of the monarch's court — Their priests rever'd, by superstition fed, WTio, they believ'd, could liberate the dead ; The sieges which the lofty tow'rs sustain'd — Till on their tops no battlement remain'd — Their great possessors since the Norman king — Crowd all at once — too much for me to sing : Then, forgive a feeble rustic bard. When he admits the mighty task too hard ! Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive hours. In walking roimd these desolated tow'rs, A\Tiere once such greatness and such valour dwelt, Beflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt. But to the vale I turn, where Aire winds slow, And its 2)ure waters scarcely seem to flow ; Where cattle fed, and scarce a wall was seen, But all one wide extended j^ark of green ; Or, when the native butter-flow'rets blew. The valley shone in robes of golden hue. AIEEDALE. 77 Tlie mountain's side ^'itli ash was spotted o'er, Wliich Nature planted centuries before ; Above, the huge grey rocks, which ne'er had broke, Since the creation, with the hammer's stroke. There prickly fm^ze for ages blossomed round, And the brown heath the lofty mountains cro^u'd. From whence the ciystal rills with gushing flow, Sought sweet repose within the vale below ; Where the young shepherds sought the cooling shade. And, underneath the far-spread branches, laid, Tim'd their sweet pipes, their fiocks aU grazing round, W^ile buxom damsels listen'd to the sound. Then near some lonely grange upon the green, ^\^le^e the old yew-trees had for cent'ries been, In rm-al bliss, the loving pairs would play, And quite forget the labours of the day, — Sing of some ancient chieftains whom they Imew Finn to their king, and to their countiy true ; Or of some maid, who lov'd, but lov'd in vain— A youth whose heart was ficlde as the main. How oft she wander'd in the fields alone, Till beauty fled, and reason left her throne. They sung, till tears stood trembling in each eye, And not a heart was there but heav'd a sigh ; Next, on his staff, oppress'd with weight of years. The father comes, and calls them in to pray'rs. His reverend looks they dare not disobey, — The worst from ev'ning worship could not stay : Then from his heart v>-ith pious rev'rence ; He breathes the holy words the Saviour taught; No new fanatics can with him compare, In true devotion and in fervent pray'r. 78 AIREDALE. But I must sing of scenes more ancient still. When off rings smok'd upon the rocky hill. In days long past, when, circled round with wood, The lowly huts of painted Britons stood ; There the majestic oaks their hranches spread. And for the Druids fonn'd a sacred shade, — "WTio, at one period of the changing year, 'Prepai'ed their victims hy a creed austere. White as the snow their sacred vests appear'd ; They as the Gods' vicegerents were rever'd. On ev'ry hill the milk-white beasts were sought ; When found, with joy they to the groves were brought. Then virgins cull'd the flowers with greatest cai'e, To strive who could the richest ^\Teath prepare ; While to the harps of bards the peasants simg, ,^' And round the victims rosy garlands hung. The rock, which yet retains the Altar's name. Had honours paid, and mighty was its fame. There, haply, erst, the mistletoe was laid, ^Miile to their unknown Gods the Druids pray'd ; There were domestic quarrels made to cease. And foes at variance thence retm^n'd in peace. Unlike the priests of these our modern days. Who teach their flocks a thousand different ways ; And though they boast superior knowledge giv'n, Who knows but Druids taught the way to heav'n. ? Then all returning from the Altar's height, Some fiU'd with awe, some smiling with deHght, While hoary bards, as slow they mov'd along, Touch'd their wild hai'ps, and this their artless song: — Now with the Gods our peace is made; No witch's spell or chann Can make our hawthorn blossoms fade, Our flock or herbage hann. AIREDALE. 79 Safe from the wolf and furious boar We rest another yeai' ; No fox shall take our feather'd store, Or make our springs less cleai\ No fairy climb the lofty oak, The sacred plant- to kill ; No warrior wear a bloody cloak. Or fall upon the hill. No eagle, from the stormy north. Shall our young lambs destroy ; Nor hawk nor raven shall come forth, To blast our rural joy. But ex'ry thing we want is ours, ' Bestow'd by bounteous heav'n, And falls like fruitful rain in show'rs. If for them praise be giv'n. Oft on the hills, to chase the dappled deer. The stalwart Britons would in troops appear; Swift as the hind they bounded o'er the plain — The sportive chase was then their only gain. They knew not then the sickle, scythe, nor hoe ; No panting oxen labour'd at the plough : Their flocks and herds were then their only store, They liv'd content, nor cared, nor wish'd for more. But, if their chiefs had struck upon the shield — The well-known war-cry to the embattled field — They left their homes, and all their rural channs. And o'er their painted shoulders threw their arms : The blooming \irgins, while their bows were strung, Joia'd with the native bards, while thus they sung ; — • Mistletoe. 80 AIREDALE. Britain ! the land by Gods belov'd, The land of warriors brave, ^^Tio ever meet their foes unmov'd, Nor dread the hero's grave, By barbarous foes unconqner'd still. The pastures yet our o^ati ; And ours the grove and sacred hill, While Cuno* wears the crown. The northern nations, fierce, may come, To waste oin- fruitful field ; But those shall rue they. left their home. And soon to Britons yield. xAi^m, warriors, arm ! your children call — The Gods will give you aid ; Before your spears your foes shall fall, The mighty army fade ! Ami, warriors, ann ! your all defend — The Highland foe is near ! Let all upon the Gods depend, And strano'ers be to fear ! -^b'- With quivers fill'd, and brazen spears. With trumpets loud and strong, Eush to the fight — the foe appears. But foes shall not be lom]r. o Thus sung the bards — and at their words. At once the warriors drew From brazen sheaths their glitt'ring swords, And to the conflict flew. * Cunobuline, a British Prince. AIEEDALE. 81 So 'tv,'RS of old, one dreadful day, "Wliich ancient minstrels sing, ^Tien mighty warriors fled away, Like hawks upon the vdng. Fierce were their foes, — the savage boar Had lent his bristled hide. To form the helmets that they wore, With various colours dy'd. Monsters and beasts upon each breast Were frightfully portrayed ; The red-deer skins, ^vith labour dress'd. Formed then their tartan plaid. Dreadfully grim the van appeared, A far extended line ; From vnng to wing their spears uprear'd, Did bright as silver shine. The Britons waited not to view Or study dangers o'er ; But, daimtless, in their chariots flew, And stain'd their arms with gore. The conflicts on the fields of Troy, To this were but a fray ; Each Grecian warrior but a boy. To those who fought that day. No room to bear the banners high : No breath to give command ; No heart to fear, no way to fly ; But warriors hand to hand I F 82 AIEEDALE. Swords cut like saws, and broke in twain ; And spears, as crimson red, Were strew'd all o'er the bloody plain, Or firm grasped by the dead. Thus, when the Picts or Romans came in sight. The Britons rush'd like torrents to the fight ; Their chariot- wheels with sharpest scythes were hung, And from each car were darts and arrows flung ; Death mark'd the way where'er the chariots turn'd. And round each chief the bloody battle burn'd : But if the artful cohorts gain'd the field, The Britons made the woods their nightly shield ; And when the Romans thought the battle won. They foimd, next morn, the conflict scarce begun. Thus Britons fought, — by Boadicea led. And on the slain the wolves and eagles fed. Say, winding Aire ! ye rocks, ye woods, and hills. How you were stain'd — and how your crystal rills Ban crimson'd with your native warriors' blood. When on the heights the Boman eagles stood. When Olicano's rocky station rose, And Britain bow'd, reluctant, to her foes ! But now, could Greece her ancient grandeur gain ; Could Boman chiefs once more resume their reign ; ' Could Caesar leap on shore to invade our land, And all his legions pour upon the strand ; Could Alexander, with his mighty host, With Xerxes in the rear — all threat'niug boast To bring the myriads of their warriors here — The men of Waterloo would never fear ; For one dread day like that of Trafalgar, Had brought to peace the ten years' Trojan war! AIEEDALE, 83 O Nature ! teach me how to paint the scene Of Bingley's glories, which long since have been ; "WTien, in full splendour were its ancient halls, And high achievements grac'd their massy walls : WTien oaks, which now the whirlwind's force withstand, Had bent to earth beneath an infant's hand. There winding Aire, enamour'd of the place, Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze :•— To leave the scene the glitt'ring river mourns, And shows reluctance in its varied turns. Till, forc'd at last, it rushes down the steep, Turns into rage, as if too proud to weep ! Would I could call some venerable shade, "WTiose earthly part a thousand yeai's has laid Within the tomb, in undisturb'd repose. Haply it might a scene like this disclose : — WTiere rolls the stream above yon sacred fane. And where the hills, in Time's all-wasting reign Have chang'd their forms — while struggling for its way, The furious flood has torn a part away Of yonder fields, which bear a castle's name, — There once a castle stood, tho' lost to fame : Eut, safely sheltered from the feudal rage. It won no place in the historian's page ; And as unnoticed, temples often fall, So none can tell where stood its ancient hall ; Its gothic arches and the strong-built keep. Within the adjacent floods ai'e buried deep; The strong foundations of its lofty tow'rs. Crumbled to sand, and wash'd away with show'rs ! The river's course a thousand times has chang'd. Since on its banks the ancient Druids rang'd. 84 AIREDALE. The fords, wliicli once tlie Koman cohorts cross'd, Fill'd up with sand, are now for ever lost. Fields now are spread, where once the river ran — Emblem of empires, and of changing man ! The streams of Science once thro' Eg;y'pt ilow'd, When Thebes in all its pristine grandeur glow'd ; Then left the margin of the fruitful Nile, Cross'd o'er to Greece, and made great Athens smile.. Athens and Corinth fell — and Eome appear'd, Stretched forth her empire, and no danger fear'd, Till Gothic ignorance, with her sable robe Of gloomy superstition, wrapt the globe ; Then bigot Fury rear'd its hydra head ; Then Science sunk, and all the Muses fled To their own shades, and there for cent'ries mourn'd, IS* or to Parnassus have they yet return'd : At length on earth again they deign'd to smile, And fix'd their residence on Albion's isle. But stay, my Muse — haste not so far away ! I'll woo thee in my native vale to stay. — Its beauties be my theme — the woods and dells, Sequester'd bow'rs, and sweet harmonious bells ; The flow'r-deck'd lawn, the distant heath-cro^vn'd hills, Stupendous rocks, and softly murm'ring rills ; The woodland echoes, whisp'ring in the trees, Or floating loudly on the fitful breeze ; Where nought of sameness the chami'd sight offends^ But ev'ry scene the former scene transcends ; AMiere rocks in rich variety are dress'd, Some in the grey, and some the auburn vest ; Where varying Nature gives the lovely tmge, And on the banks suspends the mossy fringe. AIREDALE. 8Su But Where's tlie bard can sing of Bingley's vale, And never once in his descri^jtions fail '? 'Tis here the modest snow-drop first appears. Drooping its head, and wet with icy tears, Like some poor bai'd, unkno^Mi to pubhc fame It shrinks and withers on its native stem. And here the primrose, from its mossy bed, Silver'd with dew, lifts up its lovely head; Here springing woodbine to the hazel cleaves. With snow still pressing down its velvet leaves. How pleasant here to walk, when daises spring, While the sweet beUs in tujicful changes ring, When ev'ry tone the echoing woods receive, And thus delightfully the ear deceive, Keverberating, musically clear. As though a far more dulcet peal were near ! Would I could sing the days of olden time, WTien first this valley heard the vaiying chime ! I hear them yet — am present at the horn* WTien zealous crowds from ev'ry village pour. At early morn, upon the holy day. To worship God, confess their sins, and pray. No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find, But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind. The Chm'ch Establish'd is their fav'rite place. And rev'rence dwells on ev'ry earnest face. The manor's lord, with all his household, comes, — His honest tenants leave their distant homes ; The rm'al peasant brings his frugal wife, And ev'ry' child, without religious strife. The aged come, with years of labour worn, Nor stay, though distant, on the holy morn. 86 AIREDALE. The daugliter here an aged mother hears, Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers ; And there the son leads on his pious sire, Wann'd with devotion's purest, hohest fire. 'Tis rev'rence all — no lightsome smile appears — See them, and hlush, ye modern worshij^pers ! Your fathers met their Maker to adore. Devoutly read the Psalmist's verses o'er, And from the priest words of affection flow'd — He pray'd, he wept, — until the list'ning crowd Melted to tears ; and tears that were not feigned, Like crystal drops, from all the audience rain'd. Such were the days when churches first were huilt, Though days of darlmess, yet not those of guilt. Sage history has shaded o'er with crimes The long past period of the feudal times, When foreign luxuries were quite unknown. And all they wish'd was in the valley grown, — Their wholesome food was hutter, cheese, and miik^ And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk; The line they grew their own soft hands prepar'd; The wool unneeded to the poor was spar'd ; But few the poor, unless hy age opprcss'd — At little rent some acres each possess'd. When from the fields the golden sheaves were led, The cottagers could glean their winter's bread ; The husbandman could to his cottage bear The withered boughs his frugal heai^th to cheer ; Or oft at eve his basket, well Avas stor'd With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord ; Or did he want for Lent a proper dish, Aire's silv'ry streams produc'd needed fish ; AIREDALE. 87 Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore, And plurQ-trees bended with the juicy store. The ills which crowded population brings. Had never broken rural bhss ! thy wings ; Then on the green the npnphs and swains would dance, Or, in a circle tell some old romance ; And all the group would seriously incline To hear of Saracens and Palestine, — Of knights in armour of each various hue. Of ladies left, some false, and others true. Their simple tales portrayed hov%^ warriors bled, How virgins wept to hear of heroes dead ; The fmious steeds swift rushing to the war ; The turban'd Turks, the bloody scymitar ; The cross-mark'd banners on the lofty height ; The impious struck with terror at the sight I Then told v/hat spectres grim were seen to glide Along this dale, before its heroes died. And mark'd their fall within the holy vale, Where they lay lifeless, in their coats of mail ; Told how some lady, frantic with despair, Shriek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire, When tidings reach'd her from the Holy Land, That her lov'd lord lay deep in Jordan's sand ; And how her cries flew echoing thro' the wood, WTiile her rich jewels glitter'd in the flood ! Thus happy they their summer's evening spent. Parted in peace, and homeward singing went ; Their voices, soft as the iEohan strings, Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's \\ings. Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone, And who can help but sigh that they ai^e gone ? 88 AIREDALE. 'Tis pleasant yet to see how i^T clings Around the walls where night-birds clap their wings ; A solemn awe pei-vades the feeling breast, To view the sacred earth with ruins press'd ; The fallen arch, the shatter'd tow'r on high, Eemind us of the days and years gone by. Imagination sees the whole entire, — The smoke yet cuiiing in the ancient choir, And slowly, as the clouds of incense roll. The fragrant gi-ateful scent perfumes the whole ; "VMiile the great organ, solemn deep and strong, Pours with the worshippers the sacred song ; Beholds the Abbot in the robes aiTay'd, The altar wet, where once Turgeasius pray'd ; The tapers biu-ning, till each holy shrine More brilliant than the thrones of monarchs shine. The glitt'ring cross, the virgin's image there. Before the imagination all appear, And deep-veiled nuns, on some grand solemn night, Bang'd on each side, stood clad in pm^est white. Though cent'ries intervene, yet fancy hears The Abbot reading o'er the Latin pray'rs : How still — ^how awful ! as the solemn strain Now swells, and now to whispers falls again ! Till the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd. Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud. In all the diapasons deep or cleai% Man could invent, or his weak passions bear ! The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen. Is cover'd with a mossy robe of green ; Ehns in the cloisters grow, and like a pall. Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall ; Uj)on the place where many a Imight lies low. Nettles and weeds, and the baneful nightshade grow ; AIREDALE. 89 "VMiile on tlie cornice wildly waves the fem, Like verdant plumes, in many a graceful turn. How chang'd is Kirkstall, since to ruin turn'd, And, slow departing, the last Abbot mourn'd ; When ancient records, kept with pious care. Clung to the boughs which overhung the Aire ; Or toss'd in flames, or into pieces torn. Like autumn leaves upon the winds were borne ; Its riches gone, and lost its fruitful land, "Which was bequeath'd by many a dying hand ; The granges ruin'd, and the cattle sold. The sheep remov'd to a far distant fold ; All that was good and precious swept away, And seiz'd by desolation it as its j)rey ! Of all its wealth the once-fam'd place bereft, And but the walls now to the artist left ; "WTiile many a pensive stranger passing by. Stops to admire, then leaves them with a sigh ! The scenes how chang'd, since Loidis' castle stood Encircled by the ancient park and wood ! Where streets are now, the shining pheasants flew, Or cattle crept the daisies gem'd with dew ; Commerce, to Albion's modern sons so dear, Had never spread her golden pinions there. Where churches stand, in ages long ago. The swift-wing'd arrow left the archer's bow. That town whose fame now spreads in every zone. Was then of litte note, and scarcely Imown ; Ne'er saw a vessel on the river glide. With sails unfurling in commercial pride. The village youth then heard but Kirkstall's bells, And i-ustics sported where the organ swells ; 90 AIREDALE. Where now extends the great commercial street. The virgins pluck'cl the hawthorn blossoms sweet ; And where the spacious public halls are seen, In times remote, was once the village green ; Where noontide hours, and many a summer's night. Were danced away with feelings of delight. Upon the hills where oaks for cent'ries grew. Years, undisturbed, the glossy pheasants flew ; Partridge and hares in eveiy field were bred, And never fell, struck by the murd'ring lead. From aged furze, or from the lonely rocks. Oft nightly wander'd forth the wily fox ; The valleys echo'd on the early morn, With hounds, with huntsman, and the cheerful horn ! Then, as they cross'd the vale, fleet as the air, Forsaken, lagged behind, old wi-inkled Care ; Joy join'd the chase, and chcer'd each sportive mind, Aiid Sorrow there could no companion find. The life-inspiring cries the hunter laiew. And from each breast dark ^Melancholy flew : Pleasure and Mirth the foremost led the chase. And rosy Health was shining on each face. With all our modern concerts, parties, balls, Assembly rooms, our theatres and halls, Are we more happy than the ancient lord. With good October sparkling on his board. His warriors round him, and the tuneful lyre Strung by the bards, who sung his valiant sire — A lady lov'd, who strove her lord to please, A priest at hand his troubled breast to ease ? One wife he lov'd, the chase, and moral song, — No follies broke his constitution strong ; GENIUS AN'D INTEMPEEANCE. 91 His guests true-hearted, each a warrior brave, And not a soul but scom'd to be a slave. To-day they to the chase or feasting yield — To-morrow duty calls them to the field. With learning unrefin'd, they knew no fear, When front to front they met the shining spear. Such were the sons of Leeds and Towton's plam Was crimson'd o'er with thirty thousand slain ; Their king they lov'd, and for their king they died, While Wharf's clear stream roU'd on a purple tide ; And such must modern lords of Britain be, If Britain conquer, and if Britain's free ! GENIUS AND INTEMPEEANCE. Death and Disease my solemn muses be I Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canopy ! Let sorrow dictate ev'ry mournful line. And, true repentance, let the strains be thine ! Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain. O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain. Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were. Before their infant eyes could drop a tear ; And when they felt the first of earthly joys — When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys ; 93 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Pluck'd in each other's gardens, flowers they chose, And smiled together, when they knew not woes. How oft their parents talk'd of future times, And pray'd that they might e'er be clear from crimes, Pleas'd to behold them in a garment new, And lov'd them better as they older grew ! Young Philo join'd them — then the happy three In pleasure liv'd, and knew not misery. Far on the hills, amid the purple bloom Of honied heath, they talk'd of bliss to come ; Then bath'd amid the mountain's crystal spring, Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing. A thousand sports were there to make them blest — The happiest moments when the heath they press'd ; When the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew. Screaming around their heads in circles flew. And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath, To save their little broods from threatening death ; But when the cruel youths once came too nigh. They spread their wings, and show'd they yet could fly: An emblem these of joys seen just before, — We grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more. Oft in mischievous sport these took delight. And made the sable ev'ning clouds seem bright With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry, The heath soon blaz'd, and seem'd to light the sky. As if some great volcano there had been, And ting'd with lurid glare the midnight scene. Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame. When blaz'd the woods, and hquid iron came ; Compare it then to Etna in his mirth. And speak of Herculaneum swept from earth ; GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 93 Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze, And wished that on its terrors he could gaze. The furious flames now to a circle spread A mile around, and dy"d the smoke with red ; Then came the besom-makers with a shout, And with their besoms strove to dash it out ; Scorch'd with the flames, the heat they could not 'bide, For they with brooms as soon had stopped the tide. The ling was deep, and old the turfy bed, Diy was the night — the flames in fiuy spread To such extent, that nought could stop their force, Till not a branch of heath was in their course. "WTiere first the fire began the youths were lain. Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again. Their other fires some acres swept away — This blacken'd many hundreds ere 'twas day : An emblem this of drink — we take a quart. Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part. And then another glass, perhaps the same. Till folly spreads into a foolish fliime. My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys, — They spent their lives in 'pl-dj, like other boys. Young Philo was to learning most inclin'd, But Amphorus to music tum'd his mind. Pares, a lovely youth, within his breast Of mortal feelings surely had the best. He ne'er saw mis'ry, but he shed a tear, And all his friends he lov'd but far too dear : Believ'd aU flatterers was such as he. So honest, man's deceit he could not see. The ev'ning sun of summer seldom set, But these three youths in pm-est friendship met ; 94 GENIUS AND IKTEMPEEANCE. Talk'd till the light had faded in the sky. Or Hsten'd Amphorus' wild melody. Sometimes young Philo, struggling with his theme. An ev'ning from his comrades would redeem ; His mind expanded as his knowledge gi'ew. And learning, every step, more pleasant grew. He saw the hidden springs of Grecian lore — Each draught he took but made him thirst for more. Amphorus said, " For nought on earth 111 live *' Eut those sweet pleasures harmony can give ; " WTiate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent " On music, and the noble instrument " Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone " "WTiich shakes foundations of the firmest stone. *' The viol's sweetest tones I yet will know, *' The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow ; *' Each varied part my bosom shall inspire, " Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir ; '' And marches for the aimy I'll compose, " Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes. ** The music of the ancient school I'll leam, " And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn ; " Mozart, Von Weber, in each lofty flight '' I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight." Young Pares, smiling, look'd on Nature's face. And with his eye her outlines he could trace ; In youth he begg'd for colours to be bought. To place upon the canvas what he thought. With practice now in shades he can portray The varied tints of soft departing day ; Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade, That many thought the pencil'd objects play'd. GENIUS AND INTEMPESANCE, 95 The youths and virgins, in the bow'rs of love, Were so hke Nature, that they seem'd to move. Whene'er the landscape was by Pares shown, The varied trees and ev'iy shrub were Imown. Send Pares where you would, in ev'i-y place His lively eyes were fix'd on Nature's face ; But such his fervent zeal to gain a name, Deep study shook at last his tender frame, And for his health, and for the art he lov'd. From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he remov'd. — Pleas'd with the paintings, where the masters shone, He gaz'd upon them as a chisel'd stone Form'd to a statue ; so cngag'd his mind. He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind ; But when the time arrived that he must part. The thoughts of Grasmere rush'd upon his heart. No scenes in Paris gave him such delight As he had found upon Helvelljoi's height, Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high, And round its rocks the croaking ravens fly. Grandeur may be at Paris in nne forms. But not tremendous hke great Sldddaw's stoiTQS. Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er. What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore, "WTiere, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high. The cataract seems as rushing from the sky ! These Pares saw — retiring in despair. He dui'st not venture at the grandeur there. Oft he beheld the mist from Dei'^-ent lake Slow curling to the hills in many a flake ; And as the morning sun sent forth his rays, The scene was far above the highest praise ; Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows. When tlie pm-e lalie upon its surface shows 96 GENIUS AND INTEMPEEANCE. Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high — Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy. Oft Pares view'd the yellow orb of night, When rising on the lake with golden light, Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame, And with- the scene soft Meditation came. Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore, Oft Pares sat and heard its torrent vo ••, Sketching the trembling waves, when . . eswick's hell Hum'd tlu'ough the valley with a solemn swell. The hills return'd the sound with weaken'd power, And told the artist 'tvms the midnight hour. He thought upon the peace he left behind — The thoughts of Ellen press'd upon his mind ; Ellen, that ever was to Pares true. At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew. Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height. Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as vv^hite As is the snow where British eagles dwell, Upon the mighty rocks from whence Gough fell. When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars, He thought of France and all her bloody wars, With all the arts,— to Paros these gave pain, ^\^lile admiration mingled with disdain, To think what noble works to France were brought ; The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought, When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine Such works were torn as, France, were never thine ! While the great artists slept within the tomb, By study hasten'd to an early home. Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears,. With by-past actions of a thousand years, — GENIUS AKD IXTEMPEEAKCE. 07 Adam and Eve, the flaming sword behind, So well portray'd, it seem'd as if the wind Bent the bright blaze, or as Eve's flowing hair Wav'd with the blast of vengeance that was there. The Saviour dead — before the sheet was thro^\Ti O'er him that made all worlds, and weai's the crown. Great is the imitation ! but I think 'Twould almost make the greatest artists shrink To paint the Saviour, giver of all bliss, — Eaphael could never form a face like his. All those who saw how fair in death he slept, Would at the view have heaved a sigh and wept. These thoughts avail not to the present theme ; Pares believ'd his Saviour would redeem Poets and painters, though they wildly rov'd ; Eor, sure, in heaven, must Genius be belov'd. Through France and Switzerland the artist rang'd, "WTiere fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains chang'd ; And view'd the whole with unexpress'd delight — Scenes rich by day, and nobler still by night. On the huge Alps the avalanches rise— HiUs of eternal snow that pierce the skies ! He climb'd their sides, with perseverance true, Till on each hand vast kingdoms met his view. AiTiv'd at Piome, his penetrative mind With works of ev'iy master was refin'd. But he retm-n'd again to Cumbria's feUs, To Derwent-w^ater, and to Grasmere's deUs ; Then his rich neighbours flock'd around to hear, How well he liked at Piome, what saw he there. He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke. And every passion Baphael's pencil woke ! G 98 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Carracci's master-piece would make you weep,— He knoAV so well what would his paintings keep, That on each face you'd thinlc old Nature play'd. And Life seem'd dancing in the light and shade ; But would not any artist seem a fool To tell the masters of each varied school ? Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine. But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine ; For he who once was well content with beer, IMust now have spirits, his sunk heart to cheer ; Then he would tell, how happy and how gay, He wiled the time, when he was far away. Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast ? Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest? Is there for mortals any earthly curse ? Yes, drink to Genius may be deemed far worse. Wine has its thousands sent unto the tomb, And made for youth the grave an early home. Death is the consequence of drinking deep. And makes the widow and the orphan weep. So 'twas with Paros — he could paint the fonn Of wild despair, when struggling with the storni ; Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew, Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view ; Could paint the waves so that they seem'd to roll. And with his powerful pencil freeze the soul. Nature was in his strokes, and ev'iy touch Was neither too little or yet too much ; Secure in his imagination's might. Genius his pencil guided, and 'twas right. Advanc'd to fame, his company was sought, And likenesses he sketch'd as if they thought ; So well he touch'd the portrait of the f\iir, She seem'd to breathe, as life itseh" were there. GENIUS AND INTEMPEEAXCE. The battle-piece of Preston Pens he took, — The scene the noble mind of Pares woke- An ancient song, with tire in ev'iy line. Grave the first sket As she, all quiv'ring, plough'd her watery way. With heart undaunted he beheld her ride, A thing of life, upon the roaring tide, 108 GENIUS AND INTEMPEKANCE. Her head now plunging deep — now mounting high. With dripping bowsprit pointing to the sky. One hand he firmly grasp'd around the line. And in the otlier held a cup of wine. Serene, he view'd the waves in ev'r}^ form, And Yow'd 'twas wine inspir'd him in the stonn : For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough Thi'ough hills of seas, his friends all sick below. The tempest ceas'd, the winds retir'd to rest, And the ship calmly skimm'd the ocean's breast. On deck the sea-sick passengers appear'd. By Philo and the sailors loudly cheer'd. The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll, — The sight had warm'd his genius, fir'd his soul : The hghtning's flash, the thunder, and the sea Had rais'd his mind to noblest ecstacy. The sails were full, and, leaning on her side. Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide. And soon the land is seen in distance blue — The level shores of Belgimn they view. The music sounds — the wine like water flows, And mirth rings loudly as the vessel goes ; The captain joins, and bids the grog pass free, As though he fear'd no more the treach'rous sea. At length they hail'd a vessel which they knew, Whose captain from the steerage quicldy threw A cask of Hollands — with the best 'twas stor'd — The sailors shouted when 'twas heav'd on board. Then discord rose, and all the crew was drunk — Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk. The boat was lower 'd, but mirth and joy were o'er— They fell ; but from that fall they rose no more, Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land. And left it neai-ly buried in the sand. GENIUS AND INTEMPEEANCE. 109 Arriv'cl upon the hill where armies fought, Young Philo's soul was all ahsorb'd in thought. The place where thousands lay inteiT'd was seen, And there the gi-ass wav'd with a deeper gi-een. Calm, thus he mus'd : — " what stillness here ! *'Low the hussar, and cold the cuirassier; " The meeting aiTCiies shout not on the field, " Nor fall by thousands — each too firm to yield ; " The close-wedg'd squares of British troops are gone, " And still the place where Europe's peace was won. *' The bugle now is mute, the trumpet's calls ; " Yet here the plough shall turn up bones and balls, " And here the spade upheave full many a skull, " And broken anns, of which the fields are full." In thoughtful contemplation Philo gaz'd. And saw the spot where Hugomont had blaz'd ; He thought what thousands fell when it was fir'd ; Then, with a sigh, from ^Jount Saint Jean retir'd. At Belle Alliance, at the close of day. The blithe companions drove their cares away ; Inspir'd with brandy, Philo's muse awoke, And in spontaneous verses thus he spoke : — " Low laid in yon mountam the hero, the brave, *' The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot, " And the youug British warrior, though never a slave, " Is now as a slave quite forgot, " The heroes that perish'd to ashes are tum'd, " And dim their once war-beaming eyes ; " The boldest, that rush'd where the hot battle burn'd, *' Fell quicldy, but never to rise. 110 GENIUS AND INTEMPEEANCE. •' And this is tlieir gloiy — they staucl as a mai'k, " Fimi, braving the bullets for fame ; " They flash like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark — " To them all the blaze of a name." With thirst of knowledge Philo's bosom burns, And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns ; But the young Muse had form'd her thorny nest, Sweetly perfum'd, within his youthful breast. There he resolv'd to make remarks as true As life itself, on ev'ry passing view. His books he spurn'd, and open threw his mind To read the si^acious volmne of mankind ; He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools, Full of the modern jargon of the schools ; But he determin'd varied scenes to see. From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty. First, at Brussels, he told his tale of woe. That he had lost his arm at Waterloo ; His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side — In broken French he told hosv comrades died. At night, what scenes attract his eager view, Mix'd with the beggars' and the gipsies' crew ! Their mournful tales v/ere chang'd to mirth and glee, And mendicants all join'd in harmony. \Mien Philo saw their jovial mirth begin, A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin. All instruments were tun'd that then were there, And gin and music soon dro\vn'd all their care ; Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see ; And loud box-organs yell'd forth all their glee. Philo, without its mask, deception saw, Amid the motley group, that laugh'd at law. GENIUS AND IXTEiIPEr.A:;CE- IH Escap'd from prison,|one, disguis'd, was there ; Anotlier was a wounded privateer ; And one there was, who her child's Wood had spilt. And Hollands deeply quaff'd to drown her guilt ! Mhth still prevail'd, and tun'd the viol's strings — Eemorse, and Care, and Sorrow spread their wings. And flew away. Such sportive glee and fun As few behold, by gipsies were begun. The seeming lame then threw aside the crutch, Danc'd with Italians, Spaniai-ds, French, and Dutch. Upon the earthen floor, the wooden peg Kept as true time as many a better leg. To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene. Uprose three buxom gipsies, scarce eighteen ; One touch'd the sweet guitar ; and with a smile. The other danc'd, in true Italian style ; Sounds from the tambourine the third awoke. Philo stood charm'd — their feet the music spoke. These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain ; With these he never wished to meet again ; Then were deception's masks all torn away — In higher spheres he spent each futui-e day. "WTien o'er Brussels, dark night had cast her shade. Hundreds were dressing for the masquerade, In all the vailed costumes nations wear In ev'ry clime, throughout each hemisphere. As great Apollo, Philo's head was crown'd, "WTio led the dance, with Muses circled round. With stately step, he, as Apollo trod — The sons of song paid homage to the god. First Homer came, a venerable form, Upon his breast portray 'd the ocean storm ; 112 GENIUS AND INTEMPEKANCE. Above, the gods, descending from the sky. Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy. Across the poet's breast a robe was flung, On which was pictur'd all the wars he sung. Next hoary Hesiod, whose mighty strains Were heard from earth to the celestial plains ; Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear, Horace and Pindar pay their homage there. Then Shakespeare comes, with calm majestic mien. And Fame proclaims him monarch of the scene ; Apollo bows, and, reaching forth his hand — Wliile round the Muses and the Poets stand — He crowns him with a glorious wreath of light, Whereon is written, " Nature, Depth, and Height." Depicted on his robe of glittering sheen, Were ardent Juliet, and proud Egypt's Queen ; The field of battle, and the ocean storm ; The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied foim ; The meeting ai-mies, and the murder'd kings. And some short sketch of all created things. Philo, to please the mighty bard, displayed The noblest scene of all the masquerade ; His robes he chang'd, the merry dance he join'd With fair French belles, as lovely as refin'd. Through ev'ry stage of life he strove to pass, Eesolv'd to see how varied Nature was. Alas ! he soon grew sated, foolish, vain. And dro\\Ti'd his genius in the bright champagne ; Wisdom- departed, riot took her place. And led young Philo into deep disgrace. The scene must drop, and hide him from om' sight, With all the follies of a drunkard's night. Learning is not true wisdom. — Youth, may be Eefin'd and polish'd to a high degree ; GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 113 Genius may mark the scholar for her own ; Yet by her brightest sons 'tis often sho\\'n, That minds that can with rapture scale the skies, And thrill men's hearts with noblest ecstacies, Can sink to earth ; and, mixing with the throng. In Folly's path, with drunkards reel along. With best of resolutions Philo came, And deeply sigh'd, through grief and inwai'd shame. Opi^ress'd with sickness, his ideas fled ; Mem'iy grew" weak, and sadly ach'd his head ; His appetite was ruin'd, and his hand Would not obey, through tremour, mind's command. To drive away the mehmcholy train Of dismal thoughts, he flew to wine again. And felt a momentary ecstacy. Like sunlight flashing on a dreaiy sea ! Then horror seiz'd him; and his eyes rain'd tears To find that all the lore of youthful years. With v.hich his father hop'd to make him bless'd, Should only leave his bosom more oppressed. Oft would his mind upon the Muses' wings Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things. Beyond mortality were Philo's strains Tun'd to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains. He simg not love's soft passion, lovers' care, — His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and air ; In deepest burst of passion he could shine, And fill with power and harmony each line. With thoughts original, with words at will, His verses made his readers' blood run^chill. But not with horror ; — 'mid the stars he trod. And sung the omnipotence of Nature's God ; On wings of fancy his unfetter'd soul Flew far as comets soar or planets roll. H 114 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Where undescrib'd infinity had birth, He look'd in vain for this small spot of earth ; Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide, Then ask'd, — "What am I? What is human pride? " What om' conceptions — learn whate'er we can? '•' What is the pomp, the dignity of man, " Compar'd with Him ? How mighty is the thought ! " He spoke — the worlds, the systems sprung from nought ! " When chaos in thick darkness was ensphered, " He said, ' Let there be light !' and light appeared ! " And when He wills, He can that light withdraw, " And strike the worlds with terror and with awe ! '•' At His command the orbs burst out in flame, " Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came." At intervals, the Muse of Philo sung In strains like these, then silent was her tongue. The hand that holds the fatal potion, shakes ; Genius is dead I the nervous feeling wakes ! His eyes have lost their fire i his faltering tongue Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong ; Mem'ry is fled — invention laid at rest — His heart-strings quiver in his weaken'd breast ; But still the thoughts of other bards despair, — The sons of mis'ry and of rankling care, — Prompted a last, though an enervate lay, And this the substance of his weak essay : — " Where merit lives the greatest sorrow swells, " Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dweUs ; " Obscure in life the man of letters mourns, " While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns ; GENIUS a:>-d inte:,ip£eance. 115 ' Or if his reputation ^v-iclely spread, ' Oft lias lie starv'd, and often wanted bread ; ' Perish'd in poverty, of little note, ' Wliile others profited by what he ttTote. ' Yes, poor blind Homer, noblest bard of all, • Or mov'd by want, or press'd by hunger's call, '' Mourning in shame, durst scarcely raise his head, ' And sung immortal verse to gain his bread. ' Plautus, whose nmnbers made the ancients smile, •' Wrote when his clacldng mill had ceas'd awhile ; ' Nor deem it shame that he, a poet born, ' Should grind both mental and material com. ' Xylander studied at eighteen for fame ; ' His hope, his gloiy, was a poet's name : ' His notes on Dion Cassius, ev'ry line, ' Were sold for want, that he once more could dine ; • Then his young vanity for ever fled : ' He thought, he studied, how to write for bread. ' Agrippa in a worldiouse laid his head ; ' But soon they found the great Agrippa dead ; ' Forc'd from his native valleys to depart, ' Despair and poverty had broke his heart. ' The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his l\Te — ' Dimm'd was the poet's eye, and quench'd his fire ; ' He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet, •■ Perish'd from hunger in the public street ; ' Child of the muses ! he, a poet born, •' Was found with broken harp, a corpse at morn I • Upon the bard, the haughty learned gaze, ' And those who most neglected, gave him praise. ' He heard it not, his noble soaring mind ' Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind. ' Tasso, in great distress, had nought to spend, • Till he a cro^n had borrow'd from a friend ; 116 GENII'S a>;d intempeeance. " And oft when lie in study sat at night, " He was so poor, he could not purchase light; " But soaring o'er all want, he wrote — and praise' " Has form'd his chaplet in succeeding days. '' Great Ariosto bitterly complains " Of poets' misery, of poets' gains, " Till great Alplionso gave a lovely spot, " And built tlie bard a little rustic cot. " At this kind boon the poet's soul was glad ; •' Yet he lack'd furniture, save what was bad ; " He found few riches flow from poets' strings, *' And palaces and verse are diif 'rent things. *' See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen, " When Spencer was approaching, step between " Her and the bard, whose fame through lands resounds, " To keep the poet from the hundred pounds : " The lordling thought his clerks deserv'd it more " Than one who wrote what ages will adore ! " But Burleigh's name detested shall be read, *' Who caus'd the bard to die for w^ant of bread. " 0, poets ! hope not favoiu^ from the great, " Who often trample merit 'neath their feet. *' The ill-starv'd Savage who, by want distress'd, *' AVhen cares and sorrows his lone heart oppress'd, " Had studied the wild ' Wanderer' for years, " Smil'd on its lines, or wet them with his tears. " At length, vdien in his heart all hope grew cold, " For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold ! " And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven, " For his great work had just the same sum given, " Otway was starv'd, when genius was a crime, " And Butler 'prisoned for the sins of rhyme ; GENIUS AND INTEilPERANCE. 117 " But Chatterton, the noble-minded yoiitli, *' ^^llO soar'd in high h}i}erbole or truth ; *' "WTio, mounted on imagination's wings, " High o'er the clouds touch'd his ethereal strings ; " Oppress'd with misery, o'ercome with care, " Fell early victim to a dark despair I *' Poor Boyce, who wrote 'Creation,' see him stand, " "VNTiite as the paper, while death shook his hand, " Cold in the garret, destitute of fire, " Deserted by the world, in want expire I *• Not e'en a crust of cheese, an ounce of bread " Found in his garret, when the bard was dead ! *•' Here had he died in penury alone, " O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown, " A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast ; " And in his hand was found his pen at last I *' The matchless Bm-ns, old Scotia's darling pride, ''In his youth's bloom full prematurely died ; " Too independent was his mind to bend •' And ask a favom* even from a friend. " He straggled hard against his adverse fate ; " And w^hen assistance came — it came too late : " Yet, when the liai'p of Burns had ceas'd its sounds, " They heap'd upon his dust seven thousand poimds 1 " I speak the truth, which eveiy mim must feel — " This would have purchas'd and weU-stock'd Mossgiel; " But poets seldom rise while here they hve, " The critics break their heai'ts, and then a stone they give." Philo, irresolute, is still led on. Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone. The once fair cheek is pale, the manly face, Wiere health had stamird a firm and noble grace. 118 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Fast shrinks away, and difficult his breath — He feels the woeful harbingers of death. Fain would he turn to his once healthful food, But nought he sees can do the smallest good. Life would die out as tapers do expire, Did not strong stimulants keep up the fire. His old companions, true to him when young, Come to inquire ; but when he hears each tongue, Oh, how he weeps ! — he knows what is the cause Of his strong system making such a pause ; Wishes that all the ' spirits' he had drunk. Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk. I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind, When he must leave his dearest love behind. The cares of earth vrith him will soon be o'er — But what a boundless ocean lies before I Amphorus beheld his lonely grave, but grief Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief. The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead, Thrill'd through his soul, and his strong bosom bled. The days of youth, but newly left behind, With all their pleasures, rush'd upon his mind. Young Philo's sister he before had lov'd. From whom his constant bosom never rov'd ; But long had absence torn their hearts in twain, And deep the grief when they can meet again. With tears fair Kosabelle her sorrows spoke, And all the sister in her bosom woke : *'Philo is now no more — Amphorus ! hear *' This last request — I make it -with a tear. *' Philo, my brother, is untimely gone, " And Pai'os' sands of genius too are run — GEXius a>;d 3nte:mperaxce. 