SUTTON PARK; 
 
 A POEM, IN TWO PARTS 
 
 . * DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO 
 
 SIR EDMUKD HARTOPP, BART., 
 
 BY HARRY H. HORTON. 
 
 » 
 
 Lives there a man with soul so dead, 
 
 Who never to himself has said, 
 
 This is my own,—my native land.’’ 
 
 Scott’s Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 God made the country, and man made the town.’’ 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 BIRMINGHAM: 
 
 THOMAS RAGG AND CO., 16 , SPICEaL STREET. 
 
 1844. 
 
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HORTON (Harry H.) 
 
 SUTTON PARK: A Poem, In Two Parts, 
 Dedicated By Permission To Sir Edmund 
 Hartopp, Bart...Birmingham: Thomas 
 Ragg And Co...1844. 
 
 FIRST EDITION. $26.50 
 
 8vo., original printed paper wrappers 
 a few slight stains. 
 
em, In Two Parts, 
 ssion To Sir Edmund 
 rmingham: Thomas 
 
 $26.50 
 
 .nted paper wrappers 
 
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SUTTON PARK; 
 
 A POEM, IN TWO PARTS, 
 
 DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO 
 
 SIR EDMUND HARTOPP, BART., 
 BY HARRY H. HORTON. 
 
 “ Lives there a man with soul so dead, 
 
 Who never to himself has said, 
 
 This is my own,—my native land.’^ 
 
 Scott’s hay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 ‘‘God made the country, and man made the town.’’ 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 BIRMINGHAM: 
 
 THOMAS RAGG AND CO., 16 , SPICEaL ST’REET 
 
 1844 . 
 
R 
 
 i 
 
7S% 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR EDMUND HARTOPP, BART., 
 
 THE FOLLOWING 
 
 HUMBLE EFFUSION, 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE OF SUTTON PARK— 
 
 (near which his family have so long resided) 
 
 IS, BY PERMISSION, DEDICATED, 
 
 BY HIS GRATEFUL AND OBLIGED SERVANT, 
 
 HARRY HO^YELL HORTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Should any apology be necessary for the selection 
 of such a subject as Sutton Park, in these days when 
 descriptive poetry is less popular than that of a con¬ 
 templative character, the Author would say that it was 
 the favourite resort of his boyhood—and of course 
 associated with his first impressions and fondest recol¬ 
 lections ; which, of themselves^ are sufficient to serve 
 the purpose of the Muse. And, moreover, the Park 
 has native claims upon the Poet, not only for the wild 
 beauty of its scenery, but for the interesting objects 
 which present themselves in its locality. The subject 
 originated in the mind of the Author many years ago, 
 when a mere boy, from reading the Clifton Grove” 
 of Kirke White''* which so captivated his imagination, 
 that he could not rest till he had visited the spot which 
 formed the subject of that pleasing Poem. The scene 
 itself, however, failed to impress his mind as the Poem 
 had done ; in fact, with the exception of the Trent, it 
 appeared to present fewer charms to the eye of the 
 Poett han Sutton Park. Impressed with this con¬ 
 viction, and excited by the enthusiasm of youth, he 
 
 A 3 
 
vi 
 
 PKEFACE. 
 
 resolved to essay something himself in the same strain, 
 on the subject of his own favourite haunts. He, there¬ 
 fore, commenced the present Poem; but was so far 
 from thinking of publishing it, that it has never been 
 completed until within the last few weeks, when his 
 leisure permitted him again to visit the spot, and to 
 give free scope to his reflections. 
 
 Whatever, therefore, may be its fate in the world, 
 (and he does not altogether like troubling the world 
 with a Poem in this utilitarian age) he will never 
 regret that he has written it,—first, because it has 
 beguiled many a dull and dreary hour; and secondly, 
 because it contains a faithful record of his feelings, 
 however inadequate his efforts to convey a true por¬ 
 traiture of the beauties of his theme. In the hope, 
 however, that the reader may share somewhat in the 
 pleasure he himself has experienced in its composition, 
 he has ventured on its publication. 
 
 Of the Park, he has endeavoured to give something 
 like a description in rhyme ;—but as an artist may be 
 able to represent a building, or even a town, without 
 being acquainted with one fact connected with its his¬ 
 tory,—so may he be allowed to convey something like 
 a poetical picture of Sutton Park without laying claim 
 to the character of an antiquarian. In fact, it is not 
 his province. The requisites of Poet and Antiquarian 
 are essentially dissimilar; and when w^e see them 
 united, as they w^ere in the late Sir W. Scott, we feel 
 justified in saying that the case amounts to a phene- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 menon in Literature, But, for the benefit of those who 
 may wish to know more than he is able to tell them, 
 he will conclude by transcribing the following paragraph 
 from Duodale’s History of Warwickshire, to which 
 work he begs to refer them for still further particulars : 
 —Sutton Park is situated in the north-west of the 
 town, and contains* about 3500 acres. It was granted 
 by Bishop VESEYf (Bishop of Exeter in the time of 
 H ENRY YIII.) to the Corporation of Sutton, for the 
 benefit of the poorer inhabitants of the town. Besides 
 pasturage for their cattle, the inhabitants obtain fuel 
 from peat mosses which are found in great abundance.’’ 
 
 Birminghamy Oct.^ 1844. 
 
 • I apprehend we ought to say contain. 
 
 + This Illustrious Prelate was a native of Sutton, and it does 
 not appear that the Coldfield was too bleak for him, for he lived 
 to the age of 103, and was buried In the Church which he had 
 greatly enlarged and beautified at his own expense* 
 
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SUTTON PARK. 
 