119 *' ! drink no more ! — stop, ere the hour come soon, '' When your Ufe's clay-star may go down at noon 1" He heard and wept, and trembled for his fate — He would return, but fear'd it was too late. His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost ; His mind from music to despair was tost. Just as a youth wdio, rmming down a hill, Shows his best action and his youthful skiU, And sees, at length, a gulph where he must drop, But from swift motion, cannot instant stop, Takes a wild spring to live or rise no more — He's sav'd — his effort brings him safely o'er : So Amphorus saw before the gulph of death, The grave wide yawning, v/ith a feeble breath ; Then he forsook all stimulants, save beer. And lives — and still his noble notes I hear. Wlien in the minster all the octaves swell, 'Tis Amphorus' hand can touch the octaves well ; 'Tis Amphorus' hand can touch the soothing lute ; 'Tis Amphorus on the viol or the flute. In music Amphorus in full splendour shines, And, sun-like, will, if he refrain from wines. But I what morals do the writers make I — 'Tis better far to give advice than take. ! could I write that I myself could save From this one curse, this sure untimely grave, — This endless want, that soon must stop my breath, — These flaming draughts, which bring the surest death — Then should my Muse upon her wings advance. And Genius trimuph o'er Intemperance. I know there's mirth, and there's a flash of joy. When friends with friends a social hour employ ; 120 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. When the full bowl is circled all around. And not a single jarring string is found ; But truest wisdom of a young man's heart. Is well to know the moment to depart. Thousands of hopeful youths who first begin To mix with friends in this bewitching sin, Soon lose their resolution — and what then ? Their golden chances pass to other men ; Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where They seem'd so happy with his social cheer, When all is spent, and all resources o'er, Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door. I could employ my pen for weeks, for years, Write on this subject, wet it with my tears ; For spacious as the ocean is the scope. Deep drinking drowns all genius, Avealth, and hope, Lays best of characters below the dust, And fills connections with a deep distrust. But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told — Eternity alone can these unfold. That I may know these ills, and stop in time, Is my last wish, as thus I end my rhj-me. 121 LINES ON THE OKAND MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK, 1825. THE OEATOEIO. Oenius of Music ! whom, as poets say, Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey 1 Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme, Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time ! Fade from my mind, ye country concerts aU, Chm-ch oratorios, and each private ball ; Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor As the Jew's harp o'erpowered by ocean's roar, Compared with those which burst in such gi-and strain As Britain's sons may never hear again ! Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old. The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold ; The carriages through dust swift rolled along, Bearing their inmates to the scene of song. 122 THE OEATOPJO. The good old city, deck'd in modern grace, Smiled as tliey came, and showed a cheerful face, But looked with sad and sullen f^o^ms again, If any cloud let fall a shower of rain. Had some great hard been there, he might have seen Hmidreds of instruments, encased in green ; Or boxes, from all parts of England sent. Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent. All ranks of people throng to the hotel. And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell ; And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill, To grace their o^vners in the gay quadrille ; Sei^vants in every various colour dressed, And on the glittering harness many a crest ; J\Iost brilliant equipages throng each street. And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet; Astonished thousands on the Minster gaze, And join to give the noble structure praise : For far beyond description is the pile — The queen of buildings in our native isle, — Whose grandeur and magnificence unite To strike with awe, or fill us with delight ! How grand, when Englimd's beauties, fair and young. Assemble there to listen to the song. And youth and hoary-headed age combine To call the scene magnificently fine ! Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads, When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads. All flowers that deck the vale or cro^vn the hill, Were imitated there with nicest skill ; But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes Than flowers and feathers of the richest dyes. THE OEATOEIO. 123 Tlie lioiir arrived — liigli np above the tlirong, Stood the Eiiterx^ean votaries of song. All was still as death ! — a solemn awe PeiTaded all men's hearts, through what they saw : Proud titles and distinctions were forgot, Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot ; Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze, Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise. The distant organ glorious to behold, King of all instruments, shone bright in gold ; Trombones and double basses, placed aroimd, Waiting the signal for majestic sound. And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near His ovm. grand chorus, when it burst, to hear ? O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song, If in imagination I am wrong ! The gorgeous splendour now I all forget. And "view the shades of great composers met — Croft, Kent, and Purcell, Idngs of England's choir. Descend to touch the chords v^ith genial fire ; Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim, Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn. The assembled thousands, wrapt in silence all, See the grand host obey their leader's call. Within the instruments lies music's fire. And ev'iy string is tuned wdthin the choir ; Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet, In one stupendous choral phalanx meet ! Silent they stand, until the word is given ; And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n. Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds. And York's proud temple trembles with the soimds ! 1'24 THE ORATORIO. Those who have met the foes on foreign hills Without a fear, now feel the shudcVring thrills, Wliich shining cuirassiers could never bring, Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing ; But, here, the mighty strains the stoutest melt. And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt — Strains sweet as ai-e the lark's, which fans the cloud, IMLxed with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud. Viols and voices swell the chorus forth, And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth. All parts so full — the mind can wish no more, Except for deeper bass the tempests roar. The organ swells — what more can earth perform ? Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm I The chorus heightens, and the organ's somid Is in the mighty swell of voices drowii'd ; And '' Gloria Patri" in such strains is giv'n, As we no more shall hear on this side heavn. O for a power that I to all could tell The praise of those who play'd and sung so well I First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song. And jMori's praise should to my theme belong; Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise, Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise: And, with the warmest feelings, I would write Of Music's friend, the well-lmo'\'iTi genius, White. Had I but time, each name I would put in. Of all who play'd a choral violin — Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain, Wiiile these my verses last, should here remain ; Lindley, and Crouch, and llichardson, and Sharp, IMoxon, and Piatt, and Bochsa, with his hai'p. THE OKATOEIO. 125 And tliose of foreign climes, all great in song, WTiose names I write not, lest I write them wrong, And fail due praise to genius to impart — 'Tis useless — since they live in ev'iy heart. Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duett. Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet. The modest Farrar scai'cely durst aspire To touch, in graceful strains, sweet " Juhal's lyre." " Let the bright seraphim" sweet Stephens sung, As though the notes from angel-voices sprung. His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise, That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise. "When Braham sung with all his power and skill, He turned the blood of all the audience chill. The great and noble, young, and old, and fair, Felt the full charm of his sublimest air ;- '\\Tiile beauteous Caradori stood alone For w^arbling trills, and melody of tone. In music's ai^t, I have but little skiU, Yet oft I find its powders old Care can kill ; Though distant, fancy yields me some delight — IMethinks I hear the notes ail touched aright. With many a singer from a foreign land — The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand ! As when on seas the storm begins to lower, And the dread tempest brings forth all its power Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore. Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar; But as to land the billows roll along. Louder and louder bursts the awful song, Until the rocky cavern on the beach The mountain waves in di-eadful fury reach ; * Luther's Hymn, 126 THE OFvATOI-ilO. Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze, And on the scene tremendous trembhng gaze : So did the finest solos of the choir Send forth their strains, and then again retire ; The trio breaks still more distinct and clear, And stronger tones hurst forth upon the ear ; The swelling semi-chorus louder grows. And then it dies away in graceful close. " He is the King of Glory" next we hear As though deep thunder and the storm were there. AU know their parts — the chorus swells with ease From voices louder than " the sound of seas." Though far-fam'd Catalina he not here, Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear : For shall our native poets' words give way To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day ? To foreign pride shall British genius bend. While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend ? No — British songs, well touched in ev'ry part, Are those which please the best, and reach the heart : Italian trills may loud applauses reap, But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep. Where is the towering soul can comprehend Those scenes, which never truly can be penned. Where grandeur and sublimity appear. To charm the eye, or to astound the ear ? When were the tones of such an organ drowned, And far o'erpowercd each instrumental sound ? When were a hundred viols played in vain ? Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain? The chorus bursts I — it shakes the massive walls — The human voice, like great Niagara's falls. THE ORATOEIO. 127 O'erpowers the double basses and trombones, The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones. Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs. Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues. His thi'iUing accents can be heard no more Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar. "\Mien Yorkshire's choral sons their powers unite, Theu' tones astonish, and their chords delight ; Healthful and strong, their voices may defy In strens^th, all sini^-ers else beneath the skv. Yes, when they sunsf the sonsj which Israel sunsr On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strimg. Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain, The chorus burst — '*' The Lord shall ever reign !" Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed 'Tween watery walls, when all their foes were lost. " For ever and for ever he shall reign," Ee-echoes through each vaulted arch again! And, as the sti-ains increase, still more and more We seem transported to the distant shore, "\Miere INIoses, Israel's bard, composed the song. And ocean's waves the chorus rolled alono*. o '•' For ever and for ever he shall reign," In heaven itself, must be the highest strain ! 128 THE CONCEET. THE CONCEKT. The beams of clay retire o'er western hills ; The concert room with gayest fashion fills ; The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer, With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear. The choral strength to-night is left behind. While the delicious song enchants the mind. The overtm'e, perfonned in grandest style, Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile. Next come the songs which youthful lovers want, In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant. No instrument, but some great master's hand Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band ; No fault is there, in music or in w^ords, For nothing added could improve the chords : All is complete — the grand performance such, Nothini? there is too little or too much. 'O The world's forgot, and grief and sorrow fly ; Anguish, and care, and melancholy die, When music sweet thus trembles on the strings, And lifts the mind above created things ; Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast. Which, for some golden hours, is truly blessed. The double drums we now distinctly hear. The clai'ionct, the horn, the hautboy clear ; The strong viola, and the serpent's tones ; The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones ; THE CONCEKT. 120 The violoncello, and tlie double bass ; The viols, sweetest music of tbe place ; And on tlie air the varying notes are borne, From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn ; Then comes the song, vrith. soft Italian chords, Though sweet, yet few can understand the words. How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead, To Braham's " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled I Or '•' Rule Britannia," which was heard before In such like strains as England hears no more, AMien Catalani simg it in such style As made the concert room seem Britain's isle, And all its millions met in one great throng, To hear the grandeur of the noble song. But let the concert be whate'er it will. Greatly perfoi-med, with ev'ry master's skill ; Though all the parts in richest style we hear. And solemn grandeur, they approach not near In boldness and magnificence, to these "Wliich strike with wonder, or with teiTor freeze — Great HandeFs choruses, vv'hich shall be simg While music lasts, or instriunents are strimg. But human minds variety pm'sue, — Music itself attracts the most when new ; But, when the praise of present music's pass'd, Handel's grand choruses shall ever last. 130 THE BALL. The Ball Room emulates tlie ligiit of day — All there is mirth, and ev'iy one is gay ; Each instrmnent to finest tones is set, For leader of quadrilles is CoUinet. So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair, AH kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there. Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along, Monks, rohhers, and banditti swell the throng ; The highland chieftain, in his tartan plaid, And some like warriors of the old crusade. Here, one a quaker's modest dress assumes. And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes ; Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews, Peasants and players, in costumes out of use. Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor, Were worn that night, which shall he worn no more, J>ut hang for centuries, like old coats of mail, And future generations tell the tale. How their great ancestors had danced with lords, Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words ; And many a smile, which in the dance was seen. May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna-Green : For such a sly insidious imp is Love, He haunts the ball-room, palace, and tJie grove ; AVhere peasants dance upon the festive day. He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away. In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind. And wounds in parties of the most refined ; THE BALL. 131 Spares not tlie innocent nor beauteous fair, But often sends liis strongest arrows there. Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers, Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers ; WTiile those they died for, feel no sorrow deep — Their onlv tears are those which daisies w^een. But 0, may none who figured at this ball, Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall ; But on this night, should any hearts be joined, May such through life know happiness refined ; And when they with fantastic dresses part, Beneath, may each one find a virtuous heart. In M'hich, when worldly cares the passions try, May love increase, till death dissolve the tie I r How changed old Ebor, since the Eoman foe ^Entered her gates, and laid her glories low ! IHer warriors slain, or carried captive far, Wlio knew no dance except the dance of w^ar ; Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn. That called them to the chase at early morn ; WTiile this, in w^ar-songs, raised their courage high. They rushed to battle, not afraid to die. Where now the ball-room is with i^randeur hunf , The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung ; The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head, While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled ; Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home. Beating their swords against the shields of Rome ; "Wliile some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears, And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears ; But now, no foreign foes approach her walls, No Danish ruffians revel in her halls ; 132 THE BALL. Ptusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance ; Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance, Adorn'd in fancy dresses, show their sldll To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille. Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke, And arms ! to arms ! the piercing trumpets spoke. To arms ! to arms ! the rattling dnmis reply — The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh. They scarce had time to hid the fair adieu. But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew. The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field, With breasts unarm' d — their yalour Avas their shield ; And Europe's shield those warriors proyed to be ; For on their helms danced fame and yictory. But what has York's grand Festiyal to do With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo, Except to tell the great how bless'd they are — Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war ? For then was many a fair, who ioyed the brave, Yet Imew not where to find her warrior's grave. And ladies of the purest virtue there. Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear. Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet, And hundreds show the graces of their feet ; Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around. Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound. Had Solomon been there, he scarce had knoAATi A\Tiich lady in the richest splendour shone. Old age and wisdom there sat smiling, fain, And wished to try if they could dance again ; E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned That such accomplishments they never learned. THE BALL. 13B Now viol's notes in softest cadence die — The dance is o"er, and the musicians diy : For be musician's genius e'er so fine, It always fails, except improved with wine — Wine, which gives poetry and music wings, Inspires with animation all the strings ; jNIakes each wind instrument have better tone. And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone- Now they repose — and what each clime affords Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords ; And every dainty that can please the fair, With choicest wines, is in profusion there. Old York had ransacked eveiy vale and hill, To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her sldll. The far-famed band then' viols tune again. And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain ; With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves, And ftins are waved around like poplar leaves. In all the colours which the rainboAv bears, \Mien weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears. Had I been there, I might have sung of all The glory and the grandeur of the ball ; But, fettered fast, far distant forced to stay. My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way. No muse I boast, no great poetic skill, Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadiille ; But this I know, in humble country reels Care cannot stick a feather on their heels ; Time wings away, while all forget his speed ; While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed. The music bursts again I — the diamond's blaze. And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze. 134 VALE OF 1I>KLEY. Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost, Such lovely fomis could Athens never boast ; The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced, Had they but seen how British ladies danced ; And great Kaj^hael should there have present been, To kept through ages the imposing scene, "WTien those who tripped along no more can move In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love. THE YALE OF ILIvLEY. " THE HEAVENS APPEAR TO LOVE THIS VALE. •WILSOX. Why does not some great bard, whose potent mind No earthly passions in its sphere can bind, Take the tun'd lyre, which wakes at genius' spells, And sing in praise of Ilkley and its wells ? Had I a Shakespeare's pen, a Byron's powers. Nor mountains, woods, nor valleys, trees, nor flowers, Nor all that poets have for ages sung, Since Homer's harp or Sappho's lyre was strung, Should tempt my muse, on ocean or on shore, Till I had sung the charms of Eom'lies Moor ;- * What is commonly distinguished by the name of Rombles-Moor, I have called Romilies' Moor, as I believe the appellation to have been derived from the Romilies, its Norman possessors. VALE OF ILKLET. 135 WTiere sits Eetiremeni — Silence at her side — Upon the rocks, which frown at human pride, Grey with old Time and with the northern blast, And finn remain'd while changing empires pass'd ; Before the massive p}Tamids they stood, Old as clear ^Miarfe, and ancient as the Flood. Thou who giv'st light, and Hfe, and natiu^e's springs. Who art ador'd while all creation sings. Lend me thine aid. Eternal Father I be jMy muse, my helper, while I sing of thee ! But how I sink beneath thy wondrous pow'r, A poor, weak, mortal insect of an hour ! Though all thy works are glorious, as subUme, Too great to celebrate in feeble rhyme. Yet of thy lesser beauties will I sing. The mountain's sweetness, the unchanging spring, Healthful as pure, and plentiful as free, As one great gift in wide infinity. Such is thy Well, thou place of health and peace ! And so it must be till all motion cease ; Till time and tides, obedient to His will. Shall pause, and all the universe stand still ! Thus speaks the rushing fountain in its pride : — " Mortals, let nature ever be your guide ! Else with the sun on spring's delightful morn, When nature's concerts on the winds are borne ! See the broad river shining with His rays. And glitt'ring dew-drops trembling to His praise ! Millions of flowers, in all their vaiied dyes, Offer their sv>-eets in one great sacrifice I" loG YALE OF ILKLEY. Pure as tlie henna is tlie mountain thyme, And all too rich for i)oor (iesc^ipti^'e rhyme. Upon these hills the botanist may range Amongst the Yarious mosses as they change ; The alpine plants, unknown in Yalleys green. Creeping among the purple heath are seen ; And, Piom'lies Moor ! the home of the curle^v, Cloth'd with the clouds, thy beauties are not few. Nor Skiddaw's top, nor great HelYoUyn's height. Shows greater grandeur to the ravish'd sight. Than does the crown of wide-spread Rom'lies' Moor, AVliere the Yast scene is stretched to either shore. There we behold the hills of many a shire ; The lofty mountains to the clouds aspire ; Wliernside uproars on high his snow-clad crest, While the blue Pendle trembles in the west ; The hills of Derbyshire are southward seen. Though Yales diYide, and ri^'ers roll between ; Old Ingleborough lifts his time-worn head. And Yorkshire as one spacious map is spread : Yonder the towers of Ebor's fane appear, And Cleveland hills their broad blue tops uprear ; Leeds, wrapt in smoke, dark-looming, eastward lies; But here the air is pure as are the skies. Far from the noise of all created things. No sound is heard but from the moor-cock's wings ; The pomp of human greatness here is lost. Or falls like mites beneath the winter's frost. A scene like this, within old England's coast, Nor Matlock, Buxton, nor proud Bath can boast. Grandeur and peace upon the Station-- dwell, And Health sits smiling at the mountain well ; * The Station is the highest point on Romilies' Moor, from which place Captain Mudge took his observations about fifty years ago, VALE OF ILKLEY. 13T ITock, river, moimtain, vallej'', liiil, and tree. Contend for beauty as for majest}'. Ye British beauties, of fair Eden's mould, Come, see the grandeur that these vales unfold. Daisies spring in modest pride, With the cowslips at their side ; Eoses blush, and lilies shine — Wharfedale I blooming health is thine. Days of Komans, in the shade, As far distant objects fade ; A^1len their polish'd shields did shme. Days of warriors once were thine. On the tov\-ers, now long imseen, Have the steel-clad waiTiors been, Hm'Ung weapons at the foe, While the Saxons fouoiit below. •^O' Danes have drunk at Illdey wells ; Hosts have fought where Lister dwells Many a trumpet's piercing tone Echo'd loud from Hanging Stone.-- In his linlv-mail armour bright, Middleton, the warrior Imight, Some five hmidred years ago, Glitt'ring rode to meet the foe. But the trumpet now is still ; Not a rock from yonder hiU Echos back the piercing blast. As when Fairfax' troopers pass'd. * The easteru promontory of Ilkley Cragg. 138 VALE OF TI,KLEY. Briton, Druid, Roman, Dane, Knight, and warrior, all are gone — Saxon, Norman, Bard and Thane, Thou survivest Middleton ! Those whom trade as vot'ries owns — Who have hung the counter o'er — "Who have crav'd for wealth in towns, Till their comforts are no more, Let them come and dine on trout — Lovely Wharfedale's f^unous fishes ; Give relief to anxious doubt — Taste the best of Wharfedale's dishes. On each side the world is still ; Not a voice disturbs the scene. Where is raised dark Hober Hill, Rising from its base of green. On these heights Retirement reigns, Far above all mortal ills ; While upon the mountain plains Wild birds drink from purest rills. At the foot of Simon's seat, 'Mid the shades, sits silent Thought : Glitt'rinG^ in this lone retreat Darts the gold-bespangled trout. There the peaceful ruin stands Underneath the mighty hill. Where the priors had their lands. Where the abbots rang'd at will. VALE' OF ILKLET. 130 Dai'k, amid tlie shadowy "u'oods, Are the jaws of ten'or hid, Where YvTiai-f' s rapid, foaming floods Thunder through the yawning Strid. See what grandeur — terror, hung On the dark electric cloud, From the waves of ocean sprung, O'er yon distant woodlands howed. Deep it rolls upon the Stake ;- Dread the loud tremendous roar ; Deeper still its echoes wake On the heights of Rom'hes' Hoor. Wlien the whirlwind rends the w^oods, And the lightning's vivid glare Glances on the glitt'ring floods, Ev'ry hill says " God is here !" Where is He not ? — the earthquake shows His power : He rules the thunder, lives in ev'ry flower ; Plides on the rapid tempests as they pass, And shines in gloiy on each hlade of gi'ass. The whole creation — ev'iy distant sphere — Immensity proclaims, " Lo ! God is here T' Dark-hrooding clouds, precursors of the stomi. O'er mortals pass ashamed, and cr}-, " Reform 1" Priest, lord, and king, and ye ungrateful poor — Let refoimation enter ev'iy- door ! Let every heart that swells a Briton's breast, Pieceive that pure, that bright, immortal guest, For ever constant and for ever free. Which sav'd a world — sweet, smiling Chaiity ! * A well known mountain in Wharfedale. 140 VALE OF ILKLET. O Ilkley ! noble are thy ancient halls, Thy beauteous valleys — grand thy waterfalls ; Lovely thy groves, thy grottos, crystal rills ; Thy antique church, and all thy woodland hills. Eound thee have all the pleasures of the chase Sniil'd in past ages on a happy race ; The huntsman's horn, the shout, the bay of hounds, Have fiird thy valleys with their merry sounds ; And health has liv'd where exercise has been, In thy old castle, through each vai^ied scene. But times have chang'd — old customs are no more, The mirth and pomp in ancient hall are o'er ; Dimib are the minstrels, mute the harj^ers' lays. And fled the sports of Ilkley 's festive days, When yearly its old church with music rung, And the high mass by Bolton's priests was sung. No modern fane, on consecrated ground, Can ever echo such a solemn sound As that which peal'd within the ancient choir. When all its tapers shone with hallow'd fire. 141 MAY DAY. See the mTiiplis in May-day cbesses, Dancing on the daisied green ! Sloe-thorn blossoms grace their tresses ; Bonny blue-hells deck their queen. "^liile of thpne and unbloT\Ti roses, Twin'd among the leaves of bay. Each a fragrant wreath composes. On the joj-ful holiday. Lyra tunes the rural measure, While the cowslips at her feet Nod, as if they felt the pleasure Of her trills and cadence sweet. See I — the lark her song suspending, Drops and listens to the air, Vvliile the snow-white lambs, attending, Strive to imitate the fair. Blithe and gay the m-mphs appearing, See, how innocent they smile I Each a branch of mvrtle bearing' u O On a breast that knows no gfuile. O' Where the youth that could deceive them, Smiling on their mom of May — Gain their love, then, scorning, leave them, Like their garlands, to decay ? 142 MAEY OF MAELEY. At Marley stood a rural cot, In Bingley's sweet sequester'd dale ; Tlie spreading oaks enclos'd the spot Where dwelt the Beauty of the Yale. Bless'd with a small, but fruitful farm, Beneath the high majestic hill, Where Nature spread her ev'ry charm That can the mind with pleasure fill — Here bloom'd the maid, nor vain nor proud. But like an unapproach'd flower, Hid from the flatt'ry of the crowd. Unconscious of her beauty's power. Her ebon locks were richer far Than is the raven's glossy plume ; Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star ; Her lovely cheeks the rose's bloom. The mountain snow that falls by night, By which the bending heath is press'd, Did never shine in purer white Than gentle Mary's virgin breast. The blushes of her innocence Great Nature's hand had pencill'd o'er ; And Modesty the veil had wrought Which Mary, lovely Mary, wore. MABT OF MAELEY. l4tJ At early morn each fav'rite cow The tuneful voice of ]Mary knew ; Her answer humm'd, — then wand'ring slow. From daisies dash'd the pearly dew. When lovely on the green she stood. And to her poultry threw the grain, Eingdoves and pheasants from the wood Flew forth and glitter'd in her train. The thrushes in the rosy bowers Would sit and sing while ]\Iary stay'd ; Her lamhs frisk'd 'mid the meadow's flowers. As if for her alone they play'd. She milk'd beneath the beech-tree's shade ; And there the turf was worn away Vvliere cattle had for ages laid, To shun the summer's sultiy ray. Young Harry, from the neighbouring vale. Where Wharfs deceitful currents move. To Mary told a fervent tale, — And Mary could not help but love. The richest might have come and sigh'd : Yornig Harry had her favour won — Her breast to constancy allied. Was true as ligiit is to the sun. ^o' When winter, wrapp'd in gloomy stonn. Each dubious path had drifted o'er. And whirl'd the snow in ev'ry form. To Mary oft he cross'd the moor. 144 MAET OF MARLEY. AMicn western winds and pelting rain Did mountain S2iows to rivers turn, — They swell'd, and roar'd, and foam'd in vain. Affection lielp'd liim o'er the bourn. Until at last, one fatal night, His footsteps slipp'd — the cruel tide Danc'd and exulted with its freight, Then cast him lifeless on its side !- How chang'd is lovely Mary now ! How pale and frantic she appears ! Description foils to paint her woe, And numbers to recount her tears. EYE^^IIS^G m APEIL. (Oy. FIRST IIEAKIXG A HUMBLE BEE, 1824.) Welcome with thy monotone, Black and yellow lab'rer sweet ! Thou this night hast nearly done Dancing with thy little feet On the willow's honied flower, On the daisy's crimson'd side, On the crocus near the bower, Which thy velvet coat has dy'd. * Prophetic, alas ! of the poet's own fate.— Ed. LOVE ON THE HEATH. 145 Thou thy little sable bill Hast in April blossoms dipp'cl ; And from cups upon the hill Luscious drops of honey sipp'd ; Thou hast slept the winter long, But thy ai'dour is not lost ; Thou hast yet the vernal song, Spite of winter's chilling frost. Thus the Poet, as he sings. While the storm of sorrow lowers. Finds that friendship gladness brings, Sweet as dew on honied flowers. LOYE 0^ THE HEATH. On the heath- vesturd hills, where I courted my Sally, Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk ; The wild birds, unkuo^\Ti to the throng-peopled valley, Were all that could see us or listen our taJk. The pale yellow moss on the side of the mountain, Far softer than velvet, invited our stay ; And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the fountain. Serenely we lov'd the sweet moments awav. 146 LOVE ON THE HEATH. How oft slie would say, when sat happy together, " O thee — and thee only I ever can love!" With breath far more sweet than tlie bloom on the heather, Her eyes far more comely than those of a dove. How oft has she vow'd, while we walk'd o'er the rushes, With me, only me she would wander so far ; Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes, — 'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there. On the heath thus we lov'd, and our love was delicious — If heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below. It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious. Which only in innocent bosoms can glow ! But ! how the pleasures of mortals are clouded, For Sally, the heather-bells blossom no more ! With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded. And I on the heath must behold her no more ! 147 FAIEY SO]^G. Let us trip in airy dances, While the weary mortals sleep ; See the waning orb advances. Lighting those that vigils keep. In tlie nectar drown all trouble. Sweetened by the honied bee ; Make a punch-bowl of a bubble. Underneath our fav'rite tree. We have not the cares of mortals Nature's self our tailor is ; Sorrow enters not our portals, — All our fair)'-nights ai-e bliss. Some fine peacock's lovely feather, Brightest that was ever seen. With its edge adorned with heather, Forms a carpet for our Queen. St0]3 the dance — a beetle's coming. We must take his sable wing ; Stop his flight and mournful humming. He must arm the Fairv Kinj?. 148 ON LOVE. Now a moment's mirth and dancing,- We of songs have got no more ; \Mien the moon, so high advancing, Shows the fairy dance is o'er. Wings of insects on the river. We can horrow when we please ; Then we fly away for ever, To the shades of joy and peace. 0:^" LOVE. The love how true — the love how sweet, That is in youth begun. When innocence and beauty meet, That never lov'd but one ! No anxious doubts, no jealous fears, Disturb the constant breast ; The faithful youth, whose vow^s are truth, With one alone is bless'd. Let other suitors come — ^Iier heart From him she never moves ; Nor -aught on earth but death can part Her soul from him she loves. LINES. 149 If angels smile at aiiglit on earth, They smile on love like this, WTiose origin 's of heav'nly birth, — The crowTi of mortal bliss ; The sweetest flower that blooming gTows Amongst the thorns of care ; The balm that heals our bosoms' ^voes. And yields contentment there. Such is that love which heav'n bestow'd To make its creatures bless'd ; And such in our first parents glow'd, ^Mien Eden they possess'd. LINES SPOKEN AT THE AXXIYERSARY MEETING AT LEEDS, TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTH-DAT OF BURNS, 1826. Learning has many a rhj-mer made, To flatter near the thi-one. But Scotia's genius has display'd A poet of her o^^ii. 150 LINES. His lyre he took to vale and glen. To mountain and the shade ; Ages may pass away, but when Will such a harp he play'd ? His native strains each hard may tiy. But who has got his fire ? Why, none — for Nature saw him die, Then took away his lyre. And for that lyre the learned youth May search the world in vain : She vow'd she ne'er would lend it more To sound on earth again ; But call'd on Fame to harfg it by — She took it with a tear, Broke all the strings to hind the wreath That Burns shall ever weai'. 161 ALAS ! WHEEE AEE THEY ? I betook myself to the repositories of the dead ; — and I ex- claimed in a plaintiye tone, ' Alas ! where are they ?' and Echo replied, in the same plaintive tone, * Alas ! -where are they V '' — Frotn the Arabic, Soft! behold in the shade the dark ahhey appearing; Hark ! yon sad plaintive voice, — 'tis Myra the fair : The black robe of crape the lone virgin is wearing, Wlio mourns her lost lover deposited there. What a stillness ! how solemn ! 'tis a^vfully fine ! Night's queen throws the dark cloudy veil from her face : The i\y-leaves tremble, as dimly they shine, And silence is now the sole lord of the place : 'Twas thus when fair M}Ta tum'd slow from the dead, And sighing, she murmur'd, — 'Alas ! where are they?" Echo heard the sad sound — through the cloisters she fled. And whisper'd in soitow — "Alas ! where are they?" When the pale moon was shining upon the clear river, Sad Lam'a went slowly to mourn o'er the dead ; Her husband, her son, and her daughter, for ever Keposed where the branches of cypress were spread. 152 ALAS ! WHERE ARE THEY ? She lean'd on the cold marble statue which stood At the head of the tomb, till she fainted away I She reviv'd ! — the tears gush'd from her eyes like a flood. As her words burst in anguish — " Alas ! where are they ?" 'Twas silent around, and no answer was heard. But Echo, which bore the sad question away, Ask'd the grottos, the groves, and each sorrowful bird. In soft dying cadence — "Alas ! where are they? To the place of the dead we may walk deeply mourning, To sigh o'er our children, our lover, or sire, But from that shadowy region there is no returning, — Without them in sorrow we weep and retire. We may gaze on the turf, or the fine sculptur'd bust. And exclaim in deep anguish — "Alas ! where are they?" If a faint mournful voice seem to rise from the dust, 'Tis but soft plaintive Echo that asks — " Where are they ?" 153 ON VISITING A WOEKHOUSE. Aixow'd to walk into the sad retreat Where tott'ring age and fooUsh fair ones meet, I heard deep sighs from those hent do^Mi with years, AMiose cheeks were deeply fui-row'd o'er with cares. To see their locks, by ruthless Time turn'd grey. My heart grew sad, and tear-drops forc'd their way : For who was seated in the corner chair, But one whom in my youth I held most dear. Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy. Handled the Imife, and made me many a toy ; For me he caught the sparrows on the snow. And made my youthful heart with raptures glow ! Oft had I danc'd around him with delight, While he had balanc'd well my little kite ; But now, my aged friend, when he should eat. His palsied hand can scarcely raise his meat, — His pleasures lost, to hfe he's but a slave, And only waits his passport to the grave. Here I beheld how mortals waste away In hopeless penmy, and chill decay ! In wolsey gown, was seated by his side. His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride. Beauteous and yomig, who, on her bridal morn. Had charms that e'en a countess would adorn : But the fine brow that bore the glossy hair, TOiich once she dress'd with such assiduous care, 164 ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. Was fuiTow'd o'er by Time's all-changing plougli, And her fe^v locks were nearly white as snow, "When I had stood awhile, and dried the tear, I spoke ; but John my words could scarcely hear ; At length he cried, in exclamation strong, *'Ah ! is that thee ?" for still he knew my tongue. His age-dimm'd eyes then brighten'd with a ray, Which, like a wasted taper, died away. Dotage had seiz'd upon his feeble brain, And he had turn'd to infancy again. Awhile he spoke of heav'n and things divine, Then laugh'd — and stopp'd a moment to repine ; Wish'd for the grave, — next talk'd of things to come, Then w^pt — and thought of his once happy home. But his poor heart was most of all subdued With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude. *' Alas !" said he, " that those who owe me all, " Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call " And spend one hour, to mitigate my grief, *' And bring one cordial, or afford relief. " Though they neglect a father, old and poor, *' Yet they may have to enter at this door ; *' But 0, avert it heaven ! bless'd may they live ! *' O teach an injur' d father to forgive !" Touch'd with the scene, I turn'd aside to weep. And like a child he calmly fell asleep ! 155 JAKUAEY. Now bleak winter on tlie mountains Whirls on heaps the powder'd snow, Seals with ice the crystal fountains, "VMiile the streams can scarcely flow. Starving gi'ouse forsake the rushes, Searching for their winter store ; And for shelter seek the bushes, ^^^lile the heath is di'ifted o'er. Trees beneath their loads are bending ; Firs like ostrich plmnes appear^ ; Paiii'idge tame the barn attending, Pick the grain with stealthy fear. Hares the snow-drifts wander over, Forc'd the hawthorn buds to eat : Lost in snow the sprigs of clover, Cover'd ai^e the blades of wheat. Now the thrasher, old and weaiy, Stops the northern door with straw ; But the tempest, wild and dreaiy, Finds a way through ev'ry flaw. 156 THE SNOWDROP. Starv'd from woods, the beauteous plieasant Leaves the icy houghs and mourns, Haunts the cottage of the peasant, — Snows may melt, it ne'er returns. Thus the maids, their parents leavdng, A^^anton to the city fly ; Soon wdth woes their breasts are heaving, — "Mrtue, honour, beauty, die ! THE SNOWDEOP. Peetty little modest gem. First in Nature's diadem ; Press'd with snow, the first to rise. Pure as stars that deck the skies. With thy crown of spotless white, Like a fairy of the night. Bending down thy modest head, — Frost thy pillow, snow thy bed. 'Mid the hail, the sleet, the frost, In the snow-storm sometimes lost ; But thy beauteous head appears Lovelier with its icy tears. KARY, I WILL THIKK OF YOU. 167 So thou gentle modest fair, Brav'st the storm with truth and care ; Though not hke the roses digest, Virtue blossoms in thy breast, Brighter than the brightest star. Seen to glitter from afar : Guilt can never hang on thee .; Truth lives through eternity. He that made the snowdrop knows WTien the storm of sorrow blows : And with all his mighty care, Will protect the >drtuous fair. MAEY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. When upon the heather-bloom First appears the evening dew ; WTien the daisies close their eyes, Mary, I will think of you. When the woodland doves I hear, On the budding birchen bough .; While the thrush is singing clear, Mary, I will think of you. 158 MAEY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. Wiile I hear tlie evening-chime, \\niile soft echo answers true, Though at midnight's solemn time, Marj, I wdll think of you. When upon the orient skies Morning spreads her rosy hue ; When I wake, before I rise, Maiy, I will think of you- When among the heather hells, I arouse the wild curlew ; WTien the wildest music swells, Mary, I will think of you. On the banks of Windennere, 'Mid fair scenes for ever new, Then I wish'd my Mary near,. To enjoy with me the view. Wlien my bark must leave the shore. My fond heart shall still be true ; Singing to the w^ell-timed oai% Mary, I will think of you. ^Mien my bark is far away, Nought but seas and skies in view, Ploughing through the watery way, Maiy, I will think of you. 159 TO A FEIEND. Where's my harp my soul to clieer ? Once its tones could glad my breast ; Where's my friend, who dried each tear, SmiFd on me, and I was blest ? Is he gone ? my only stay. On whom my brightest hopes were plac'd ; Is that friendship fled away, And its heavenly fonn defac'd ? Has some action, undesign'd, Quench'd the spark that once was bright ? Or my wild eccentric mind Thrown a veil 'twixt me and light ? Friendship ! O thou glorious star ! Though deep clouded, yet appear ; Wander not from me so far, Nor thus leave me bow'd with care. If for ever thou art fled, I in darkness long must moum ; Pleasure, hope, and comfort dead, Rapture never can return. 160 SOLEMN EEFLECTI0N8. My life wastes away, o'erburclen'd with cai'e ; iMy days are o'ercloiided witli gloom ; I'm tost through the night on the verge of despair, And shudder to think on the tomb. When backward I look, nought but folly and sin Have been my emplopnent below ; I've err'd from the way I should have walk'd in, And run in the high road to woe. The strength of my passions has hurried me on, Until I have pass'd far astray : I'm afraid ev'ry beam of Heaven's mercy is gone, And my bosom too harden'd to pray ! Shall the blessings, the threat'nings, the sermons, I've heard, Against me in judgment arise ? Or in vain mortal pride shall I question the Word Which points to a crown in the skies ? The time soon will come when all I have read Will be lost in the thoughts of the grave ; And my tongue, which so many light verses has said, Will be asking for mercy to sav( LINES WEITTEN IN SICKNESS- 101 To save a lost soul, which has fled from the road Wherein it once ran with delight — Which has sought lying vanities rather than God, And, like Samson, is rohh'd of its might. If yet there is mercy, may I return To Him who is mercy ahove ! In deepest repentance, Lord ! let me mourn, And this rock from my hosom remove. LINES WEITTEN IN SICKNESS. LoTELT darlings ! can you dry The sweat-drops from your father's brow ? Can you wipe his faded eye Sunk with pain and siclmess now ? ! my little prattling boy. Gladly thou wouldst ease my pain ; Pleas'd, wouldst give thy father joy, But thy infant arts are vain. Must I leave you here to mourn, With a mother deep distress'd, IMiile I to the dust am borne. Where this aching head must rest ? K f 16^ I WILL LOVE THEE, MART. Yes ! metliinks I hear you say, " Mother, when will father come? " Why is he so long aw^ay, " Nor his weeldy Avage brings home ?" Must I leave you ? — great Powder AMio behold'st the orphans' tears, Guard them through each infant hour. Watch them in matm-er years ! I WILL LOVE THEE MARY ! While the larks mount up in spring. While the gi'ouse snort on the ling, V/hile the thrush and blackbird sing, I will love thee, IMaiy ! While the heat ef summer glows On each daisy, pink, and rose, — Come sweet pleasure or deep woes, — I will love thee, iRIary ! When the harvest field appears Yellow with the golden ears, — Bless'd with joys, or press'd with cares, I will love thee, Mary I PSALM XVITI. PARAPHRASED. 1C3 In the coldest winter's frost, On the diifted mountain lost, Or on foaming billows toss'd, I will love thee, I\Iary ! Life may waste, — but still impress'd Are thy vhtues on my breast : Till in death my heart shall rest, I will love thee, Maiy I PSAUI XYIII. PAEAPHEASED, (from verse 6 TO 1(3.) When in the temple of his God In sorrow Israel's monarch pray'd. Vengeance the great Eternal vow'd ; The earth — the heaven's were sore afraid ! ^Tien frovN'n'd the great Eternal King, All nature trembled at his look ; Heaven's choristers aU ceas'd to sing. While the etemd j)illars shook ! Wild roli'd the clouds of darkest hue. And wrapp'd the day in sable vest ; The affrighted sun his light v.ithdrew. And thunders roli'd from east to west ! 164 PSALM XVlll. PAEAPHEASED. Earth trembrcl, and the ocean roar'd ; The clouds all blnsh'd with cheeks of flame ; Dread terrors veil'd the mountains o'er, And earthquakes shook old Nature's frame 1 The bending heavens obeisance made, As he on liery cherubs rode ; Beneath his feet the darkest shade Eoll'd as a chariot for its God ! The stars had from their orbits fled, And melted ail created things. Had not the darkness wrapp'd His head. As high He rode on whirlwinds' wings. The channels of the mighty deep, — The centre of the world was bare ; The earth — the ocean could not keep Their stations, when their God was there ! As heralds, He the lightnings sent ; The thunder was His trumpet strong ; Devouring clouds before Him went, — Hail, fire, and storms flew swift along ! His enemies His arrows felt. And fled in terror and amaze ; Thus Israel's foes to nothing melt. When faithful to her God she prays. 