 PART 1. 
 
 Sweet Sutton —Once again thy woods I view, 
 
 Which o'er my childhood’s dreams a magic threw— 
 Whose charms have beamed so bright on Memory’s 
 page, 
 
 In spite of cares that haunt matnrer age. 
 
 Now let me here forget the ruder strife,— 
 
 And linger o’er the scenes of early life. 
 
 The Muse, long silent, shall her tribute pay, 
 
 And to thy shades attune the rapt’rous lay. . 
 
 I see again each spot that made thee dear— 
 
 Thy long-loved features in their bloom appear— 
 
 Each well-known form, to Memory ever true. 
 
 Brings all my childish fancies back to view. 
 
 The hoary tree—the long remembered stile— 
 
 
10 
 
 SUTTON PARK. 
 
 The pool o’er which the sylvan tenants smile— 
 
 The mossy path—the crystal well appear,— 
 
 And all the charm of long acquaintance bear. 
 
 I hear again thy woodland music sweet. 
 
 And the soft, limpid murmur at my feet— 
 
 The wild flowers still their mystic perfume fling, 
 
 Just waking from the fairy touch of Spring. 
 
 And though the ravages of time abound. 
 
 Thy sacred haunts no railway change have found;— 
 But hark! I hear the woodman’s stroke rebound, 
 The timid rabbit startles at the sound : 
 
 A solemn echo through the grove replies, 
 
 As with the stroke the forest giant dies. 
 
 Ah 1 even here, man’s avarice invades 
 
 The green retreats, and love-inviting shades,— 
 
 But Nature rears her sapling in its place. 
 
 And soon the rude intrusion leaves no trace,— 
 
 The vig’rous branches, with new pride arrayed. 
 Extend their leafy lattice o’er the shade— 
 
 As if in scorn of man’s destructive power ; 
 
 Whose wasting hand would mar this favour’d bower. 
 
 Windsor may boast her grandeur and her fame. 
 
 Give me thy humbler, but enshrined name— 
 
 Where Nature may her simplest mantle wear. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 11 
 
 And spread a banquet that the poor may share. 
 
 Around thy walks no walls exclusive frown, 
 
 To mock the anxious pilgrim of the town; — 
 
 No royal lodge, with surly guard, is here— 
 
 No gravelled coach-ways through thy shades appear: 
 
 But in her russet garb fond Nature dwells. 
 
 Here in her wildest haunts and flowery dells. 
 
 While other scenes, as lovely, are forgot. 
 
 Here reigns a spell that chains me to the spot. 
 
 Not famed Italia's skies of azure hue. 
 
 Nor Cambria's fairy land of mountain blue. 
 
 Could bring such rapture to my soul as this— 
 
 The spot where Childhood first awoke to bliss. 
 
 'Tis not the beauties of the scene I prize, 
 
 'Tis that they tell of long departed joys,— 
 
 ^Tis that they speak of friends and kindred gone,— 
 
 Of visions broken, and of hopes long flown,— 
 
 While, wandering here, I'm left to mourn and weep 
 alone. 
 
 Ye little triflers in life’s sunny morn. 
 
 Glad as the winged butterfly, just born—• 
 
 Still wanton freely o’er the daisied grass, 
 
 For soon—too soon—the joyous hours will pass ! 
 
 The ringing laugh, the shout of sportive fear, 
 
 B 2 UJIIVEinirTY Cr 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 OT UKbANA-CHAMHAIGN 
 
12 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 Comes with refreshing influence on my ear,— 
 
 Long banished from the sound of cheerful mirth^, 
 
 From all that’s lovely, all that’s sw'eet on earth. 
 
 See !—now they run o’er yonder moss-grown hill, 
 Though lost to sight, I hear their voices still. 
 
 Oh ! age of innocence and thoughtless joy. 
 
 Why should stern manhood all thy dreams destroy ? 
 Why throw a shade of sadness on the brow 
 Where love and hope can beam so radiant now ? 
 
 Let man forsake, for sober, time-taught truth. 
 
 The scenes and faces that had charmed in youth,— 
 Not all that wisdom—all that wealth can buy. 
 
 Can lend to life so bright, so pure a joy. 
 
 What can more truly picture heavenly bliss. 
 
 Than infant ecstasy in scenes like this ? 
 
 Where loveliest bowers with teeming pleasures bloom 
 L^nmixed with knowledge of our darker doom. 
 
 And far from cities, learning, pomp, and pow’r. 
 
 They live a richer and a happier hour. 
 
 ’Twas in the village, where yon ancient tower 
 In solemn tones proclaims each passing hour, 
 
 My infant mind was schooled ,—by one who long 
 Has slept his simple ancestors among. 
 
 Kevered for worth, and not for wealth alone, 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 13 
 
 His dust requires no praise-ensculptured stone,— 
 
 For in the heart’s of those ’twas his to guide, 
 
 ^He lives e’en yet—affection’s theme and pride. 
 
 How oft, as time advanced and joys decayed, 
 
 My spirit’s youthful promptings I obeyed! 
 
 Again the scene of school-boy sport I’d trace, 
 
 (Whose features time nor grief can e’er efface,^ 
 
 When life’s bright sunshine dawned upon my breast,— 
 Alas ! ne’er more to find unclouded rest. 
 
 And, like the wanderer by the world betrayed, 
 
 Who seeks again the home from whence he strayed, 
 Though other scenes have met his wondering gaze,— 
 ]More fair than that which charmed his youthful days. 
 Still the low cot which held his early joys, 
 
 Is far more lovely to his partial eyes. 
 