165 LINES OX^^' LOXG TOM/' BEAMHAM PAEK. O GREAT Long Tom ! wlien thou with foam art cro^^^l'd, Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground; Despair thou buriest deep within the grave ; — Thy contents sure would make the coward brave. WTien gloomy winter, with his roaring floods, Sends his fierce tempests through the leafless woods ; \Mien sleet falls cold and when the night is dark, Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramliam Park. Across the moors I then could cheerly go, Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow; In sharpest frost I yet should take no haiin — In spite of all, Toms soul would keep me wai-m. "SMien verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift, Amd ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift, Send them Long Tom, and they will sing so loud. The larks will stop to hsten in the cloud. If from its verge could sip the mellow thi'ush, Ho^' strong his notes upon the topmost bush I Could nature's songsters, drink, Lo»f/ To;??, from thee. They'd cheer the gi'oves with louder harmony. WTien Summer comes with all her scorching fires. And on his way the thirsty traveller tires. Though sweat faU from his locks like drops of rain. Thy soul would cheer him tiU he walk'd again. In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day, 160 LINES OX '-LONG TOM." He wonld, wlien weray better hit liis mark, Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park. In Winter thou art good to kill the frost ; Through circling years thy merit ne'er is lost. If war should ever rage, or Britons fight , For their lov'd monarch, or their countiy's right, [/ Their ancient British courage would not fa^il, * Were they but filled with Iiorns Fox's ale : Then would their bosoms need no more to inspire Their souls to fight y/ith true heroic fire ; Rapid as whirlwinds they would s^veep along, Vanquish their foes, however fierce and strong. May British tars for ever have such ale. While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail ; Then will the cannons roar till every wave Curls back and owns itself Britannia's slave : May no disloyal, no dishonest hand. Touch thee, Tom ! while here thou hold'st thy stand. But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire. Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest fire, With grateful bosom may he walk along. And never be too drunk to sing a song ! How I could write, wert thou but hither borne, Full as 1 saw thee on the opening morn, When slow thy contents lessen'd every draught, And those who knew thy power stood by and laugh'd ! Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye, , And fili'd the humble bard with ecstacy. For generations, firm as Eldwick rocks, Be thou the far-fam'd mighty horn of Fox ! 167 TKE FAITHFUL WIFE. Fkom times of ancient Greece, the fair By greatest poets have been sung, — The virgms with the lovely ak, And aU their beauties fresh and young. But praises greater far are due To her who braves the storms of hfe ; In ev'ry state her bosom true — At ev'iy age the faithful wife. How many nymphs have gain'd the praise When bhthe sixteen upon them shone ; But soon the transient bloom decays, And ev'ry outward grace is gone. While she who in her bosom bears A spark of \drtue's sacred fire. Which like the pui-est gem appears, When love's impetuous flames expire, Is lovelier far when pale and cold- She falls like autumn's ripen'd grain ; Our mem'ries then her worth unfold. And wish her here to shine again. 168 THE NEW CHUECH AT WILSDEN What various temples, since old Time began, Have on tliis little globe been rear'd by man ! What different kinds of gods been worshipp'd here, Since earth, new form'd, was balanc'd in the sphere ! Some, ere the pointed pyramids, arose. In lands remote, which scarce a modern Imows. When cost was nought, — and Asia at command Brought forth its treasures to the builder's hand, The Jewish fanes, which seem'd to scorn decay, Tower'd in the sun — alas ! where now are they ? Would wealthy Europe golden millions give One column from those fabrics to retrieve, 'Twere all in vain — no stone, nor sculptured arch, But Time has trodden down beneath his march. All the old temples built when Hesiod sung, And those which stood when Homer's lyre was strung, Are cover'd o'er with herbage or with trees. And not one relic the sage trav'ller sees. The abbeys where " Te Deum" oft was sung, And sweet-tun'd the instruments of music rung, Are cloth'd with ivy's venerable screen, And creeping lichens' variegated green ; Successive storms the towers in furrows wear, And on their colmmis dampy sweats appear ; Tall shrubs upon the mould'ring arches grow, And, drooping, wave o'er humbler weeds below ; THE N'EW CHURCH AT WILSDEX. 169 And liigli engrav'd upon the time-worn scroll, Scai-ce legible, the words, " Pray for the soull" The long gi-ass trembles on the broken wall. And ev'ry year some shatter'd fragments fall. Not so with thee, Chui'ch, so fair and new, \Miite as the polish'd marble to the view. — Ere any stone is loosen'd from thy wall. New states may rise, and mighty empires fall ! Perhaps, hke Greece, old Albion shall decay, Ere those fine columns shall be worn away ; Its commerce and its gioiy be no more. And science flee to some far distant shore ; With lofty trees thou may'st be circled romid, And thy walls echo with the organ's sound. A tOAMi may flourish on this barren hill, Pvenown'd for science, commerce, wealth, and skill ! Here shall some pastor, learned, good, and just. With solemn rite, resign the dust to dust ; Perfoiin each office A\ith a pious care. And cheer the wretched sinking in despair. The bride, with modest blushes on her face. Shall lightly tread across the hallow'd place, So fill'd with joy when to the altar led, Joy mix'd with fear, — a momentary dread I Here will the pious sons and daughters mourn. As slowly from, a pai-ent's tomb they turn ; Here shall the tuneful youths, the virgin train. Join with the pealing organ's holy strain, Touch'd by the sweet expressive warbling trills. That give those undescrib'd cold shiv'ring thrills To minds possessed of feeling's sacred leaven, And chami the soul, and lift it up to heaven. 170 THE ASCENT OF A BALLOON. But different sects in time may yet arise, And the pure doctrines of the Church despise : A future reformation yet may come, And o'er our blest religion cast a gloom. Such great mutations have all earthly things : Creeds oft have chang'd with dynasties or kings ! The future generations yet may hope For heav'nly bliss through pardons from the Pope; The cross, the holy water, and the shrine Of some fam'd saint, may yet be thought divine ! But whatsoever doctrine here is given, May every pastor teach the way to heaven I ON" THE ASCEj^T OF A BALLOON. The air-balloon' a picture is Of man's most elevated bliss. As on the wings of hope he hastes. He finds all earthly pleasure wastes. The sweetest bliss that man enjoys In its possession only cloys ; Though mth good fortune for his gas, He o'er the clouds of want may pass. THE ASCEKT OF A BALLOON. l7l Yet come a storm, tlie weaken' cl air May drop liim on a sea of care. The entliLisiasts who soar on high, And seem as if they'd grasp the skv, With reason weak, and fancy strong. Think all sects hut their own are ^\Tong; Condemn all creeds, and think that they Alone are heirs of endless day. They chng around their car of hopes, Till adverse fortune cuts the ropes. As through this evil world they pass, And fierce temptations waste their gas, Then down they fall ! — the phantom vain Comes rapid to the earth again ; And when they gather hreath to speak, They ovrn they are but mortals weak. The plaj-ful boy, when young in hope, First foi-ms his weak balloon of soap ; With joy bright glitt'ring in his eyes. He \dews it from the tube arise : Dances and laughs to see it soar With Natm-e's colours painted o'er : Thus miniature balloons of boys Are emblems true of riper joys. The gay coquette, whose thoughts despise The sober youth, though e'er so wise. Becomes a spendthrift's mistress soon, And soars aloft in love's balloon. Through all the gayest scenes they pass, — Her marriage portion is the gas 179 THE ASCENT OF A BALLOON. That bears them in tlie circle gay. And turns the midnight into day. But after all these golden hours, They find the air-borne chariot lowers ; Their lofty flight they then repent, For friends all fly from their descent ; And those who envied them before, Eejoice to see their flying o'er. The dashing youth who sports along Amid the wine, the dance, the song, The opera, the park, the ball, At Covent-Garden and Vauxall, Upon the turf, or at the ring, With gold enough — is just the thing. High in the atmosphere of pride In his balloon he loves to ride ; AMiile round his car the npnphs attend, And his large fortune help to spend. Eeason for ballast he ne'er takes. Till debts increas'd the phantom shakes ; He falls, amid the gloomy cloud Of creditors, and cries aloud, — " Could I but live past moments o'er, Folly's balloon I'd mount no more ! The tyrant, in his horrid car. Hung round with implements of war. While on its edge sit Eage and Death, And murder'd myriads are beneath, Elately rides, — his flags unfurl'd. And waving o'er an abject world. The ruin'd empires see him pass. Pride and ambition for his gas ; THE ASCENT OF A B.\LLOOX. 173 Despair below looks wildly up. And frantic drinks the poison'd cup ; Orphans and A^idows curse his flight. And ^lercy, weeping, shims the sight I "Wlien he to loftier heights would soar, His ballast is the warrior's gore, Which from his car the monster throws, And sprinkles on the field of woes. But He who rules above, looks do^Mi, — His lightnings blaze — the tyrant's crown Drops from his head.. — his might car Is broken on the field of war ! The wounded warriors join with all In joy to shout the tyrant's fall. The humble poet, oft, alas ! Fills his balloon with fancy's gas ; To see him launch it few attend, — He just is aided by one friend, "WTio finds him ballast, silk, and ropes, And keeps alive his trembling hopes : Then loos'd from earth and anxious care, Buoyant he springs aloft in air ; With lofty themes his passions glow, The sordid world he views below ; Through clouds he soars, and thinks he hears The heavenly music of the spheres. He looks behind. — his fancy views Close to his car, the Tragic Muse ; And, as in air he rides along, She chaims him vrith her solemn song. Her car's adorn'd with sword and spear, The dagger and the scimitar ; 174 THE ASCENT OF A BALLOON. The pois'nous goblet, — broken crown, And palaces lialf tumbled down — The bloody vest, the murder'd maid, Are on the Muse's car portray'd. The wide-stretch'd scene is spread below. Where rich meand'ring rivers flow ; The flow'ry fields, the foaming seas. The mountains topp'd with waving trees ; The dancing n}Tiiphs, the sportive swains, And crippl'd age, oppress'd with pains. — Time present, past, and future, lies All spread before his fancy's eyes : While his enraptur'd passions glow, His lines in easy accents flow : But soaring bards must soon descend, And in the shades their raptures end. 175 weitte:n' at tointq hall. ox THE AXXIYERSAET OF THE MAREIAGE OF COL. AND MES. TZilPEST. 1839. All the joys of montlis and years Shall this day remeniber'd be ; While old Sorrow with her cares, Sinks in past etemit}-. Some have in the tempest sunk, Deep within the ocean's bed ; Others with proud fame made drunk. Shone an hour, the next have fled. But the stars which smihng shone On your horoscope of birth, Circling find you both as one ; None can sever you on earth. And as days and years go romid. Like two strings in unison. Trembling to affections sound. True as when it first begun. Parents of a happy race ; jMay your chikken's childi'en shine. Till each orb has chang'd its place. And the world be all divine. 176 ELEGY ox THE DEATH OF LORD BYROX. The greatest Bard is fallen that ever strung The mighty lyre, which swell'd from hell to heaven- The sweetest minstrel mute that ever sung. Since from the skies Apollo's harp was given ! Though little minds may not lament his fall, Nor hring one flower to form the mournful wreath- He needs no wreath ! for Fame has wrought it all ; Wet with her tears — it blossoms at his death ! Its amaranthine leaves through time shall bloom, Beyond the reach of Envy's ruthless hand ! Love, Liberty, and Genius guard his tomb. And weeping there shall Grecian Freedom stand. He smig of stoiins, and of the tempest wave, — No theme on earth his mighty pen pass'd by ; From victory's height — down, to the warrior's grave, From earth's dark centre to the lofty sky ! Ye minor bards, unstring the feeble lyre ! Nor strive in Byron's lofty verse to mourn ; Four mighty poets only had the fire* Fit to inscribe the lines beneath his urn ! * Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton, 177 THE COMMEECE OF BEADFOED. (written in 1820.) Hail, glorious Commerce ! goddess of our isle ! Thou, who hast rais'd her to the towering height AMiere, thi'on'd she sits, the empress of the world, — • Britannia's glory, hail ! of thee I sing : Thou, who with svriftest pinions wing'st thy way To eveiy distant port throughout the seas, Then hack retum'st, with every blessing fraught The Idngdoms of the fruitful earth can yield. Thou hast a daughter, whose industrious hands Supply the earth with stuffs of richest hues. In which are dress'd the sultan and the slave, — Princes and kings, Jews, Pagans, Turk and Priest, The Indian ladies and the Persian dames, — Bk\dford, her name, now kno'^Ti throughout the world. Small was her fame, her trade and w^ealth were small, '\^^len, from a few thatch'd cottages she rose, To form a street, the shadow of a to'^n ; But view her now — ^behold her bm'sting forth In far extending streets, majestic built. Wherein the mould'ring bricks are seldom seen, While polish'd stones compose her rising walls. And, sj)eak, in silent accents, through our land — WTiere Commerce reigns, old England's sons are bless'd ! 178 COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. wliat a change in tliis most favour'd tcwii, Since its brave sons lay lifeless on the field, AVith gory wounds, by civil discord dealt — Scenes almost now forgotten and nnkno^^^l — When trembling virgins sought their lovers brave, And on their mangled bosoms, frantic, wept ; While mothers mingled with the streaming blood Tears of deep anguish and unutter'd woe On the soak'd earth where their dear sons were slain. Wlien peace return'd, and civil discord ceas'd, On Bradford, then, the sun of Commerce da^^'n'd : But faint and few its beams. — Few were the goods Which then, with toil and weary steps, were brought On jaded pack-horse to the little town, — A public house the only piece-hall was, And one small table held the merchants' store. Behold, how chang'd ! so many now her goods. That she can form a zone to gird the world ; With rich mroreens, can deck the Kussian court ; In lighter goods adorn the Japanese ; Can far outshine the tint of Persian dyes. And clothe the world from Zembla's coldest shores, To hottest tracts of Afric's sultry plains. AMien envious minds, by proud presumption curs'd, With dire seditious trash the country fiU'd, Aiming to shake the basis of our throne, Drew thousands into error and to shame, Old Bradford stood, — yes, like its motto, stood, ^liich deck'd the banner of the volunteers, " Eeady" to ann, and " steady" to the king. COMMEECE OF BRADFOED. 179 ^Miile Lless'd with Commerce, Bradford never dreads Pale-visag'd poverty, nor meagre want ; Her sons are free, and, when in war engag'd, Their wealth and hearts are open to the Idng:, Freely they give — as freely as they join The joyful shouts, when vict'ry crov/ns our hosts. And England echoes with triumphant joy. Bless'd is that king, who, in his subjects' hearts Has iix'd the steadfast basis of respect ! Then let rebellion rise — 'tis cnish'd at once ; Or let proud hostile fleets loom on our seas, I And foreign foes approach with ev'ry wind, While on each deck their giist'ning arms are seen, Our Constitution, Commerce, and our King Become the trumpets that arouse om' souls : The King our Jove, our constitution I\Iars, Our Trade Minerva, and our God our shield, And, led by chiefs to English bosoms dear, — The threat'ning fleets, whatever flags they bear, Soon spread the bottom of the trembling deeps With wrecks and trophies of their shatter 'd pride ! O that my feeble pen could half describe The numerous blessings Bradford's sons enjoy ! In chiU December's cold and piercing nights, WTien all the diamonds of yon spangled arch Shine brilliant through the air, by frost made pure, — WTien the bright moonbeams on the candied snow, Create unnumber'd gems of ev'iy hue, And beautify the scene, — then is the time The starv'd inhabitants of heath-cro^fvu'd hills Cling round the shimmering hght of tmfy fires ; 180 COilMERCE OF BRADFORD. And, as tliey sliudder with the piercing blast That penetrates their crazy tenements, Oft wish that coals were near, but Avish in vain. — But, blest with her exhaustless mines of coal. Were Bradford plac'd where mitred hills of snow Eaise their white heads beyond the arctic line, "WTiere the green sea is one vast wild of ice. She would defy a winter at the pole. Prompted by Commerce, in the summer months, When bleating flocks are lightened of their load,. The manufacturers and staplers seek. Through ev'ry shire, the former's woolly store. Happy employment ! — when, beneath the shade Of lofty trees, the shepherd shears his sheep, While, smiling o'er the group, his master stands. And hears with joy the shearer's festive song. Pours out the ale, and joins their rustic mirth ; Then makes them wrap, with honesty, each fleece, Which, when unloos'd, may like his heart be found. Nought to contain but equity and truth. To augment the pleasure of the rural scene, After a year of absence, now arrives From marts of commerce his accustom'd friend. Upon the carpet of the verdant earth. With joy the long-tried friends together meet, Admire the fleece — the source of England's wealth,— Which all the climates of the world beside Can ne'er surpass in quality and strength. The farmer's blooming daughter, too, is there, Blushing with modesty and virgin grace. Great Nature's self the painter of her cheeks : — The stapler's youthful and enampur'd son Sees all the world a blank but her fair form ;— COMMERCE OF BEADFORD. 181 ^Miile from her eyes tlie winged darts of love Fly swift, and pierce his inexperienc'd heart. Poor youth ! — he, hke a ship with colours gay, Just launch'd upon the ocean of the w^orld, Knows nothing of its tempests and its stonns, But thinks the main as tranquil as the port. Meanwhile the fathers bargain for the wool ; The price is ask'd — 'tis set — disputed — giv'n ; And soon the swelling sheets are homeward sent, And half the vessels that the Humber bears, Are fraught with wool, Britannia's wealth and boast. "VMien at its destin'd place 'tis land'd safe, The sorter first consigns each various kind. With nice exactness, to its jDroper bin — Emblem of man ! who, in this chequer'd world, According to appearance takes his place ; The great to palaces, the proud to courts ; To fine-built mansions some, and some to huts Lowly and mean, yet fill'd with greatest peace, — Their residence like bins where wool is throTvn ; And the partition which divides each class, Death soon breaks down, commLxing ev'ry sort, The comber next employs his ancient art, ^Miich no machinery- can supersede. =:- In vain the ingenious stretch their utmost skill ; As oft as tried, the expensive schemes of art Abortive prove ; — the comber still employ'd. Sings at his work, and triumphs o'er them all ; Then plans for ale ; and when the quart goes round, TallvS of his travels, happier than a king. * In 1820, it was the general opinion that no machine could ever su- persede hand-combing. 182 COMMERCE OF BKADFORD. The spinners, too, in times wliicli now are pass'd^ With many a weaiy step spun out the yarn, Singing to pass the tedious hours away ; Or on the pleasant evenings of the spring, TranquiUity pervading all the scene. Upon the verdant earth their wheels were plied ; And village spinsters, with their rural songs, Chanii'd their lov'd swains, and lahour tm-n'd to joy-— But now, with wheels as num'rous as the stars, With motion multiform as heavenly spheres, The invention of the skill'd mechanic's mind, Our wool has drawn out to the finest thread, Unequall'd in the world. But time would fail Minutely to describe each process of our trade. May Bradford's Commerce prosper still. Her greatest boast, her gloiy, and her all ! Let Commerce flourish, then we stand secure — Destroy it, and the seas defend in vain From foreign foes Britannia's favour'd isle. 183 EEFLECTIOJ^S ON THE EETUEN OF THE SW.iLLOW, 1824, Swift-tving'd and pleasing harbinger of spring ! Thou from thy winter's voyage art return'd, To skim above the lake, or dip thy wings In the sequester'd river's winding streams. Instinct has brought thee to the rural cot, From whence, with new-fledg'd wings, thou took'st thy flight. O ! could I give thee intellect and tongue, That thou to man mightst tell what mazes wild, And what eccentric circles thou hast made Since thou didst soar in autumn far away ! Cities in rising splendour thou hast seen, And those where solemn desolation dwells. Hast thou not j^eaceful slept the night away, Perch'd on the distant pyramid's high point ; Or on some massive column's hoary top. Beheld great Etna's dark sulphureous smoke, Then slightly dipp'd thy wings in orient'waves ? Like thee, could man with philosophic eye Survey mankind, in ev'ry varying clime. How would his mind expand ! his spacious soul, Beleas'd from bigotry and party zeal. Would grasp the human race in ev'ry foim, — Denominations, sects, and creeds would sink, 184 BETUEN OF THE SWAI.LOW. His mind o'erpower'd with consciousness tliat He Who form'd the universe, regards them all ! Upon this little wave-encircled isle, What scenes diversified might we hehold ! Here men of commerce, seeking after gain. To the emporium throng, as ants haste home When frowns the sky, and distant thunders roll : And there their youthful inexperienc'd sons. In wide extremes of pleasui^e, mirth, and joy. Heed not the cares their fathers' bosoms feel, But carelessly carouse the night away, Eegardless of the wealth by prudence gain'd. Some crowd the theatres, by pleasure led ; — (But where the theatre like nature's ovm. ?) — Where sects of various creeds, like summer flies. Meet and re-meet, as though their hopes were plac'd As widely opposite as the extremes Of inconceivable, unbounded space. Then what is man ? think, ye vain, ye proud ! What his achievements, glory, wealth, or fame ? How far can history reach of all his deeds ? Scarce o'er the little mole-hill of this earth. And what the various sects — Jews, Pagans, Turks, With those who to the mighty Spirit bow. The wand'ring Arabs, or the sable hordes Who sweltering dwell in Afric's torrid vales, — Their idol gods, their temples, or their mosques. And even Christians, with their numerous sects, Divided, parted, and anatomized. Till almost ev'iy man's a different creed ? — In vain the effort were to make them one — Then breathe a fervent pray'r, — Heaven bless the ivhole! RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 185 All w^orks of man, perform'd with greatest art, Shall change, and waste, and into ruin turn. Where are the ancient altars and the groves ; The first rude temples, and the sacred rocks ; The hieroglyphics, and the works of priests, Written in characters to us unknown ? ^Vllere are the walls of Bahylon ? or where The glorious splendour of the Trojan courts ; Egypt's geometry, and Grecian lore ; The thrones of emperors ; the crowns of kings ; The weapons of the warriors of old ; The martial airs which cheer'd the Eoman hosts ; The wreaths with wdiichthe conquerors were crown'd? All lost, — and dark ohlivion wraps the whole ! The empire deem'd Celestial, yet may fall, Lilce those of Greece, of Egypt, and of Rome. Pekin, with all its millions, may decay ; And golden Hindostan may yet arise. Turn from its gods, and hail the Chi'istian creed. Ye narrow-minded men, whose souls are hound. Give wings to thought, and let your fancy soar ! See the toss'd ocean leaping at the rocks, To tear them from their stations, and engulph The pond'rous masses in its foaming jaws ! Behold the vessels wTeck'd, — the wretched crews. Pale with dread horrors, leave their grasp and sink, Their last faint shrieks all lost in ocean's roar ! These are your fellow-mortals ; and their state, Man with his reason, reading, wit, and all. May guess, hut nought of certainty is there. 186 EETUEN OF THE SWALLOW. Next view the field of war, — behold the fray- On that small ant-hill ; see the dueling smoke, And hear the roar which twice three leagues can disown : Stand at a distance, and the armies fade. Let the volcano burst, the hosts are lost, — Smoke, lava, ashes w^ould entomb the whole ! Or did the earthquake open its wide jaws, Victor and vanquished, armour, banners, all Would sink. — and war be silent as the grave ! Search for great Hannibal or Csesar now ; Where shines their grandeur ? what can w^e behold But some few letters which record their names ? Sage and philosopher — the learn'd, the unleai'n'd ; The tyrant hated, and the prince belov'd ; The statesman, patriot, poet, and Mogul; The Indian chiefs, the despicable Deys ; Those who with microscopes behold the mite, And they who calculate the comet's com'se, Measm-e the distances of heavenly orbs. Number their satellites, and think they view Islands and seas stretcli'd o'er the distant spheres ; — Kings, priests, and paupers — ^live, and then expire ! Had poets, bird, thy pinions, they w^ould soar To taste the far-fam'd streams of Helicon ; Artists and antiquarians, wing'd like thee^ Would fly to view the works of Grecian art ; Then soar to Atlas, or the snow-crown'd Alps, And rest w^here mortal footsteps ne'er have trod : Myi'iads w^ould visit then the sacred place Where heaven's Eternal Majesty expir'd. PSAI,M CXVIIT. PAEAPHRASED. 