 Sweet are the smiles of Nature to the poor— 
 
 (The only smiles their fortunes can insure)— 
 
 And if of them by tyrants dispossessed, 
 
 W here shall they seek a momentary rest? 
 
 Long may his memory in their bosoms reign. 
 
 Who to the poorest left this blest domain,— 
 
 In which each generation past has trod. 
 
 And looked from Nature up to Nature’s God.” 
 
 • The late Mr. Jervis Booth. 
 
 B 3 
 
14 
 
 SUTTON PARK. 
 
 In seenes like this, where constant beauty glows, 
 They feel a brief oblivion of their woes,— 
 
 And when the Sabbath brings relief from toil, 
 
 The lounging rustics here the hours begtile,— 
 
 And, as the deep-toned music fills the gale, 
 
 Again renew the oft-repeated tale ;— 
 
 Or gossip o’er the history of the week, 
 
 And of the crops and absent neighbours speak. 
 
 Or clad in uncouth garments, whole and‘dean. 
 
 The village lovers seek the shaded green. 
 
 Time was. when oft beneath those hanging trees 
 The swain could smiling sit:—his heart at ease. 
 View his loved children with a proud delight, 
 
 Nor fear attendant ills their joys would blight. 
 
 Then could he join the chorus echoed round, 
 
 Where beauty, life, and melody, are found. 
 
 His soul would mount—when from her grassy bed 
 The dew-winged lark would carol o’er his head; 
 
 Or, when the sun sunk in the golden West, 
 
 Then would he seek his home with bounding breast 
 ’Mid peace, content, and smiling babes to rest. 
 
 But ah ! the foe has long disturbed his sleep— 
 
 The lark still soars, but he is left to weep. 
 
 The rural sights and sounds that fed his soul 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 15 
 
 Have lost their charm,—and now unheeded roll. 
 
 His wife and babes speak welcome, hut in vain,— 
 
 He feels that Poverty’s tyrannic reign 
 
 Will crush the joys of home, and spread a blight 
 
 On all that once had kindled his delight. 
 
 The sickly frown of care now wraps in gloom 
 The face where once the rose of health could bloom. 
 His soul, once warm with love, is chilled with dread,— 
 The hearty welcome, and the laugh, are fled. 
 
 He scowls, he frets—his nature is reversed,— 
 
 The secret gangrene makes his life accursed. 
 
 Hunger, that dire companion of the poor. 
 
 With threatening aspect glooms around his door— 
 
 Till, by fierce want, and hopeless sorrow prest. 
 
 The demon passions rage within his breast. 
 
 He seeks the Park, there sets the fatal snare. 
 
 And lists the cries of the unconscious hare. 
 
 Crime leads to crime—though through his darkened 
 doom 
 
 The tie of Nature binds him to his home. 
 
 And now, through winding labyrinths I take 
 My lonely walk ; through bramble, bush, and brake,— 
 Where the wild fern half hides the devious way. 
 
 And twilight seems to slumber on the day. 
 
16 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 Here silence reigns, save when around is heard 
 The liquid note of some lone warbling bird,— 
 
 Or, rustling in the leafy roof above, 
 
 I hear the nimble squirrel lightly move. 
 
 Here contemplation may delight to dwell— 
 
 And pensive linger o’er the sylvan dell,— 
 
 From Fancy’s wizard depths call up the dream 
 Which o’er the heart once shed its airy beam. 
 
 Or, think of all the vain, inglorious strife. 
 
 Which haunts the crowded walks of busy life,— 
 
 And, lost in reveiie, wish the day were come 
 When I might call this tranquil nook my home: 
 Away from man, from fashion, and from pride, 
 
 With sweet content my waveless life should glide,— 
 Alone with her to whom my faith is given. 
 
 And my loved child;—Fd ask no more from Heaven. 
 
 See yonder aged Matron, bending low. 
 
 Where, ‘mid wild thorns, the purple bilberries grow ! 
 She gathers sticks to light her evening fire. 
 
 Or herbs, or weeds, her household may require. 
 
 That frame, now bending with the weight of time, 
 These woods once saw in youthful beauty’s prime. 
 With shouting mirth she’d join the sportive throng. 
 And hide, perchance, these flowery thorns among; 
 
SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 1 
 
 Or dance with gladsome footsteps, light and free,— 
 Or buoyant swing from some overhanging tree. 
 
 Oft from the neighbouring village she would rove 
 In thoughtless mood with him who sought her love ; 
 And, with wild music, would delight the grove. 
 
 Can she forget, e^en now, the green retreat 
 Which listened to her gentle accents sweet ? 
 
 When to her swain her passion she confessed, 
 
 And in the coy avowal made him blest. 
 
 vpwas Summer’s eve—a stillness reigned around. 
 
 And Nature seemed to catch the love-breathed sound. 
 The Harvest Moon unveiled her silvery light. 
 
 And hung with chaster glory o’er the sight. 
 
 The Nightingale, till then, in silence bound. 
 
 With thrilling music charmed the woodlands round. 
 Soon were they wed—Life seemed without alloy,— 
 No cloud of care to mar th’ elysian joy. 
 
 Oft would they visit still the lovely scene. 
 
 And view their children gambol on the green. 
 
 But ah ! too soon the fleeting joys depart,— 
 
 Too soon the mildews gather round the heart. 
 Another passion in the husband's breast 
 Supplants the one that made his life so blest. 
 Intemperance chills the flame of holier love. 
 
 And soon the tyrant of his heart will prove. 
 
18 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 The ale-house cheer is now his sole delight, 
 Regardless, there he sits from morn till night. 
 
 No longer for his wife and children toils,— 
 
 Content no more around his cottage smiles. 
 
 The Wife, with silent anguish, marks the change. 
 And soon new griefs her bosom’s peace derange. 
 
 The children cry for bread—their evening prayers 
 Are now forgot, amid the Mother’s cares; 
 
 Want, sickness, death, invade the peasant’s home,— 
 Intemperence brings him to an early tomb: 
 
 And leaves the weeping dame, without a hope. 
 
 With all the ills of poverty to cope. 
 
 She labours hard her children to maintain. 
 
 And warns them ’gainst their Father’s fatal stain. 
 Heav’n has since moved them from their native cot 
 Each to fulfil his own peculiar lot. 
 
 One died abroad, who for his country bled,— 
 
 (No tears were dropped but those the Mother shed)— 
 The others scattered o’er the world’s wide stage. 
 
 The thousand ills of penury engage. 
 
 Perhaps, hid within the murky town’s embrace. 
 
 They sigh again these verdant scenes to trace,— 
 Lamenting still the fate that called from home, 
 
 Far from a Mother’s smiles for aye to roam. 
 
 But there’s a solemn pleasure in the tear 
 
SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 19 
 
 That’s shed for those affection holds most dear. 
 So the poor widow feels a sad relief 
 In venting here her solitary grief; — 
 
 And the same shades that echoed once her joy. 
 Hear the faint whisper of her struggling sigh. 
 
 Oft, when a boy, in silent mood Vd stray. 
 Where the deep solitude shut out the day,— 
 And conjure up the legends of the wood. 
 
 The tales of bandits, or of Robin Hood. 
 
 Until the dread enchantment thrilled my heart. 
 And at each sound with nervous fear I’d start; 
 Then o’er the mazy, broom-clad heath I’d roam. 
 Till I forgot the path which led me home ; 
 
 And, as the evening shadows round me stole. 
 Alarm and dread would seize my boyish soul ; 
 Until at last the tangled path would bring 
 My weary footsteps to the well-known spring. 
 Whose nectar would refresh my fevered soul, 
 And help me on my lingering homeward stroll. 
 
 Here may the toil-worn artizan enjoy 
 His hour of Nature’s smiles without alloy. 
 Assembled round, the gipsy group is seen, 
 
 And the wide feast is spread upon the green; 
 
20 
 
 SUTTON PAHK. 
 
 The joyous song steals on the ambient air, 
 
 And in the chorus joins the happy fair. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, the mazy dance they trace. 
 
 Form the gay circle—part, and then embrace. 
 
 E’en infants seem to feel the merry joy ; 
 
 While ruddy-faced old age sits jocund by. 
 
 But see ! too oft they fill the social glass, 
 
 And quaff the baneful draught;—too soon, alas ! 
 
 In ruder mirth, and more uprorious joy, 
 
 And loud dissentions, they the time employ. 
 
 In reckless mood the hanging boughs they break. 
 
 And scare the linnets from the neighbouring brake ; 
 And hence the hand of pow’r seeks to restrain, 
 
 The few brief joys which to the poor remain.* 
 
 And now the swinging gate, with ancient look. 
 
 Brings my lost footsteps to the babbling brook ; 
 
 'Whose spring lies near, with wooden rails around. 
 
 Just in the centre of the humid ground. 
 
 Here Nature reigns, in sweet poetic form. 
 
 Or bathed in light, or weeping from the storm. 
 
 Oft has my pencil tried, in vain, to trace, 
 
 The many careless beauties of the place ; 
 
 • In allusion to the recent order respecting Gipsy Parties 
 meeting in the Park. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 21 
 
 Again I’ 11 sit upon this bended tree, 
 
 And note, once more, each lovely form I see. 
 
 The mossy green here wears a livelier hue. 
 
 As the spring water saturates it through; 
 
 In single grandeur towers the lofty Oak, 
 
 Whose ample trunk oft tempts the Woodman’s stroke. 
 The Elm and Ash are here distinctly seen,— 
 
 And prickly Holly, with its darkened green, 
 
 While farther down, a sedgy pool still lies. 
 
 On either side, the woods divided rise. 
 
 From each the answering music echoes sweet. 
 
 As if they longed in one embrace to meet. 
 
 While in the distance, rising o’er the trees. 
 
 We view the old Church-tower—as if to please 
 Still more the rapt enthusiast. The air 
 Teems with its humming insects, glad and fair ; 
 
 The wild rose flings her perfume o’er the scene,— 
 The blue sky glitters in its dazzling sheen,— 
 
 And clothes in lustrous splendour all the green. 
 
 How sweet to snatch, amid such scenes as this, 
 
 An hour of peace—an interval of bliss ! 
 
 Forget the vulgar cares of busy life. 
 
 Its noise—its sorrows—and its ceaseless strife. 
 
 Here, give the reins to thought—and let the soul 
 Wing its still flight above the world’s control; 
 
 C 
 
22 
 
 SUTTOIS PARK. 
 
 Or, wending 'neath yon shady covert cool, 
 
 Steal on the verdant margin of the pool*— 
 
 There, stretched upon the mossy couch, to pore 
 On the rich treasures of poetic lore— 
 
 With Shakspeare, Fancy's child, to dream again. 
 Or lull the soul with Bloomfield’s humbler strain; 
 And, as the wandering eye the page forsook. 
 Enchanted still it rests on Nature’s book ; 
 
 Views in the wave the clear refulgent sky. 
 