187 But man, proud man, with all his vaunted skill, Must travel slowly o'er this atom globe, — Though wonderful his new invented things, His art still leaves him destitute of wings. PSAL5I CXLVIII. PAEAPHEASED. Praise ye the Lord ! let songs of praise Through highest heavens in chorus ring ! Ye heights, where mortals cannot gaze, Adore the ffreat Eternal Kinp: ! ^iV.t*0 ^OV^X^lAJ. a.^x^{-, Ye angels, that are cloth'd in light ; Ye hosts, which marshal at his word, Ascribe both majesty and might. In heavenly concert to the Lord ! Shine to His praise, thou glorious sun ! And thou, pale moon, at midnight hour. Adoring in thy orbit run. And show thy great Creator's power ! 188 PSALM CXLVIII. PAEAPHRASED. Ye comets, wliicli are wancrring far. And in the wide-stretcli'd etlier blaze. Tell ev'ry distant unkno\Yn star To join you in Jehovali's praise ! Ye stars, beheld by mortal eyes, For ever steadfast, fix'd, and true. The anthem join — till praise arise From all the wide extended blue ! Sublimest heaven of heavens, rejoice ! In praise, ye unlaiown oceans, roar, That heard at first the Almighty's voice Bid you to flow for evermore ! Fix'd m His great eternal throne, By an michangeable decree. To last when ev'ry orb is gone. Existing through eternity ! Ye mountains, lift your heads on high ; In praise unto His throne ascend ! Praise Him, ye lesser hills I — reply In awe, ye oaks, — ye cedars, bend ! Ye fruitful trees, wave ev'ry bough, With blossoms or with fruit array 'd ! By ev'ry shrub that blooms below. Let homage to His name be paid ! Thou earth, in songs thy glory give. — One universal sabbath keep : With all that in the ocean live, — The monsters in the unfathom'd deep. PSALM CXLVni. PAEAPHEASED. 189 Ye cloncls, that crown the mountain's brow, Fraught with the hghtning's vivid hlaze, With distant thunders, deep or low, Echo on high his awful praise ! Ye stonns of hail, that ride aloDg On the wild wings of tempest home, Leani in the air the holy song, And with it to the earth return ! Learn it, ye snows ! and eveiy cloud, That sails in gi'andeur on the air ! Ye whirlwinds, hear His praise abroad. And His tremendous power declare ! Lions, which in the desert roar ; And all the mighty beasts of prey, That range the unlaiown forests o'er, To Him your nightly homage pay ! Ye creeping reptiles, weak and small. By man imnotic'd and unlmown. Shew forth His skill — He fonm'd you all. Ye hve by Him and Him alone ! Ye larks, ascending to the sky ; Ye birds, that warble in the wood, With all the various fowls that fly. Tune your wild notes in praise to God ! Praise Him, ye kings, by mortals cro-^u'd ; And ye who judge by eai^thly law: Let songs in ev'ry court resound ; Ye princes, bend your plumes in awe ! 190 PSALM cxl\t:ii. paeapheased. Ye youths. His sacred name adore ; Ye maidens, on His glories gaze ; Old men whose earthly joys are o'er, And infant childi^en, shout His j)raise ! To God, the great eternal King, (For he alone deserves all praise,) Let joj^ul hallelujahs ring Through all creation's boundless space. The glorious lustre of the sky Is .darkness to the eternal light — Wherein He dwells enthroned on high, Below all depth — ahove all height. Praise Him, ye saints ! though last — the best ; Ye whom He still delights to raise To bliss, and crown with all the bless'd, Close by His throne to sing His praise ! 191 OX THE OLD OAX TEEE, LATELY STANDING NEAR SPIXK-WELL WOOD. (WEITTEN IX 1819.) Behold the place, ye youtlis and virgins ! see WTiere stood your ancient Oak, your fav'rite tree ! How chang'd is now the place from w^hence it sprung. And, like youi'selves, grew \ig'rous, stout, and strong 1 Unmov'd, it stood each storm and wint'ry blast, \Miile o'er its head revolving ages pass'd. — Perhaps two hundred years it still improved ; Two hundred more by wasting time unmoved ; But recently, as greatest mortals die. It met its fate — see where its fragments lie ! "WTiat veneration once the tree receiv'd ! — Eespected by both rich and poor, it liv'd ! Beneath its shade the pious breath'd then' prayers ; Beneath its shade the wretched left their tears ; Beneath its shade have parting lovers stood, ^Miile from their eyes escaped the tearful flood. Beneath the shelter of the fav'rite Oak, ^\Tiat vows were made, by faithless lovers broke ! But now, alas ! ye youths and maidens, mourn. Your tree is gone, and never can retmTi. No more can you its ancient arms behold, Wither'd by time, and crumbling into mould. Its infancy, its youth, and manhood past. Though heart of oak, 'twas forc'd to yield at last. 192 ON THE OLD OAK TREE. But had it liv'd in Studley's peaceful shades, Nor delvers' mattocks, hammers, or rude spades Had e'er been rais'd by the unfeeling clown, To strike this only ancient vestige down. Had it been mine, it should not yet have dropp'd, But, I its weakness would have kindly propp'd ; Told o'er its story to the feeling breast, And kept the tree while Bradford keeps its crest. But why lament ? since Nature says that all That springs from earth, to earth again must fall. So must the stately towers of polish'd stone Tumble to earth, and wear a mossy crown ; While nettles form their canopies of state. And rankest weeds but mock their change of fate. The sculptur'd marble monuments decay, And crowns, and thrones, and statues fade away. The mighty monarch and the warrior brave, The greatest sultan and the meanest slave. The w^retched miser and the beauteous fair, The rich possessor and succeeding heir, Princes and courtiers, chiefs of ev'ry state, Both high and low, must all submit to fate : So, rest in peace, fam'd Oak, though doom'd to fall, For such a mighty change awaits us all ! 193 IMPEOMPTU. Did my estates extend for miles around, And in my mansion all things great abound ; Did gold enrich me, or did rubies shine ; Were greatest titles, wealth, and honour mine ; Though ciystal rivers thi-ough my pastures run, Beflecting back the glories of the sun ; Were beauteous gardens mine, and ev'ry breeze Brought fragrant odours from the spicy trees ; Did high majestic hills the landscape grace. And finest scenes adorn great Nature's face, In sweet variety of hill and dale. The crystal fountain and the fruitful vale ; And cloak'd in ivy were the ancient towers. And sweet enchantment us'd her utmost powers : — Nor my estates, my titles, wealth, nor fame, The breath of honour, nor the greatest name ; Nor high majestic hills, nor floweiy vale. Nor ciystal rivers, winding through the dale ; Nor all that Nature, all that Art can give, Nor merriest life a mortal e'er can live. Can make me bless 'd when this short life shall end. Unless my Maker prove to be my friend. M 194 FEMALE CONSTANCY. Stars througli rolling cent'ries sliine. Nor does their lustre ever fade ; And thus the virtues of the maid. When her fair form in dust is laid, Beam with effulgency divine, Because no lure could ever move Her heart from its first hallow'd love. Still rememh'ring him with care, Before the Maker of the spheres She breathes for him incessant prayers. And not another youth appears. That wounds the bosom of the fair : And can the favour'd one repay Such love with passion of a day? Maids to flowers have been compar'd. But flowers of sweetest scent decay : So doth the fair who goes astray From Virtue's sweet sequester'd way, Whose heart to many a youth is shar'd ; While she who true thi'ough life has been, Blooms like a branch of evergreen. 195 MELPOMENE. The Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd, Majestically great above the rest, Witli tliouglitful look, and tears, and pallid cheek — No strains of joy her pallid lips e'er speak ; For higher themes her feeling breast inspire Than lyric measures, or the keen satire. The widow's woes, the virgin's love she sings. The fate of heroes, and the fall of kings ; Or palaces in ruins, where the throne. Now laid in dust, with regal grandeur shone ; Where once the beauteous chequer'd marble floor With blood of kings was deeply crimson'd o'er ; There like a widow on her husband's tomb. She sits enshrin'd amid the tragic gloom,— Paints every scene of ancient tyrant's deeds. Then gazes on the ruins cloth'd m weeds. Till her rich mnid replaces ev'ry stone. And seats the murder'd monai-ch on the throne ; Summons his guards who long in dust have been, And all his knights, his heroes, to the scene ; Sees the vile traitor, with his murd'ring train. Act all his deeds of darkness o'er again ; The courtiers lov'd to-day, and rais'd on high, Frown'd on to morrow, and their glories die. 196 THE MAID OF L0^\T)0IIE. The dauntless warriors, mark'd with many a scai', Bush on in search of glory to the war, And on their arms the dread suspended fates Of empires, kingdoms, or contending states. Shrouded in terrors, while around her plays, In ev'ry form, the lightning's vivid blaze ; Wading in blood, she marks the hero's fall, While with her crimson pen she minutes all. When to the charge the furious steeds advance, And red with noble blood the glitt'ring lance — The drums, the trumpets, and the clang of ai^ms, The rattling mail, and war's most dread alarms ; The banners waving over either host. The day hung doubtful — neither won nor lost ; The smoking towers, the city wTapp'd in fire, — With loftier themes, the Tragic Muse inspire — With noise of battle plumes her tow'ring wings, And gives terrific grandeur while she sings ! THE MAID OF LOWDOEE. The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary, The winds roar'd aloud near the hoarse raven's nest; The strongest with reaching its top would be weaiy, And, like the young lover, be wishful to rest, — THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 107 The lover that wander'd, his breast with love burning For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore, Who watch'd the dun clouds, as she wish'd his re- turning ; But night came too soon — ^he return'd never more. Beneath him the dark mist roll'd rapid in motion : Above was the evening star seen through the cloud; But the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean, "VMien seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten shroud. A wand'rer, heroam'd where the curlew was screaming. Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain flood ; Of danger approaching he little was dreaming. Though on the high verge of dire ten-or he stood. He thought on his Anna, and used his endeavom' To reach the blest spot that his soul doth adore ; He steps — shrieks, and falls I — but the shepherd can never Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore. His Anna now nightly sits silent with wonder, To list in the storm the dread cataract's roar ; And thinks she can hear in the midst of its thunder. Her shepherd call '• xAjma, the maid of Low^dore !" 198 THE STOEM. When gentle breezes kiss the tide. And waft tlie vessel o'er the deep, Silent beneath her stately side, The peaceful waters seem to sleep. The azure waves just heave along. While swift she cuts the jdelding main. The sailors' hearts with hope beat strong To reach their long-left home again. But gath'ring clouds the sun o'erspread, While He with crimson gilds the west ;- The storm appears, whose awful head With terror chills each sailor's breast. The frightful billows seem to know The dreadful tempest ere it comes ; And, where the whirling hail descends, The frothy sea in madness foams. Nearer and nearer rolls the stoim. And wraps in darkness all the sky ; While o'er its frowning awful cheek, The quiv'ring flashes frequent fly. THE STOEM. 199 The azui'e vault is seen no more ; But, wrapt in deepest gloom of night, The waves retm-n, the thimders roar, And lightnings glare — their only light ! Then buried deep beneath the waves. The shatter'd rigging and the shrouds, While, mad with rage, the tempest raves — Her helm is lost among the clouds. No steady course the vessel keeps, By such a dreadful tempest driven ; But, like a cork upon the deeps, Uplifted by the waves to heav'n. What fen-ent prayers, in that dread hour ! For worlds unkno\Mi, they all i)repare ! And to appease the xUmighty Power, Is ev'ry trembling seaman's care. At last she strikes — and floats no more, But sinks a wreck amidst the deep ; And, far from England's happy shore, Beneath the waves the sailors sleep. In vain their friends, with bosoms time, Expect with joy their blest retm'n ; For them no more their friends shall \'iew. But for their loss in anguish mourn. 200 MAN'S LIFE. I'll sing no more of cheerful things ; My lyre shall mourn in pensive strain ; The Muse with tears shall wet her wings, And with her feeble voice complain : Grief shall her future hours employ, — No more her features shine wdth joy ; Each day and night will I declare, — Man's little life 's a life of care ! Through ev'ry stage of life, what woe ! \Miat various fonns can sorrow take ! Pleasures may chann an hour or so, But soiTOws ever are awake ! E'en infants, weeping at their birth, As if they fear'd the ills of earth, In feeble plaintive cries declare, — Man's little life 's a life of care ! How oft we see the young at play Sore griev'd and weeping o'er their toys ; E'en in the morning of their day Are sorrows blended with their joys : Then 'tis the best to take the cup, With resignation drink it up, Since of this truth we are aware, Man's little life 's a life of care I man's life. 201 The youth on love's strong pinions soars Far — far beyond what he can gain, And sees the nymph his soul adores, Eeject him, heedless of his pain ; \Miile she must feel love's painful dart, From one who slights her in his heart. Thus disappointed youths declare, — Man's little life 's a life of care ! Where is the busy tradesman's peace. When losses after losses come ? His rising family increase. And ruin hastens to his home. O'ercome with grief, he sits and sighs, Broods o'er his sorrows in despair, Then, weeping, to his pai'tner cries, — Man's little life 's a life of care ! The sire, upon his crutches stay'd, ■ Weaken'd by age, disease, and pain. His grey locks scatter'd o'er his head. Declares the joys of earth are vain ! His joyless nights are spent in sighs ; His hearing lost, and dim his eyes ; No hopes of lasting pleasm-e here. He dies — and leaves a life of care I 202 THE WAKENING OF THE POET'S HAEP. With harmony of nnmhers that smoothly floats along, Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its strings among ; Then sti-onger in his measure and bolder in his rh}Tne, Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling chime. He wakens then the echo as in grander verse he sings, And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering sti'ings ; His rh}'me is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes the lyre ; His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings of fire. She leaves all earthly grandem- and o'er the hills she soars — Wliat cai-es he then for slander when every star adores : Here singing strains unborrowed the poet's verse can claim ; A wreath that 's everlasting, of never-dying fame. AX IMPROMPTU EPITATH. 203 In his own path of gloiy he sweetly chants along, And every son of genius can comprehend his song ; Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains, His verse has gi^eater grandeur as higher heights he Till lost in the creation — surrounded hy its gems — He sees the heaven ofheavenshedeck'd with diadems; Ajid though sometimes in sorrow despised and turned to shame, He wins his ^\Teatll of glory, composed of endless fame. AN IMPEOMPTU EPITAPH ON A LANDLOED. Bexeath this stone lies Hany Binder, "WTiose heart would light as soon as tinder ; And a hright spark from beauty's eye Ivindle lus soul to ecstacy. At length he took a loving wife. And then commenced a landlord's life ; And all the time he was a brewer, No man to wife was evei^ truer. Death came at last and made him quail, And conscience spoke about his ale : •^04 ODE. Had lie sent tippling souls to ruin By putting drugs in every brewing ? Then truth of blame did HaiTy cleai' ; For never, in his ale or beer, Did he put berries, drugs, or drops, But simi^ly water, malt, and hops. ODE. (WKITTEN FOR A WOUNDED SEAMAN, WHO FOUGHT AT THE BATTLE OF TEAFALGAE.) With my limbs in tlie deep, And my locks all grown hoarj^. By cowards insulted and poor. Few think how I fought For my country and gloiy. Or know half the hardships I bore. When the wars are all o'er I am thought of no more, The deeds of my valour are lost ; Forgot is the da^ Of Trafalgar's dread bay. When my comrades to sea-graves were toss'd. ODE 205 WTiere the waves stood aghast At the cannons' dread roai'ing, And the white-curling surges retired, Brave Britons their hroadsides Were rapidly pouring, By Nelson and glory inspired ! Then the King of the deep His trident upreared, A moment in wonder he gazed ; But, struck with great terrors. He soon disappeared, Our cannon so dreadfully hlazed I In the midst of the conflict Great Nelson undaimted, Kegarded nor balls nor the wave, But ordered the grog When the British tars wanted, And told us what England expects from the hrave. 306 A FEAGMEXT. ALCASTO. Banish the wealtliless virgin from tliy thoughts ! Or eminence and wealth are from thee far As from the beggar is the monarch's crown. REGINALD. Break Nature's laws, and send me to the world In my worst suit, no king in miniature Stamped on rich ore, to be my pass^Dort through, I'll love her still ! Om' passions now are mixed, As are the waters of two meeting rills. Ours is superior love, as rarely found As is the phoenix flaming on her nest. I saw and loved her when she rowed along. The lake unruffled, save with her white skiff. Had she been absent there, I could have seen. Upon the bosom of the polished lake, Inverted trees, and rocks, and crimson clouds, Tinged with the lustre of the setting sun ; But all I now remember seemed a sky. And she like Dian on th' inverted arch. Skimming in maiden majesty along — With her she took my heart : and can your wealth, Your honours, influence, or wide estates, Purchase a form as fair, a richer skiif; A FEAGMENT. 207 Give to another njinpli that voice I heard, Teach Myra's song, and make such echoes join ? Do these — her image I will strive t' eiface, Though graven on the tablet of my heai't. ALCASTO. Is not Emelia more lovely far ? Possessing wealth, and modesty, and wit ; And so recluse the night's unhealthy wind Ne'er pales her cheek, or taints her golden hair. EEGIXALD. Know you my Myra's worth ? Has Slander spoke ? No — earth's three darkest demons aU are mute. She sings so sweetly to her soft guitar. That gloomy, callous-hearted En\y weeps. And shrinks to shades where sullen IVIalice sits ; But both are chaimed, their vices lose, and gaze Upon her beauty, and return to praise. 208 LINES ON THE CONSECKATION OF ST. PAUL's CHURCH, SHIPLEY, How can a sinner dare to sing the praise Of Him on whom e'en seraphs dare not gaze ; Whose gloiy shines uncircumscrih'd by place, Throughout infinity — unbounded space I Who formed the hills, who arched the azure sky-— The king of undescrib'd eternity ! Yet, let my heart with trembling rapture glow ; jMy tears for all His by-past mercies flow. That yet I live, that yet He gives me breath, And saves a sinner from deserv'd death. O ! let my heart be tuned, the praise to sing Of man's great Saviour ! heaven's eternal King ! The universe His glorious temple is. His secret place the heavens — the seat of bliss ; But that great God who all the w^orld commands, Stoops down to dwell in temples made with hands ; Accept the breathings of the contrite breast, Believes the burdened, gives the weary rest; And hears each humble sound poor mortals make. Though His own choir the heaven of heavens can shake ! How grand the sight ! how beautiful to view The thousands thronging round the church when new ! To see the colours weaving on the wind, And the Archbishop with his flock behind ; CONSECKATIOX OF SHIPLEY CHURCH. 209 To hear tlie new, tlie diilcet vii'gin cliime, Which brings to mind the day of olden time ! The lame on crntches swing their fonns along, The old, the blind, are mingled -vN-ith the throng ; E'en those who think another creed is right. Press on the way, to see the noble sight. 'Twas thus when Fountain's^:^ lofty pile of old Was opened by the priests adorned in gold ; "Wlien all the pomp of ages long gone by, Burst in magnificence upon the eye. The groimds of Studley were with people spread, WTien the Ai^hbishop first at Fountain said : — " Lift up your heads, ye gates ! eternal doors ! Ascend ! for God is come — that God is ours ! "WTio is the Lord ?" then burst the mighty song, " The God of battles, terrible and strong ! He comes I He comes ! array'd with power and love ! Ye gates, arise ! ye heavenly portals, move !" — The chorus bursts — His praises sound aloud, And God descends to bless the list'ning crowd. "WTiatever adverse sects may please to say. Here let poor mortals find the heavenly way. Till moss grows on the tower, or on the walls. And each tall column into ruin falls ; Here may discordant hearts unite to raise Loud anthems to the heavenly Father's praise ; Before His throne in meek submission fall. And strive with zeal to cro%^'n Him Lord of all ! Let party spirit flee from every mind, And all in concord and in peace be join'd ! Let none in wild and scornful ecstacy, Ciy out — " The temple of the Lord are vv'e !" * Fountain's Abbey, near E-ipon. 210 THE MALT-KILN FIRE. But charity let each meek pastor teach, And love to God aiid man, undaunted, preach ; Let servile fear be driven from his breast, And let him on his Saviour's promise rest : — " Lo ! I am with thee always, to defend And bless the gospel, till each rebel bend." THE MALT-KILIS" FIEE. When friends who lov'd from infant years, Whose friendship ne'er went wrong, Are met to tell their joys and cares, Or join the cheerful song, What bard but to the utmost height Would string the rustic lyre. When friends and home-brew'd drink are met Around the Malt-kiln fire ? Sometimes we're faring low at home ; Then feasting with a squire ; But we've as much as we can wish Around the Malt-kiln fire. THE MALT-KILN FIEE. 211 From this warm, happy, cheerful place, Old Sorrow must retu-e : And nought but joy dare show her face Around the Malt-kiln fire. We talk of friends we long have known, Some fall'n, and some ris'n higher ; Happier than monarchs on the throne, Around the Malt-kiln fire. Why care for wealth ? We pass away— Of life begin to tire ; But never was a mournful day Around the Malt-kiln fire. With snuff, tobacco and a pipe, An4 all we can desire. Old Care's forgot, and pleasure's ripe x\round the Malt-kiln fire. No wife to scold, none to intrude. We laugh imtil we tire. With good strong drink as e'er was brew'd, Around the ]\I alt-kiln fire. Let blackguards swear, and rage, and fight, And scuffle in the mire ; No angry word, for all is right, Around the Mait-kihi fire. Would we had spent more evenings there. Our spirits had been higher ! Less brandy drunk, and more good beer Around the !M alt-kiln fire. 212 A ISriGHT SCEXE. While others love tlie concert, mask, or ball. And walk all stately through the gazing crowd,. I'll seek the spot where foaming cataracts fall. And o'er my head the tempest roars aloud, While the deep dark abyss is murm'ring hoarse. And the swollen stream comes rushing with mad force. There, when the moon's broad orb is giimm'ring seen Just rising in the orient atmosphere, And trembling leaves but thinly intervene, And night's grand glories in full pomp appear, — Pensive I'll walk, to study nature o'er, And on the wings of meditation soar ; — List to the treble rills, with tinklings sweet, As they ring softly on the cavern's side ; Behold them with the larger current meet. Whose tenor murmurs on the stone- vex'd tide ; While in majestic bass the cataract roars. Like the deep notes of ocean on its shores ! Such are the concerts that my soul admires ; These I can hear with feelings of delight ! A solemn awe my thoughtful breast inspires. When heav'n is deck'd by the great jeweller, Night : 'Tis then my thoughts, on fancy's airy road, Soar far, and ask — " Where dwells great Nature's God? SPOETS OF THE FIELD. 913 Tlie sliining orbs serenely answer — '' Here !" The t\Yinkling giow-worai say by Him they shine! The vast abyss deep thunders to the ear, The abiding presence of a Power Divine ! ^atui'e proclaims Him loud, in ev'ry part, And conscience whispers — He can read my heart ! SPOETS OF THE FIELD. When oaks are bro^ii and birches bare, And not a bird is singing, The sportsman drives away his care, The speckled woodcocks springmg. True joy he in the country loiows. His faithful springers ranging Among the hazel's yellow boughs. Or holly, never changing. And when the long-bill'd woodcock springs, Mark 1 — the sportsman calling, — The blue smoke curls, — its useless wings Throu^'h the trees are falling*. o o Full many a man at this would sigh. As sore against religion ; But at a feast just let him try Eoast woodcock, grouse, or widgeon. Q14 DIEGE. Blest may my children be, Wlien deatli shall carry me Into eternity, Ne'er to return ; When the fast-falling tear Drops on their father's hier, May some true friend he near^ While they all mourn. I now have had my prime, Till there is nought in time But Care's high hill to climb. Weary and faint ; Pleasure is fled away, Grief is resolv'd to stay With me by night and day. Terrors to paint. A\liat is bright glory's beam ? Why, 'tis an empty dream, Or as the meteor's gleam Cleaving the sky. Can riches pleasure bring ? No — cares oppress a king : All earthly joys but sting Deep as they fly. DIRGE. 