 The sloping hanks, and trees reflected lie— 
 
 The stately swan sail o’er her smooth domain. 
 While Silence holds an undisputed reign. 
 
 Save when the finny tenants sportive leap, 
 
 And on the waters circling eddies creep ; 
 
 Or, when the plashing oars may guide the boat 
 To»where the snowy crested lilies float. 
 
 Methinks that here the fabled Nymphs might hide, 
 And viewless o'er the waters love to glide; 
 
 Lead the rapt Minstrel through the mystic maze. 
 
 To wake the living lyre, and breathe immortal lays. 
 
 * 
 
 Perkins’s Pool. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 See, o’er yon clustering trees a mansion smiles,* 
 Reared in the best of architectural styles,— 
 
 Pure English taste presides around its walls. 
 
 And chastest beauty o’er the structure falls. 
 
 Upon its lawn the oak majestic grows, 
 
 In whose wide shade the noble deer repose. 
 
 There Art perfects the good that Nature yields. 
 And gives contrasting splendour to the fields! 
 Hartopp, thy name has long endeared the spot. 
 May still that name be rev’renced in the cot. 
 
 And, like the guardian of the village green, 
 
 May’st thou be prompt to help where want is seen 
 Well I remember when the Sabbath drew 
 
 • Four Oaks^ Hall. 
 
 c 2 
 
24 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 Thy sire to grace the long-accustomed pew :— 
 
 How goodness beamed around his aged face, 
 
 ‘‘ His looks adorned the venerable place 
 Nor did his features all his worth belie,— 
 
 Though high his rank, his virtues stood as high. 
 Wealth did to him her golden influence lend. 
 
 The weak to raise,—misfortune to befriend : 
 
 Noble by nature,—all the gloss of art 
 
 Could ne’er such lustre,—ne’er such worth impart! 
 
 His life, like sunshine o’er Creation’s breast. 
 
 With equal ray the rich and poor had blest. 
 
 But it has gone !—no more the world to cheer,— 
 it seeks a glorious and a kindred sphere. 
 
 Such men are Britain’s safety and her guide, — 
 
 Her strength,—her glory,—ornament, and pride ! 
 They make their class respected by their deeds,— 
 Envy is hushed, and harmony succeeds. 
 
 Long may thy name be dear to these blest shades ! 
 Long bring a charm, when Autumn’s glory fades, 
 And Winter strips the woods.—Then o’er his hearth 
 May the poor peasant oft record thy worth— 
 
 Bless the kind fate that called him near thy seat. 
 And teach his children to respect the great. 
 
 But hark ! the fall of waters sounding near. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 25 
 
 Whose mimic thunders steal upon the ear. 
 
 Swift do the issuing streams the bank descend, 
 
 Down whose dark sides the shadowy branches bend,— 
 Soon then escape the chasm’s furious leap. 
 
 And on the pebbly pathway seem to sweep. 
 
 Then through the moss they gently glide to sleep. 
 What is this mystic bliss that fills my heart. 
 
 And calls anon th’ unbidden tear to start ? 
 
 That o’er my troubled soul brings transient joy. 
 
 Like the red meteor through the darkened sky ! 
 
 Is it that Fancy, ever on the wing. 
 
 Delighted, here can take her heav’nward spring ! 
 
 Or, linked with Mem’ry wander by yon stream. 
 
 And feast again on some delicious dream. 
 
 There stands the Cottage, where of old it stood, — 
 
 The pool before,—behind, the sheltering wood ; 
 
 And as we near the still and lone retreat. 
 
 Through the broad foliage gleams the watery sheet,’^ 
 The moor-hen from her bed of rushes starts. 
 
 And all the charm of solitude imparts. 
 
 While o’er the walk the trees commingling meet. 
 
 And give the Cot an aspect still more sw’eet. 
 
 A b^ch is placed beneath the spreading boughs. 
 
 • This is called Bracebridge Pool. 
 
2G SUTTON park. 
 
 "Where age may rest—and lovers breathe their vows ; 
 And oh ! when Summer spreads her carpet round. 
 What spot than this more lovely could be found ? 
 
 To look from yonder casement, o’er the scene^ 
 
 The woods rejoicing—and the vrave serene— 
 
 To mark the islets from the water springing, 
 
 And the glad swadlow o’er its surface winging— 
 
 To know that here—whate’er the world betide. 
 
 Peace—comfort—joy—might unmolested hide ! 
 
 But now, still wider does the prospect gain, — 
 
 Seen from the high and furze-bespangled plain, 
 
 W^hat grandeur sits on yonder clustering trees !* 
 Though storms may rage, and thunder swell the breeze. 
 What joy to note Aurora’s dewy hand, 
 
 Unveil the East, and light the distant land ; 
 
 To feel the healthful gale,—and hear the note 
 Of early warblers o’er the Common float. 
 
 See! as the tangled path I still pursue, 
 
 The slow-winged rooks just rise upon my view— 
 Whose cawdng music’s dearer to my heart, 
 
 Than all the studied melody of art. 
 
 The lark just hovers o’er her grassy nest, • 
 
 * Barr-Beacon. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 27 
 
 Begins her song, and sinks again to rest; 
 
 The cattle shun me, as my steps intrude 
 On their dominion—Freedom's solitude,— 
 
 O’er the rough Common’s breast in droves they wade 
 Drink from the rills—or nip th’ unfrequent blade. 
 
 Gay flowery tints amid the wild appear, 
 
 As if they smiled the thorny path to cheer; 
 
 And xiow^ adowm the sloping heath is seen 
 
 The pole, which points us to the spring-blest green,^ 
 
 Whose waters yield, in dark affliction’s hour, 
 
 A balmy hope—a medicinal power. 
 
 There, pale Consumption from the chrystal bed 
 Walks with new vigour, and a firmer tread; 
 
 While infants plunged within its cold embrace, 
 
 Grow strong with time—aud form a manly race. 
 
 Thou generous fount—in whose pellucid wave 
 The old may drink, the young more vent’rous, lave ; 
 Emblem of worth ! within thy circling nook 
 The chrystal gleams with unpretending look. 
 
 On Heaven’s high arch it keeps its glassy eye. 
 
 And in its breast reflects the answering sky. 
 
 Etherial lustre o'er its surface glows. 
 
 And still more clear the pebbly depths disclose. 
 
 
 Rowton Weil. 
 
28 
 
 SUTTON PARK. 
 
 Long may thy virtues to the poor bring health— 
 
 (An ample balance for the want of wealth) ; 
 
 Long may thy watery charm relief extend— 
 
 Best of physicians—and the poor man’s friend. 
 
 E’en now I love to seek thy wholesome spell, 
 
 And plunge within the far-famed Rowton Well. 
 
 See, on that hill^ where once the Gibbet swung 1 
 The Popish Tutors guide the youthful throng; 
 
 Yon gothic pile, with recent honours crowned. 
 
 Majestic rising from its classic ground. 
 
 Obtrudes, presumptuous, on the wandering eye 
 Engaged in Nature’s worship;—while the sky 
 Surrounds the structure like an azure zone. 
 
 And gives its form a grandeur not its own. 
 
 There—may Instruction to new heights ascend— 
 Reason—her light with truth and learning blend. 
 
 And Charity bring discord to an end. 
 
 Now, as we onward o’er the wild heath move, 
 
 Far in the distance waves the circling grove; 
 
 In patches round the work of man is seen, 
 
 And vegetation wears a livelier green. 
 
 * The hill on which Oscott College is built was called Gibbet 
 Hill—from the fact of a Gibbet having formerly hung there. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 29 
 
 ’Neath yonder starry hedge the fox-glove creeps, 
 
 And here and there a lowly Cottage peeps ; 
 
 The Coldfield now presents its ample round, 
 
 And lengthening, mixes with the horizon’s bound. 
 There, traced by man, in crumbling ruin stands 
 That pride of labour built by Roman hands.* 
 
 Immortal relic of a work sublime. 
 
 Braving, e’en now, the hungry tooth of time ! 
 
 Britain, with all thy glory and thy pride, 
 tThose mouldering stones thy empty vaunts deride. 
 Though from afar thou bring’st the trophied spoil. 
 
 The marks of slavery lurk upon thy soil; 
 
 And with the .voice of ruin seem to say. 
 
 Like these, thy proudest land-marks shall decay. 
 Wiiile man, whose boastful arts have fashioned all. 
 Beside his work, shall be the first to fall. 
 
 Till time and desolation only reign 
 The gloomy victors of the deathless plain. 
 
 • The Roman Wall. 
 
 t I have not seen this wall, (or rather its remains) though I 
 believe it is in existence; but the Roman-road—called Icknield- 
 street—is even now traced without difficulty. Mr. Hutton, 
 Author of the “ History of Birmingham,” makes mention of a 
 hill called King^s Standing, on which a stone is fixed in comme¬ 
 moration of the circumstance of Charles the First having haran¬ 
 gued his army from it in 1642. But as T have not seen the hill L 
 have not made any allusion to it.—H. H. H. 
 
30 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 Yon lonely Inn, to wintiy winds exposed, 
 
 Where the lost traveller eften has reposed, 
 
 Looks doubly welcome on the wide-spread waste,— 
 Like a cool shelter in the desert placed. 
 
 'Twas near that spot, when sullen midnight frowned, 
 Erewhile red murder stalked these wilds around, 
 
 And in the breast of man a harbour found ; 
 
 ‘Twas he—whose fearful crime has oft been told, 
 Whom justice favoured by the power of gold. 
 
 In the gay circle of the dance he met 
 The *maid on whom his lustful eye w^as set; 
 
 He drew his victim from the festal throng, 
 
 And o’er the widening Coldfield wandered long. 
 
 In vain he tries to lure her guiltless heart 
 From virtue’s long-loved precepts to depart; 
 
 Abashed, the maiden from the monster flew,— 
 
 Fired by revenge, the murderer’s steps pursue ; 
 
 Till, faint with fright, the struggling beauty falls. 
 
 And on the wretch for mercy vainly calls. 
 
 With coward heart he dreads the dawning day. 
 
 And to a rush-grown pond he drags his prey. 
 
 No hand w^as there the innocent to save,— 
 
 * Mary Ashford, who was cruelly violated and murdered 
 near here in the year 1817. She was buried in Sutton Churchyard, 
 and on her grave-stone is inscribed a very appropriate epitaph. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 31 
 
 The winds moaned piteous o’er her watery grave. 
 
 Since then, ’tis said, the weeds have ceased to grow,— 
 And the sweet wild-flower on the spot to blow ; 
 
 The lowing kirie forsake the blood-stained place. 
 
 And children tremble while the spot they trace ; 
 
 Her shade still visits the forsaken scene, 
 
 Or haunts the wretch, though oceans roll between. 
 
 Here may be seen, beneath the clear, blue sky. 
 