215 Nothing but virtue can Give comfort unto man, Whose life is scarce a span, Wasting away : Honour is hut a shade, Like beams on rain display'd, Whose colours quickly fade. Ere ends the day. Thus shall our sorrows end : May we have one great Friend, Through whom we can ascend Far beyond pain ; There may my childi'en come ! May we all find a home. Far, far beyond the tomb. In bliss to reii^n ! 216 LmES ox THE DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER, ESQ., SURGEON, BINGLET. How bootless are our tears, though ev'ry drop Sj)nngs from the fountain of a sorrowmg heart 1 No sorrow death's relentless hand can stop, Or, for a moment, turn aside his dart. Aifection's ties, without remorse, he breaks : Lo ! 'neath his feet, our friend, dear Cooper, lies ! He moves not, when a tender sister speaks, Nor sees a father's hopeless agonies. Death ! thou hast slain the noblest of thy foes — One who oft rescued victims mark'd by thee — One who could sympathise in others' woes. And forms of beauty from thy grasp set free. Friend of our souls ! in him we could confide In weal or vroe — but now our friend is gone I We ask by whom his place can be supplied ; And hopeless sorrow, weeping, answers — none ! Nor midnight hour, nor wildest winds of heaven ; Nor pelting showers of rain, or snow, or hail ; Nor j)erilous paths through forests, tempest-riven ; Nor raging hurricanes could aught avail LINES OX THE DEATH OF COOPER. 217 His visits to tlie afflicted to restrain : Through these he rode, regardless of his health, The Messed harbinger of ease to pain, Alike to homes of poTcrty or wealth. Hundreds, on sick-beds, oft have yeani'd to hear His welcome step, and bless'd him when he came : Hope dawn'd when their Samaritan stood near, \Yith soothino: balsams for the sufferino- frame. But 'tis the last, the last sad solemn day, When, by his mourning friends, his dear remains To their last home, are sloAvly borne away, And the deep death-knoll peals in dirge-like strains. Alas ! he who has oft renew'd the springs Of life in bosoms sickness had oppress'd — The comforter, with healing on his wings — Has pass'd from earth to his eternal rest. But he has left a name, a blessed name, That long shall live in many a grateful heart : His good deeds are his monumental fame, Which will sursdve all boasted works of art. We feel, w^hat words in full can ne'er explain, A weight of woe at loss of one so lov'd ; But hope our loss is his eternal gain, In the bright land to which he is remov'd. The grave receives his dust, which there shall lie. Till in the clouds appear the great white Throne ; And the last trumpet, pealing from the sky, Bid " mortal immortality put on." 218 ODE TO LAUEA. ! shall no meet memento of our love Mark the dear spot where his remains repose '/ Yes ! we will plant his honor'd dust above. The early snow-drop, and the fragrant rose ; And there, when to God's house we come to pray, On holy sabbaths in the circling years, We will at early morn our visits pay, And bathe the flowers with true affection's tears. ODE TO LAUEA. O, SOFTLY sighing will I mourn The beauteous blossom, nij)p'd in spring, And hang a chaplet on the urn Of lovely virtue's blossoming. O'er her no praise shall marble bear, — That pageant vain of solemn pride ; Though all on earth I held most dear Forsook me when my Laura died. Oh ! 'tis in vain — I'll cease to try To express in words my sorrow deep ; For could I write a river dry, IMy eyes a sea of tears could weep. THE MUSE. 219 But words can never show the worth Of her who was too fau- to stay A moiimer on a joyless earth, When fit for everlasting day. THE MUSE. What means it though the poet's cot Be plac'd in some sequester'd spot, "WTiere oaks, and elms, and beeches grow. Or on the heath where rushes bow ; In vales, where peaceful graze the flocks. Or near the mossy-vestur'd rocks ? Piomantic scenes, however bright, Can ne'er true verses make him wTite. 'Tis genius must his breast inspire, And light the true poetic fire. Without it he may read and pore Ancient and modem classics o'er; May walk in ruins late or soon, "While through rent arches gleams the moon ; In places where sleeps monk, or friar ; But if he has not Nature's lyre. Nor mould'ring ruins, nor dark woods, Nor rippling rills, nor foaming floods, Embattled fields, nor ancient hall, Fiomantic scenes, nor cataract's fall. 23C THE VANITY OF HU^AX AFFAIRS. Nor works of other authors' pens, Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor HigMand glens, Nor all the scenes that ever grae'd The paintings of a man of taste, Nor all the arts the scribblers use, Can make a bard without the Muse. THE VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIES. The horse, the ass, can crop the grass, And on the dewy mountains sleep. Then toil away the summer's day, — They have not learn' d like man to weep. No friends to turn and make them mourn ; No wants but Nature's hands supply ; No souls of fire make them aspire. Or labour after vanity. 'SMien tempests rise, and all the skies Ai'e shi'ouded in a stormy vest, Within the deep the fishes sleep ; The thmiders cannot them molest. THE VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. 221 No silver there is counted dear, O'er rubies carelessly they glide ; Though diamonds blaze, they never gaze On gems or wealth beneath the tide. The feather'd fowls, devoid of souls, Sing cheerful on the bending spray ; And, when oppress'd, they go to rest. Or fan the clouds, and soar away. In ignorance the rustics dance, And laugh and sing devoid of care ; Though sorrows come, there is no room Within their breasts for dark despair. But though the share of anxious care Sinks deepest in the feeling breast ; When raptures rise aU sorrow flies. And in my cot I then am blest. Fierce fighting hosts, grim fancied ghosts. And Nature in her every form ; The stonn at peace, or when the seas Wave their white mantles to the storm , I see, though here ; yet from my sphere My spirit soars on rapture's wings ; My harp I take, its chords awake, And sweep the chorus o'er the strings. 529 THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. Weep, all ye birds, ye bowers ! Ye friends, a vigil keep ! Send forth your tears, ye flowers ! All ye who knew her weep, That she is gone who in your circle smil'd, Far from her husband and her lovely child ! The lov'd, the virtuous wife, Has enter'd into rest ; Too weak for cares of life — Call'd to her Father's breast ; While like a cherub her sweet babe appears, And smiles, unconscious of a father's tears. Her bounty cheer'd the poor ; Her hands the needy fed : Now all her pains are o'er ; Now that sweet flower is dead ! And her glad spirit, borne on seraph-wing, Attunes the Christian's harp where angels sing. 2^3 FEOM A MOTHEE TO HEE DAUGHTER IX LONDON. How tlioughtful oft I sit alone. My only child, and think of thee ; I bear thee to the Almighty's throne, ^^^ene'e^ in prayer I bow the knee. A mother's blessings and her prayers, Are more than words can e'er express ; A father's love, a father's cares, Though less display'd, are still no less. The midnight hour oft comes and goes. And tells the death of each short day ; I hear it oft before I close Mine eyes, while thou art far away. But why should I o'er this complain ? For many a friend with God is there ; Thou art not lost amid the main, As many a mother's daughters are. Thou hast not with the worthless fled. On folly's miserable way ; No word arrives, " Your Betsy's dead," In distant climes, far, far away. 224 FEOM A MOTHEK TO HER DAUGHTER. But, blest with liealth, O let us praise The Lord ! and not repine and mourn ; For swiftly pass away the days, Which bring my daughter's dear return. Then I again shall hear her sing, In mutual labour's sweet employ. While Time flies swiftly on the wing, And evenings pass away with joy. TOien there is so much good and ill, — may the good by her be lov'd ! ]\Iay hcav'nly wisdom guide her will, And may she bring a mind improv'd. THE ABSENT LOYER In vain the youths and rosy maids iVll wish me to be gay, For health declines, and pleasure fades, While Henr}^'s far away. The birds may strain their warbling throats Upon the blossom'd spray ; But there's no music in their notes, When Henry's far away. THE ABSENT LOVEK. 225 The sweets of June, the hill, the dale, With Natui'e's beauties gay, Ajopeai' to me but winter pale, VvTien Heniy's far away. The evening moments creep but slow, And dull the brightest day ; For none my airdous cares can know, "When Heniy's far away. My trembling harp no pleasui-e yields. My hands forget to play ; No joy at home, nor in the fields, ^^^lile Henry's far away. The hours which now I think my best, I wish them not to stay ; For nought on earth can make me rest, ^Yhile Henry's far avv-ay. Aurora ! cord afresh thy whip. And on thy coursers lay. To make them o'er the aziu'e skip. While Heniy's far away. And Night, upon thy sable throne. Be scarce an horn- thy stay ; But bid the weeks be swiftly gone. While Heniy's far away. Then, on the wings of rosy health, IMay he be swiftly borne ; For more to me than worlds of wealth Will be his blest retui-n. 226 MOENING IN MAY. The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is upreai'ing Its white curling head from the valley below, The bright glitt'ring dew-di'ops, like emeralds appear- ing, All waken at once with Am^ora's bright glow ! The dark low'ring tempests of winter are over, And sweet is the breath of the high mountain gale ; The hare leaves her favourite fields of white clover. And starts as she treads the dry leaves in the vale. The rooks and the ring-doves are flo'\\Ti to the fallow ; From theh dew-sprinkled pillows the daisies awake ; From the thatch of the cottage skims forth the swift swallow. And strikes into circles the smooth polish'd lake. Near the stream the winds move not the weak-waving willow ; The cattle are laid on the bright dewy hill : On the clear rippled stream hush'd to rest ev'ry billow. The day-busy sons of the hamlet are still. Hark ! the birds are all chanting their song of the morning, Ye vu'gins inviting to fields deck'd with dew ! The fresh op'ning flowers will greet your returning. And bow their sweet heads in pure homage to you. MOENING IN MAY. ^27 Blithe Health on the mountain sits smiling thus eai'ly. With young Vernal Sweetness, her sister, in green; AVhile Virtue, their mother, who loves them so dearly, Points out to her daughters the beautiful scene. They call on the youths and the innocent lasses To see the rich beauties of Nature half dress'd ; Forget all their joy-killing grief as it passes, Live happy, and love, for such moments are bless'd. They sit on the hill where the bull-finch is bending, In beautiful plumage, the weak birchen bough ; With gay feather'd songsters their mellow notes blending. In sweet rural chorus, where sloe-blossoms blow. But to sing of the rich varied landscape before us, With all the rich beauties that Nature displays, Kequires all the Muses to join in the chorus. And sweet smiling cherubs to chant in its praise ! LINES WEITTE]!T AT GOIT-STOCK, Hail ! tliou sequester'd rural seat, Which ever beauteous dost appear, Where the sweet songsters oft repeat Their varied concerts, wild and clear ! Upon thy crystal-bosom'd lake Th' inverted rocks and trees are seen,- Adorn'd with many a snowy flake. Or in their leafy robes of green. could a rural rhymer sing The lovely scenes so richly dress'd, "VMiere piety may plume her wing, And sweet seclusion form her nest i Here may the contemplative mind Trace Nature and her beauties o'er. And meditation rest reclin'd, Lull'd by the neighbouring cataract's roar. Here, wearied with gay scenes of life. The sire may see his children play, While heav'n has bless'd him with a wife, "NATio smiles his happy hours away. If ever fliiries tripp'd along. Or danc'd around in airy mirth, They surely to this place did throng,— Or else they never danc'd on earth. THE DESEETED MAID. 329 The Loves and Graces here might stay ; Th' enamoiir'cl pah*, with bosoms true, Unseen appoint the nuptial day, Among these scenes for ever new ; The poet tune his rustic lyre, If genius trembled on the strings ; And merit modestly aspire, If friendship deign'd to plume his wings. that I could meet tribute pay. As 'tis upon my heart impress'd I My song of friendship here would stay, When wayes the grass above my breast THE DESEETED MAID. To some gloomy cave will I wander away, Where waterfalls foam through each cleft, And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day, Since I by my lover am left. There hang, ye dried ferns, in the cold dampy shade ; Ye owls, fly around me in scorn, As. ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd. Whose features with weeping are worn. ^30 THE DESEKTED MAID. ! let not a flower be seen in the field. Nor daisies spring up near my feet ;] Thou beautiful bill ! no more primroses yield, Where my lover and I used to meet. Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud, Nor throw it away to the wind ; Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood, Where I on his bosom reclin'd. But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose, Nor bloom in your exquisite charms, As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes, Luird to peace in a false lover's arms. Ye ringdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost. Let your cooings be accents of pain ; In woe sing, je birds, that my lover is lost, Till the crrottos re-echo the strain. O' The gems that he bought, in my bosom I'll beai' I only the jewels will view. And dim their bright lustre with many a tear, Which springs from a bosom that's true. Wlien life has ebb'd out to the last fatal day, And this bosom heaves feebly for breath, If then I can speak for my Edwin I'll pray. And show that I lov'd him in death. 231 THE DEUXEAED'S EETEIBUTION. Wheee is the ink so sable in its hue, That can portray the picture dark and true ; The horrid state which language fails to tell. The dark confusion, and the eai'thly hell ! In such sad state how often have I thought — ! that I could sink backward into nought ! Eeason o'erthro^Ti and anguish in its place, 1 thought myself below the reach of grace. Despair o'envhelm'd my soul, and keen remorse ; To know I liv'd, became my bitterest cm'se ; My sorrowing friends appeai-'d my greatest foes, And cheerful songs but added to my woes. The phantom trumpets, the imagin'd band, Methought I heard, which summon'd me to stand High in the pillory — to meet disgrace ; My trembling heart shrunk back from every face. Thus swiftly did imagination rove. And o'er the prostrate throne of reason drove. Afraid of poison from a mother kind, I dm'st not di-ink, — suspicion fill'd my mind. Each trembling leaf, if shalvcn by the blast, Struck me with terror as I hurried past. I deem'd myself the cause of all the guilt That fills the earth — of all the blood e'er spilt. And that kind heaven would deign on eai'th to dwell, Were I but huiTied to the deepest hell. 233 OlS^ A CALM SUMMEE'S MGHT. The niglit is calm, tlie cygnet's down Scarce skims the lake along ; The throstle to the hazel's flown, To trill his evening song. The curling woodbine now appears More sweet than fragrant gums ; The sky a rohe of crimson wears. The scale-clad beetle hums. What pleasure, walking witli my Jane, Earth's truest, best delight, Eeturning to embrace again. And loath to bid good night. 233 ON THE DEATH OF LADY KICKITTS* Well maj^ the tears of overwhelming woe Down the pale cheeks of niim'rous inoui'iiers flow ! They fall for one whose beauty and whose worth Exceeded all I ever knew on earth. In vain I turn in hopes to hear the strings Responsive wake to her sweet carolings ; Then to the marble which in silence stands ; Then to the harp that trembled 'neath her hands ; Then to her tomb, where all that art can give, Stands in pure love to make her mem'ry live. In vain my spirit strives to track her flight To the far regions of eternal light : The awful bourn of death my friend hath pass'd, And rests beyond dark sorrow's keenest blast ; She \ievis no more the changing scenes of earth, — She only liv'd to give a cherub birth, Then fl^ew away to heaven's most blest abode, To rest upon the bosom of her God. * Daughter of Col, Tempest, of Tong Hall, and Wife of Sir Cornwallis Rickitts. S34 SONG. The birks may. wave, the heath may bloom, The lasses trip the mountains o'er, And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom. But I can touch my harp no more. The Iambs may skip, the fishes sport, And glitter in their woodland rills, But I no more the muse can court. Where thyme perfumes the purple hills. There oft my sweet Elvina sung, And softly trill'd the rural lay, Till raptures in my bosom sprung, As pleasure wing'd my hours away. But Nature now is fresh in vain ; The richest gifts to me are poor. For bliss can never come again. And I can touch my harp no more. No more with joy can I behold Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom ; The hand which oft I press'd is cold. The heart that lov'd me in the tomb. But still she lives in realms of day. Far distant from a world of pain : ! could I soar to her away. Then would I touch my harp again. Q35 LOYE. Wild the night, my love, my ^lary ! But I i^romis'd tliee to meet ; ^YincIs and rain sound dreary, dreaiy — Yet thou listen'st for my feet ! Dai'k the woods which he between us, High the rocks I have to pass, Where the village swains have seen us, Each one happy with his lass. Trail the plank across the river, Slipp'17 ^-ith a night of rain; One false step— I'm gone for ever, Ne'er to meet my love again ; Swollen the streams of ev'iy fountain ; Trackless is the stormy moor ; Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain , A\Tiich I have to wander o'er. Though the winds he cold and drearv% I have promis'd thee to meet ; If I reach my love, my deary, 'Twill hut make om' hhss more sweet ! 336 ox EETURNING FEOM LONDON. What the rocks or misty mountains ? \^liat the darlaiess of the woods ? What the roaring of the fountains, Though the rills he swoll'n to floods ? \Miat the tracldess moor or river, Though some demon should appear ? Can those stop me ? no, — never ! Soon I clasp thee, Mary dear ! Then my plaid I will throw o'er me. Sing of Mary on the way ; Though great dangers lie before me, Yet I cannot, will not stay. 0^ EETUENING FEOM LOl^DOK" Hovv' oft the glorious morning broke On rock-crown'd hills — Time's paintings grey- When from his bed the lark awoke, And warbled to the clouds his lay. The hills rejoice — ^^vith glory blush, Like gold the ciystal rivers shine, The blackbird carols with the thrush, — Sweet Bingley vale, such scenes are thine ; ON EETURXTNG FROM LONDON. 237 And siicli they were when all its woods Had bow'd not to the woodman's stroke, "VMien salmon in its winding floods, The smooth still deeps to surges broke. Give me a cot, a garden near. By kindred silent in the tomb ; Should greatest monai'chs ask me where, I'd answer — this shall be my home. The works of art I oft have seen, The touches of a master's hand. But never like the hills so green. Or Alpme rocks of Cimiberland. See the pale features of the tovm, With all their fine exterior gi'ace, — Though deck'd with jewels and a crown. To Yorkshire lasses must give place. Then be content, 'tis e'er the best, From wives, from neighbours, ne'er remove ; It takes long years to try the breast. Then who can judge a stranger's love ? The eagle mounting to the sun, Wliile on the rocks the ravens cry, As goats along the ledges run. And falcons perch with piercing eye : — These have we seen, and may we long Gaze on each native hill and vale ; And listen to the nu*al song, And smile to hear our children's tale. S38 THE DYING LOVEE. Ah ! soon, sweet maid, tliis heart of mine, Will give its beating o'er ; This weaiy aching head recline Upon thy breast no more. These hands can pluck no more for thee The heather's purple bloom ; No more must I accompany IMy lovely Mary home. But, hush those sighs of fragrant breath ! The lovely crystal tear Can no impression make on Death, Or keep me longer here. Go, touch thy sweet piano's strings, And chant me into rest. Till angels come, and on their wings Convey me to the blest. And mourn not as I soar away To tune my harp on high ; Useless the tears upon my clay. For I'm prepar'd to die. 239 ODE ON THE DEATH OF TKE POET'S CHILD m LONDON. A SOLEMN scene was here ! Absorb'd in anguisli wild, Weeping upon the bier Of his departed child, The father stood — parental grief was there — He kiss'd the corse — a prey to sad despah\ Death ! cruel Death ! ^ In fearful garb array'd. How could'st thou snatch the breath Of this sweet babe, here laid? See, see thy victim. ! on her cold pale face, A smile yet dwells, though clasp'd in thy embrace. Clos'd are those sparlding eyes : Fled is my baby's bloom ; Her cherub form now hes Enshrouded for the tomb. Martha is gone — has breath'd her last — ^her thread Of life is spun — ^is snapp'd; — the babe is dead. Angels ! take her soid above. And, as you beai^ her thi'ough the sky. Sing a seraph's song of love, A song of heav'nly hai-mony. Now let celestial music sound, Strike, strike the lyre ! ye heav'nly choir I Angehc music breathe around ! 240 THE HUNTEE'S DIEGE. Ye woods that near old Illshwortli grow, That oft have echo'd to the horn ! Ye hills that blnsh'd with scarlet glow Of hunters gay at early morn ! Weep till yom- tears in ciystal rills Make winding Aire with grief run o'er, That on the hrown-rob'd heathy hills, The huntsman's shout is heard no more. Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds By changing echoes borne away, As fleet ye sped behind the hounds Across the moors, on sportive day ! Go sit, where you unearth'd the fox, And mourn till Echo hear and weep ; Wet with your tears the time-w^orn rocks — That modern squhes no huntsmen keep. ]Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient raee ; Eound IMarley Hall in sorrow tread ; Where dwelt the gloiy of the chase, Who oft the noble sportsmen led. Then take the horn, the requiem blow O'er rural bliss that now is- lost ; And sound the dirge o'er those laid low, Who never sigh'd at hunting's cost ! 241 0]^ BINGLEY. Thy beauties, Biiigley I never have been sung By stranger-bard, or native poet's tongue ; Then may my humble muse with thee prevail To pardon my j)re sumption, if I fail In this attempt thy beauties to rehearse In rustic strains of my untutor'd verse. Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent To distant seas, or some far continent, Though these on thee have thought in other climes. All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes. "WTien on thy lovely vale I stand to gaze, I feel thou need'st from me no meed of praise : Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bowers. Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flowers,"^ Thy bold grey rocks, thy heathy purple fells, AMiere silent solitude with beauty dwells ; Thy homes where honest worth stiU finds a seat, And love and virtue a serene retreat — Such scenes as these should plume the poet's wing, And swell his heart while he attempts to sing. O may Religion, life's best hope and stay, The maids of Bingley teach the better way ! Their minds instruct, their innocence protect. Their maimers soften, and their paths direct ; 242 ON BINGLEY. May tliey be like the turtles of the wood, That dip their bills in Aire's meandering flood ; Then, at the last, faith's sunshine on each breast, Soar to the mansions of eternal rest I Innate their principle of truth and love, Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove, Sweet as the flowers when bending to the sun, Are Bingley's daughters when they love but one. We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring ; The woods where ev'ry British bird doth sing ; Wild plants and flowers, wild birds, and scenes as wild, Or soft as any on which nature smil'd ; Blooming and lovely, as the moon is fair. And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire. The weeping birch, the great majestic oak, Where dark green i^-y forms a winter's cloak ; The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow ; The sylvan vales, with limping hares below, The brooding pheasant, beauty of the wood. And spotted trouts that cleave the amber flood. For finer Avalks, for more sequester'd bowers, For cooler grottos, and for richer flowers. For streams that wind more beautiful along. For birds with louder chorus to their song, For all that gen'rous Nature can bestow, All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley-vale must bow. 24a TO THE CEITICS. Sat down by my wee rusted lyre, And musing wliich way to get through, Ye quenchers of poets' best fire, How oft have I trembled at you I The -vTiltui-e may seize the young himb. The raven may tortm-e the dove, And critics may tell what I am, But let your censures be love I Ye weighers of man's little wit, ^^^lich comes in a book to your eye. Like spiders on cobwebs you sit, To mangle and murder a fly. Write yom" praise or dispraise for the great. And rail on the muse of a lord, Shoot at those who are laughing at fate, And strike wdth your fame-killing sword. But come to my cottage, and view WTiat feathers I have for my wings : And then you will own there are few So lowly durst strike at the strings. I gaze on my children asleep, Assur'd that their lot is but hard ; Y'es, while I write verses I weep To think their best friend is the bard. 244 A PEAYEE. O Thou, whose name, with trembling, angels use — A name no human language can express I Be Thou my hght, ni}' glory, and my muse, And stoop the meanest womi on earth to bless. Thron'd in the heaven of heavens, eternal Sire I I less than nothing in Thy sight appear ; Thine is this spark of immaterial fire, That warms my breast, and acts the umpire there. To Thee, great Source of being and of light, May I this heart in adoration raise !. Bow dovm before Thy majesty and might. And with deep rev'rence give Thee worthy praise ! AVhere I have err'd, as I too oft have done, ]\Iay deep repentance for my eiTors flow ! While with sincerity I mourn alone, Far from the crowd of ostentatious show. in yon vast region of unbounded space, Thine arm, unseen, sustains each flammg ball ; And shall proud mortals circumscribe Thy grace; As insufficient for the wants of all ? A PRAYER. 