 The far-oif* town, with mists overhanging nigh ; 
 
 There, once the fir-tree on the Heath grew wild. 
 
 And man, the Patriarch, lived as Nature’s child. 
 
 Now, art prevails—and toiling myriads pine— 
 
 And Science lights her sons to Mammon’s shrine ; 
 fNo walks have they to bring the Summer home, 
 
 But towering chimneys o’er their dwellings loom. 
 There, want and crime, nursed in their kindred storms, 
 Assume their varied, never-dying forms. 
 
 The factory child there lives its fretful hour. 
 
 And dies unripened—like a shaded flower. 
 
 How many a tale of woe may there be told— 
 
 * Birmingham. 
 
 + It is to be hoped that this town will (like Manchester) soon 
 be in a condition to liave its public Walks and Parks. The subject 
 has already been agitated in the Town Council by Mr. Alderman 
 Cutler; and subsequently in still higher quarters. 
 
32 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 How many a struggle for the bauble gold ! 
 
 Whose power, however great, can ne’er atone 
 For ruined hearts—and noble minds o’erthrowm. 
 There, misery lives, and takes the human form, 
 Mourning alike, in sunshine and in storm ; 
 
 There, slavery reigns, beneath fair Freedom’s guise. 
 And artificial lustre mocks the eyes. 
 
 Women, the graces of their sex resign. 
 
 And give their toil and virtue for base coin : 
 
 Lost in the discords of a selfish w’orld. 
 
 Their sighs, unheeded—down to dust they’re hurled. 
 Great God ! were mortals born to live for this ? 
 
 Is this the general sum of human bliss ? 
 
 Does Heaven spread out her glories all in vain ? 
 
 Are men like Seraphs formed—yet formed for pain ? 
 Shall the bright seasons roll—shall Nature smile. 
 Yet, veiled in gloom, the factory children toil ? 
 
 And e’en exult (oh ! grievous lot to bear) 
 
 A meagre chance of self-support to share ! 
 
 The free-winged insect hails the Summer’s reign ; 
 The sportive zephyr frolics o’er the plain ; 
 
 The birds and beasts the playful concert join. 
 
 And Freedom o’er Creation speaks divine 1 
 Man, Man alone, lives in perennial gloom, 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 33 
 
 And drags his fetters with him to the tomb. 
 
 But while content presides within his breast, 
 
 Why should the Muse disturb her downy rest ? 
 
 ’Tis she that sweetens e’en the roughest fare, 
 
 And helps the soul the sharpest ills to bear; 
 
 Sheds o’er the infant mind its balmy sleep, 
 
 Though sunk in grief the troubled parents weep ; 
 
 The thorny paths of woe it strews with flowers, 
 
 And wings more swiftly all the toil-spent hours. 
 
 Sweet nymph ! bring back thy slumbers to my mind, 
 In leaden chains again my spirit bind. 
 
 What though, in transient luxury of thought, 
 
 » 
 
 Wafted on high, my dreamy soul is caught— 
 
 Soon does the vision fade, and once again 
 I look with envy on the lowly swain. 
 
 And sigh to yield the favours Heav’n has lent, 
 
 To taste again of ignorance and content ! 
 
 But see, the golden fringes of the West 
 Proclaim th’ approach of eve ! The waving crest 
 Of the gilt foliage seems to catch the ray, 
 
 Th’ expansive glories, of the parting day ! 
 
 The cotter seeks his cattle on the plain,— 
 
 An heritage he scarcely can retain 
 
 From the strong grasp of power.—The land’s enclosed 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 On which his ancestors in peace reposed— 
 
 Year after year the bounding fences rise, 
 
 And shut the low-roofed cottage from our eyes ! 
 
 The Poet, kindling, with indignant strain 
 Laments the loss;—hut ah ! laments in vain. 
 
 The men of these dull, calculating times. 
 
 Forget the Bard, disdainful of his rhymes ! 
 
 Apollo now has ceased to sway the land. 
 
 And rising Plutus takes supreme command. 
 
 The clank of engines, and the hiss of steam. 
 
 Drown all the music of the Poet’s dream 1 
 And shall this rage for gain—this love of coin— 
 
 t 
 
 Quench in our hearts the little that’s divine.^ 
 
 Or is it that this charm alone can give 
 The pass to honour and the power to live ? 
 
 That in the struggle ev’ry soul is tost. 
 
 And Nature, Love, and Poesy are lost! 
 
 See the poor Bard ! no hope to warm his breast. 
 
 No day of promise, and no night of rest. 
 
 He cannot join th’ ignoble race for gain. 
 
 And hence his life is marked by want and pain. 
 
 He seeks in solitude to vent his grief,— 
 
 The Muse his sole companion and relief. 
 
 Despised of men, though to his share are given 
 The choicest favours that are shower’d from Heav’n.— 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 35 
 
 An eye that loves the beautiful and grand,— 
 
 A heart tnat feels when pity’s claims demand,— 
 
 A mind that spurns the blessings wealth can buy, 
 
 And knows the wrongs that poverty annoy,— 
 
 A living paradox !—he roams forlorn,— 
 
 The pride ef angels—yet of men the seorn ! 
 
 Sweet Albion!—Isle of plenty and of wealth,— 
 
 The land of beauty and the seat of health ! 
 
 Why should we seek in other climes for bliss, 
 
 Attained in more perfection far in this ? 
 
 Thy sons content with little, to be free,— 
 
 Where shall we look for peace, if not with thee P 
 Yet Emigration, with her specious scheme,— 
 
 (The bigotted Malthusian’s favourite theme)— 
 Ensnares our labourers in her syren dream. 
 