245 What is this earth, with all it doth contain, Its lofty mountains and imfathom'd sea? — The sea a drop, the earth itself a grain, Weigh'd in the balance with immensity. Such is Thy mercy's sea, without a shore. That ev'ry soul in ev'ry human breast Needs but to ask, (Thou dost require no more,) To give that mercy, and to make it bless'd. — ]\Iine be that boon when life's short day shall end, And to some unknown world my soul shall soar ! Be Thou my God, my Fatlier, and my Friend, — O grant me this, and I can ask no more ! XOTES. ON THE LYRE OF EBOR. Page 1, Line 10. All these are seen near Bardens ancient toicer. •' Barden was so called, from Bar and Dene, the valley of the wild boar, and was well adapted to the habits of that animal, from the deep solitude of its woods, and the profusion of acorns which they must have shed. The forest stretches near foui' miles on the banks of the river Wharf, from the confines of Burnsall to those of Bolton. The buildings of the inhabitants are thatched, and generally supported on crooks, and carry back the imagination at least three centuries. Barden, in the 4th of Edward Second, had six lodges for the accommodation of the keepers, and protection of deer. — These were often square towers, constructed for defence, and mav be considered as a kind of minor castles ; one of which, Henry Lord Clifford enlarged, prefering the retreat of Barden to the bustle of greater houses. It appears from an old compotus, that in 1517, five yeai's after the battle of Elodden, wages at Barden were paid to more than fifty servants." 248 KOTES. Page 2, Line 16. And find the cavern of the furious hoar. From a passage of one of tlie earliest charters of Skiptoii, it appears that the forests of Craven were enclosed with a pale. The Saxon forests, as far as is known, lay open, and the practice of enclosing these immense tracts must have heen introduced by the Norman lords. The animals nourished in these inclosures, were the stag, the wild boar, and the fallow deer. Page 4, Line 7. Then high oer Hohers hill, u'hose sable crest. " The dark brown mountain of Hober, with its rivals, Barden Fell and Simon Seat, are among the most noble features in the beautiful scenery of Bolton; and close the landscapes with a most noble barrier of majestic grandeur." Page 13., Line 15. Three times we hare seen the great cross of our sires Destroyed as a brand in the 2ilt(iiderers' fires. " The cross was once regarded as an instrument of horror and detestation, as the instrmnent of the most dreadful punishment, and the vilest of criminals were only subject to its ignominy. "Constantino first abolished the use of it among the Romans. He rescued it from an appropriation to purposes that rendered it an object of aversion, and made it reverenced and beloved. It was carved on his military standards after he embraced Christianity, engraven on his banners, and esteemed as the noblest ornament of his diadem. His veneration for this sacred trophy, is said to have had a miraculous origin. He was himself the historian of the appearance, and NOTES. 240 he sanctioned the truth of his narrative, Vvith the solemnity of an oath. — Ahoiit mid-day he saw in the heavens, a himinous representation of the cross, j)laced above the sun, and accompanied by an inscrip- tion in Latin, " By this I conquer." He it was who first made the cross an object of veneration; and through centuries christians have reverenced it as a memorial of their faith." Filiodess Peak Scenery. Crosses used to be placed in the centre of parishes, at which places the people worshipped in the early periods of Christianity. Page 14, Line 15. The hlazing x)i^tch on Peniglient fell down. " These four mighty hills, having a view of each other, would undoubtedly be provided with beacons, to give warning of the approach of the enemy, and remains of such places are to be seen on their summits." Page 15, Line 10. The field, eve noon, was quickhj changed to red. There can be little doubt, that, independent of the followers, tenants, and dependents of Henry Lord Clifford, who are enumerated in the list belonging to Craven, many of the surrounding knights, with their followers., would accompany them in the defence ot their families and property. Page 10, Line 13. Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth. Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, while King Henry YIII. was in France, had the command of the Enghsh; and James, King of Scotland, attended 250 NOTES. with the earls Lennox and Argyle, marched with his nrmy and met them at a httle town called Brankston, under Flodomi hill. The battle being so well known hi history, will be remembered by almost every reader. Page 17, Line 21. The eagles from Helvellyns craggy height , "Before the battaill black cloudes ponred down npon them store of fmierall teares, enarching the ayre with a spatious rainebowe, and discharging sundry tyre and peale of thmider. The sunne also would gladly have hid his face, b}' thrusting it under a par- tial eclypse. At the same time also, sholes and cloudes of baleful ravens, and other birdes of prey and ravin, as foreshevv'ing the harvest of carcases, came flying over the hostes." Old History of England, 1605. Page 19, Line 29. Hundreds of names with care great Clifford kept. This is literally true, as his household book testi- fies. These curious manuscripts were in the posses- sion of the late Eev. W. Carr, of Bolton priory. Dr. Whitaker, in the History of Craven, makes the following observation : — " The enumeration of Lord Clifford's followers, on this occasion, in the old metrical history of Flodden Field, is so local and exact, that it would be unpar- donable to omit it." ' From Penigent to Pendle Hill, From Linton to Long Addingham, And all that Craven coasts did till, They with the lusty Clifford came ; NOTES. 251 All Staincliffe hundred went with hmi, With striplings strong from Wharfcdale, And all that Hauton hills did climb, With Longstroth eke and Litton Dale, Whose milk-fed fellows, fleshy bred, Well brown'd with sounding bows upbend ; All such as Horton Fells had fed On Clifford's banners did attend.' '' He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April .'^ 8, 1523, aged about 70.— By his last will, he appointed his body to be interred at Shap, if he died in Westmorland ; or at Bolton, if he died in Yorkshire." Page 20, Line 19. Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork, To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork. '• In the civil wars of the 17th century, the village of Broughton, situated between the hostile garrisons of Skipton and Thornton, had its full share of devas- tation and misery. It was a tradition at Broughton Hall, that the village had been so completely pillaged of common utensils, that an old helmet travelled in succession from house to house for the purpose of boiling broth and pottage. And an ancient poet has hit upon this veiy circumstance. In days of old our fathers went to war Expecting sturdy blows and hardy fare. Their heef they often in their morions stened, And in their basket-hilts their beverage brewed." Page 24, Line 2. Her garland soon ivas in the ahhey hung. Garlands Avere in some instances made of paper, and carried at the funerals of voung unmarried 252 ' NOTES. women, inscribed with the age and name of the de- ceased ; which custom is followed at the present day, in Bolton, and most other churches of Wharfedale, where garlands may be seen hung upon the lattice- work of the choirs. " A garland fresh and fair, Of lillies there was made, In sign of her virginitie, And on her coffin laid." Dr. Fercijs old Songs. Page 29, Line 27. Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, ivells, and air, Can cure the nervous, trembling in desjKiir. As a 2)lace where health is likely to improve, none is better situated than this rural and romantic village. There are antiquities, a river, mountains, rocks, and one of the finest wells in the kingdom, independent of its vicinity to the beautiful ruins of Bolton, and the enchanting scenes of fifteen miles in one of the most beautiful valleys of the north ; and where real rural pleasure, and purity of air, with everything reasonable that can strengthen the weak and delicate are the objects, Ilkley claims the precedence of every ■other watering place. Page 30, Line 15. Denton, tliou rural village, little known, Thou once hadst warriors who coidd shake a throne. The family of the Fairfaxes resided here, but their history being so Avell known to every reader, I will only mention the great and last decisive battle oi Marston Moor. After this conflict, the countrpnen who were ordered to bury the dead, gave out that they interred 4150, two-thirds of whom were gentle- men and persons of quality. NOTES. 253 At Marston Grange, are many hundreds of cannon and miisketballs,, which have been found in the fields- within these hist forty years. Page 35, Line 10. Then icith near thirty wounds brave Graham hied. " Sir Richard Graham, of Norton Conyers, a very active officer on the side of royahy, after receiving twenty-six wounds in this battle, fled, when all was lost, towards his own house, which he reached that night, and expired about an hour after his arrival." Page -49, Line 15. Vowed from his monarcli he would never part, Then plunged the weapon to his charger s heart. " After Lord Clifford had overcome Fitzwalter at Ferrj'bridge, the Earl of Warwick mounted his coiu'ser, and riding up to King Edward, said, ' I pray >fird. '• Not content with plunder and death, the Scots set fire to their churches, though they had dearly paid for their depredations at the Battle of the Standard, fought near North- Allerton, Yorkshire ; at which place, David, king of Scots, was completely routed. The real Standard was there displayed. — This v>'as a huge chariot upon wheels, with a mast of prodigious height fixed in it, on the top of which was a cross, and un- derneath a banner. This was a signal used only in the greatest expeditions, and was looked upon as a sacred altai'." 260 KOTES. Page 75, Line 6. heel to the altar Cklhj the fair. The fee of Skipton before the Conquest, was the property of the Earl Edwin, the son of Leofwine, and brother of Lsofric, earls of Mercia. After Edwin had forfeited the estates, the family became possessed of them again, by the marriage of Wm. de Meschines with Gicily de Eomili. The history of tlie Romilis, their founding Bolton Priory, and the untimely fate of the boy of Egremont, are so well known that they need not be copied here. — See Dr. Whltahers Hlotory of Craven. Page 75, Line 17. Banners, ivhich ivavd when shields and helmets rung, Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung High in the toivr. It was customary, in the dnys of chivalry, to deposit shields, banners, helmets, Szq., in the strong towers of castles. Page 75, Line f24. And silve/d robes the ancient Cliffords wore. For an account of the splendour of the dresses of the Cliffords, see Dr. Whltakers Hist. Craven, j). 291, et seq. Page 75, Line 99. Upon each dish the dragon was ijortrayd. See the valuation of the plate at Skipton Castle, in Dr Whitaker's Craven, from which the following is an extract : — " Item, XX silver plates, some with dragons, and the rest with iyberds' heads. One standyng cup, with a like image of a boy standing upon three eagles." There were likewise other pieces of plate, with the NOTES. 261 portcullis, &c., engraven upon tliem, of which we can no'.v foim no conception. Page 76, Line 32. The valley shone in robes of golden hue. The v/ild ranunculus grows in such profusion in the valley above and below Skipton, that it appears clothed in a beautiful robe of yellow during the months of May and June. Page 83, Line 7. There ivinding Aire, enamour' d of the j^lace, Ivloves on so slow, it seems to stoj) and gaze. The fall in the course of the Aire, from Gargrave to Bingley, is so little, that the river seems to labour with diiiicuhy in pursuing its course ; in many places creeping slowly in the opposite direction, as if it wish- ed to return to its source. This has a very beautiful effect in a morning or evening, when the rays of the sun are thrown upon it. The resplendent reflections are seen in a variety of points, so as to make the valley appear as though it was fiUed with various small lakes. Page 83, Li>'e 22. There once a castle stood, tho' lost to fame. Dodsworth, who visited Bingley inlG21, says there was a park there, and a castle on a hill, called Bailey- Hill, of which nothing more than the name and tra- dition now remains. Page 83, Line 32. Since on its hanks the ancient Druids rang'd. To give the history of the Druids would swell the volume beyond its intended limits, and only be super- fluous. They had, undoubtedly, an altar vvestof Bing- 562 NOTES. ley. The rocks wliicli still retain tlie name of ■'• The Altar," situated upon a lofty eminence, cleei^ly marked with the fire of sacrifice ; the beautiful valley beneath, favourable to the growth of the oak, and eligible for their sacred groves, j)lace it beyond all doubt that the valley of Bingley was once the residence of the ancient priests of the Britons. — For full particulars respecting the Druids, see TolancVs History of the Druids, and the notes to Mallets Xorthern Antiqiuties. Page 84, Lin'e 1. The fords, irliich once tJie Fionian cohorts crossed. These must have been, according to the line of the Roman road from Oiicano to Mancunium, (Ilkley and Manchester of the present day,) between Eiddlesden Hall and Marlev. in the parish of Bin<>lev ; as the two remaining fragments, one on Eomili's moor, and the other near Cullingworth, are in tliat direction. Por- tions of Pvoman strata are only to be found on the un- cultiv-ated wastes ; they are long since destro^'ed in the inclosures. Page 85, Line 16. As thoirr/h a far more dulcet peal ivere near. Few peals in the West-Riding of Yorkshire are placed among so many different points of echo as the one at Bingley. A stranger, not seeing the tower of the church, vv-ould often be at a loss to know from whence the sounds proceeded. Page 80, Line 7. Your fatliers met their Maker to adore. Devoutly read the Psalmist's verses o'er, And from the priest words of affection flow' d — He pray d, he wept, — until the list'niny croivd notp:s. 263 MeJtfd to team ; and tears that ivere not feigned, Like crystal drops from all the av.diei'ice raiyid. As an instance of the exceeding hmnility and un- feigned piety of some of the ahhots of Kirkstail in the 13th century, I here insert a copy of a letter written by John de Birdsall, ahbot, to the prior and convent of the monastery of Kirkstail, about the year 130C, from Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven. — •'' To his reverend brethren, the prior and convent of the monastery of Kirkstail, John, styled abbot of the same, v/Lshes health and grace, and that tliev mav labour more earnestlv after the thimrs which concern religion, peace, and charity. " Beloved, Ave have written this letter in haste from Canterbury, knowing that an account of the success of our journey will be pleasing to you. " In the first place, our dear brother, who was pre- sent, vrill inform you, that on the morrow of St. Law- rence, we V\ere met by letters from the King, in a very threatening style ; that we were apjjrized of robbers who laid wait for us in the woods, under a rock ; and that we were bound, under the penalty of forfeiting all our goods, to abide the king's pleasure. However, having been at length dismissed from his presence with honour, we proceeded on our Avay, and, notwith- standing the delay in London, arrived at Canterbury on jMonday evening, ourselves, our servants, and horses, being all well. We are not without hope, therefore, that our feeble beginnings will be followed by better fortune. On Wednesday morning, the vvind blovv^ng fair, we put the horses on board a ship - - -^ " For the time to come, we commend you, dear brethren, to God, and our bodily safety to your prayers. But especially pray for the salvation of our soul ; for we are not greatly solicitous if this earthly part of us be delivered into the hand of the wicked one, so that the spirit be saved in the day of the Lord, which we hope for, through the assistance of your in- tercessions; yet we should wish, if it be the will oi God, to be com.mitted to the earth by your hands, wherever you shall dispose. ^64 KOTES. "But know, assuredly, that, if wc return, whosoever appears to have been most humble in conversation, and active in business, during our absence, shall receive an ample measure of grace and recompense from God, and shall every hour be more alfectionately regarded by us. '•'We entreat and enjoin brother E. Eckisley to pre- pare himself for the duty of preaching on the Nativity of our Lord, unless vve return in the meantime, that so great a festival may not pass v\4thout a sermon, a thing which hath never yet happened, nor, by the grace of God, ever shall do. " We wrote unto certain persons, ' abstain from every appearance of evil, and avoid it beforehand, whatever is, or can be pretended in its behalf.' '' God shall give you the knowledge of these things. " We adjure you, brethren, by the bowels of mercy in Jesus Christ, that, if ye hear of our departure, ye will pray for us faithfully, remembering the labours and distresses which we have endured in the beginning of our creation, and of which ye are now reaping the fruits in peace. " We know, dearly beloved, that worldly occupations, such as we have long been entangled in for your sakes, are not without danger to the soul. But we derive great hopes from your compassion, seeing that v/e aim at no earthly advantage, nor consume the revenues oi the monastery Avithout cause. " Sidute our dear friends : - - - -- - '■- - -'' ■- - and especially our dearest companion,- to whom we would have some one interpret this letter. When he hears it, he will scarcely be able to refrain from tears, which he shed abundantly at our parting. " We commend our poor mother to your compassion. *' The salutiition of me, John, your minister, such as I am, and studying to do everything in my power for your advantage and honour. " We commend you again and again to God and theB.V. " Written at Canterhury with many tears." * Some illiterate but affectionate fi ion d whom he does not name. NOTES. 265 Page 88, Line 0. And hIou-Ji/, an the clouds of incense roll, The frarirant grateful scent x>erfmnes the whole. " The use of perfumes," says Dr. "^Tiitaker, " is a pleasin,!? and elegant part of the Gatliolic ritual; which, if it could he adopted in our congregations, without offending the higotry of Puritanism, might have a pleasing and wholesome effect in correcting the effluvia arising from crowded congregations. " The power of show in religion, the pomp and pageantry of the Romish church, steal insensihly upon the imagination, in defiance of enlightened reason and Protestant principle ! How easy then must it have heen to hrihe the senses of rustics, who saw no other spendid scenes hut those of earth and heaven, heard little music hut that of hirds, and inhaled no other perfumes than those of the field, especially when it is considered that natural charms can only he enjoyed by cultivated minds, while the artificial and gorgeous strike with greater force upon the rudest." It is stated that Lord Bolinghroke, in defiance oi his infidelity, was highly affected by attending high mass. Page 81, Line 13. Beholds the aubot in the robes array d, The altar ivet, where once Tergesius pray'd. Tergesius was the fourth abbot of Kirkstall. He was a severe chastiser of his body ; constantly clad in hair cloth, and frequently repeating to himself, "Those who are clothed in soft raiment are in kings' houses." His clothing was alike in all seasons, being only a tunic and a cowl. His body was so habituated to this discipline, that he appeared enually insensible to the heat of the dog-days and the cold of January. In the severest weather, he endured the night-watches with- out shoes; and when his well-clad brethren were 966 >'OTEs. almost stiff witli frost, he gave himself to the praises of God, and repelled the cold without by the heat ot devotion within. Yet none was more mild and affable than Tergesiiis. His abstinence was extreme. He never tasted wine nor flesh. Fish he permitted to be set before him for his friends, not for himself. His compunctions knew no bounds ; in common conversa- tion he scarcely refrained from weeping. At the altar, he never celebrated without such a profusion of tears, that his eyes might be said rather to rain than weep ; insomuch, that the sacredotal vestment he officiated in could not be u^ed until it was dried. After nine years' presidency, he retired to Fountains' Abbey, where he died. Page 89, Line 5. When ancient records, kept ivith pious care. Had it not been for the religious houses, what would have become of the works of antiquity, or even of the Scriptures themselves ? Had they been in the hands of the illiterate in the dark ages, scarce a line of the Greek and Roman authors would have been now beheld : and no doubt a great many valuable works were destroyed at the dissolution of the religious houses in this district. Page 91, Line 7. When Towtoiis plain Was crimson d o'er with tJiirty thousand slain, " The true English Pharsalia was between Caxton and Towton. Here was the greatest engagement, and the strongest army that was ever seen in England ; no fewer than one hundred thousand men, under the command of two daring and furious generals, engaged here on Palm Sunday, in the year 1401. The victory continued for a long time doubtful, but at last the ■Lancastrians proved the weakest by being too strong. NOTES. '-^67 for their numbers proved cumbersome and unwieldly, which first caused disorder and then flight; the York party pursuing them. The fight was so bloody that 36,000 men were cut off, among whom were a great many of the nobiUty."' GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Page 96, Line 20. Upon the wifjhtij rocks from whence GoughfeU. An amiable and interesting Welsh youth, of the name of Charles Gough, falling from the top or rocky sides of Helvellyn, perished there in 1805. Hi's untimely end excited the deep commiseration of the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbourhood. ON THE OLD OAK TREE. Page 192, Line 8. And kept the tree ivliile Bradford keeps its crest. There is a tradition, that, some centuries ago, the wood which then surrounded the church at Bradford/ 268 KOTES. was infested vi'itli a furious wild bonr, wliicli was the terror of tlie neighbourhood. A reward Avas offered by government for the head or tongue of this animal; and it is asserted that it was shot while in the act of drinking at a well near an oak tree, which was, not long since, standing. The hero who accomplished this feat, stationed himself behind this identical tree, — and as soon as he had despatclied the monster, he pro- ceeded to cut out its tongue, with which he hastened to receive the reward. In the mean time, the animal was found dead by another person, vs-ho immediately cut of its head, and would have succeeded in obtaining the reward, had not the hero who actually killed the animal arrived vv'ith its tongue. From this circum- stance it is supposed the arms of Bradford originated, the crest of which is a boar's head. — See James's His- tory of BvadjQrcl. J. 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