 ^England may well her teeming hosts maintain, 
 
 Nor send them weeping o’er th’ inconstant main. 
 
 Then let us hope to see the joyous day. 
 
 When from our native shores we need not stray ;— 
 When our green Isle shall yield content and cheer. 
 
 And crown some cherished hope from year to year ! 
 When prosperous gales shall bless the labouring poor, 
 
 • It has been calculated that this country is capable of sup¬ 
 porting more than one hundred times its present inhabitants. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 SUTTON PARK. 
 
 And make the rich in safety more secure ! 
 
 Life would be then, as Heav’n at first designed. 
 
 Free from the jarring contests of mankind ;— 
 
 Want would call up the burning blush of shame, 
 
 And merry England'’ would redeem her name,— 
 Then, when their native land could bliss afford, 
 Christians might send their sympathies abroad. 
 
 With competence on earth, and faith in Heav'n, 
 Peace,—Virtue,—Hope immortal would be given! 
 But, while the body lacks its share of ease. 
 
 The soul in vain will seek celestial peace. 
 
 Full many a heart doth now in secret pine. 
 
 Whose hopes and aspirations were divine,— 
 
 But, tossed upon the billowy sea of life. 
 
 Each holy thonght is deadened in the strife. 
 
 Until the gem of virtue shines no more,— 
 
 Gold rules the heart that Headn had ruled before I 
 Oh ! that the genial current of the soul” 
 
 Should thus be frozen by the world’s control, 
 
 And that the soil where loveliest flowers might bloom 
 Should early thus their fragrant worth entomb; 
 
 See, though around the light of Knowledge spreads, 
 And Education all her glory sheds,— 
 
 Though Temp’rance gives fair promise of her reign. 
 And 'gins to wipe off England’s foulest stain,— 
 Though, heard afar, the shout of Freedom rings. 
 
SUTTON PARK. 
 
 37 
 
 And mild Philanthropy expands her wings,— 
 
 Though sweet Religion smiles athwart the land, 
 
 And in her name unnumbered temples stand,— 
 
 Still o'er the world the springs of woe abound, 
 
 And man the enemy of man is found ! 
 
 And now, blest Sutton : let me turn once more 
 To thy loved beauties, ere my task be o’er. 
 
 Again upon thy mossy paths I’ll stray. 
 
 Where bonghs o’erhanging intercept my way. 
 
 Upon the cuckoo’s note I’ll lingering dwell, 
 
 Then breathe a long,—perhaps a last farewell! 
 
 But ah ! where’er my darkening fate may lead, 
 Remembrence still on thy loved haunts shall feed,—• 
 Those spots which link Affection to. the past. 
 
 And gleam like gems on Memory’s dreary waste. 
 
 Twas here my childhood’s careless footsteps strayed— 
 Here my bright schemes of future bliss were laid ; 
 
 Here Friendship waved her infant wing of joy. 
 
 Ere Time’s chill breath its fervour could destroy. 
 
 Oft o’er the heath our ramble should w’e take. 
 
 Oft the brown treasures from the nut-tree shake. 
 
 All, all appears as in our boyhood’s prime;— 
 
 But ah ! with us not so the hand of Time 
 Has passed — divided in the world of care, 
 
 Each has its fury or its smiles to share ; 
 
38 
 
 SUTTON PAEK. 
 
 But all forget the spot which made them blest,— 
 And the warm friendship which they once professed, 
 Save one,—the loved companion of my youth,— 
 Who 'spite of Fortune's frowns retains her truth. 
 Sweet spot of earth ! no riches could impart 
 The same strong spell thou hast upon my heart. 
 
 No Alpine heights their craggy wonders rear,— 
 
 No cataract's awful thunders do we hear,— 
 
 No far-off ocean gleams with sun-lit pride,— 
 
 No lengthening landscape spreads its glories wide! 
 Still may th’ historic Muse record thy fame, 
 
 And mix thy praises with a ^Prince's name. 
 
 And ah ! when Time shall lay thy features bare. 
 
 And not e’en yonder yellow heath shall spare ; 
 
 When Population’s busy tribes shall spread. 
 
 And triumph o’er thy beauties, lost and dead ; 
 
 When o’er these sacred haunts the houses meet. 
 
 And from the town form one continuous street; 
 Then, when the hand that pens this humble lay. 
 Shall, long entombed, lie mouldering in decay, 
 
 May this fond tribute tell that thou hast been. 
 
 The pride and glory of the rural scene,— 
 
 And help some votary of the Muse to mark 
 The hidden traces of the once-loved Park ! 
 
 * It is said to have been a favourite hunting place of Will 
 Eufus. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF TEMPERANCE. Price 6d. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 The Poem manifests talents of no ordinary stamp, and indi¬ 
 cates an ability on the part of the Poet to achieve a composition 
 of a higher, if not a more important grade.”— Sentinel. 
 
 The quotations we have given supersede the necessity of 
 criticism; the Poem is good, is a creditable addition to our 
 temperance literature, * * * and as such, we recommend it 
 
 to our brethren.”— Rechahite Magazine. 
 
 “ The eulogium on water is very chastely and correctly con¬ 
 ceived.”— National Temperance Advocate. 
 
 The Poem is in easy blank verse—and is creditable to the 
 talent of the Author.” —Temperance Intelligencer. 
 
 A very excellent Poem.”— Father Mathew. 
 
 THOMAS RAGG, PRINTER, SPICEAL-STR EET. 
 

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