LAYS OF EBOR, AND OTHER POEMS. BY JAMES WARDELL. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Scott. LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. BAINES & NEWSOME, LEEDS; AND ALL BOOKSELLERS. 1836. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/laysofeborotherpOOward TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD VISCOUNT MORPETH, M.P THESE P@EIM§ ARE, BY HIS LORDSHIP’S PERMISSION. RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY HIS LORDSHIP’S GREATLY OBLIGED AND MOST OBEDIENT HUMBLE SERVANT. THE AUTHOR, ADVERTISEMENT* In laying the Poems which constitute this volume before the public eye, the Author begs to observe, that they were not originally intended for publication, but were written at leisure hours, merely to gratify a taste for poetry. But, having in the course of a few months, composed a considerable number of stanzas, a great part of them on the various historical events which have occurred, and are related in the ancient history of the native city and county of the Author, he was induced, in part by the persuasions of some of his friends, and partly by his own inclination, to throw them into the form, and to give them the title, under which they now appear. To his Patron and Subscribers, and to such of his Friends as have by their advice, or otherwise, assisted him in the publication of his work, the Author begs to tender his most grateful thanks. Leeds , 1st June, 1836. NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS. Those Subscribers whose Addresses are not added to their Names, reside in Leeds. Her Royal Highness the Princess Victoria. Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent. His Grace the Archbishop of York. The Earl Fitzwilliam, (2 copies. ) Lord Morpeth, M.P. (2 copies.) Lord Pollington, M.P. Lady Broadhead, CampsmounL Sir John Beckett, Bart. M.P. (2 copies.) E. S. Cayley, Esq., M.P. Edward Baines, Esq., M.P. A. Lawson, Esq., M.P. Joseph Pease, Jun. Esq., M.P. George Goodman, Esq., (Mayor of Leeds.) Thomas William Tottie, Esq., Beech Grave . James Montgomery, Esq., Sheffield . Vlll NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS. Ash, Mr. Edwin. Appleyard, Mr. James. Bailey, Mr. G. H. (2 copies.) Brown, Mr. Robert. Booth, Mr. J. Baines, Edward, Jun., Esq. Britton, Miss. Bond, Mr. Beaumont, Mr. John. Cockerham, Mr. John. Crossley, Mr. John. Dalby, Mr. John. Dickinson, Mr. Simpson. Dibb, Mr. Wm., Churwell. Dutton, Mrs., Sandal. Emmott, Mrs. James. Fenteman, Mr. Thomas. Gidley, Mr. A. M. (2 copies.) Gee, Mr. J. F. Gaunt, Matthew, Esq. Herbert, Mr. James. Holland, Mr. William. Hogg, Mrs. J. Hogg, Mr. James. Hemmant, Mr. Thomas. Hutton, Mr. William. Hunt, Mr. William, Jun. Hubbard, James, Esq. Holroyd, Mr. Wm. Hodgson, Mr. J. C., London. Haley, Mr. Hirst, Mr. Joseph. Harrison, Mr. James. Holmes, Mr. Benjamin. Hillyard, Mr. Joseph, York. Heslegrave, Mr. R&bt, Do. Jenkins, Mr. George. Jenkins, Mrs. Lister, Mr. John. Leatham, Mr. Flintoff, Ponte- fract. Middleton, Mr. Joseph. Morewood, Mr. George. Morley, Mr. George. Newsam, Mr. Thos. Plowman, Miss. Robinson, Mr. Robinson, Mr. J. W. Robinson, Mr. Charles. Robinson, Mr. Thos. Knares- borough. Robinson, Mr. Wm., York . Rawling, Mr. Samuel. Sigston, Mr. James. Saville, Mr., Wakefield. Stott, James, Esq. Stephenson, Mr. Joseph. Speed, Mr. Robert. Tottie, J. W. Esq. Temple, Mr. R. J. Thompson, Mr. Charles. Vant, Mr. Thos. Pontefract. Wiseman, Mr. George. Wilkinson, Mr. John. Ward, Mr. Henry, York. Wade, Mr. Edwin, Do. Young, Mr. John. CONTENTS, LAYS OF EBOR. PAGE The Eve of St. Mark, 1 How often, fair Ebor, above thy proud walls 4 The vow of Prince Ulphus, 6 I drew my sword in Beauty’s cause 9 Boadicea 11 What news from the battle field 15 The Funeral of the Emperor Severus, 16 A frown had gather’d o’er his brow , 19 The Death of Richard II., 21 Lines on visiting Pontefract Castle, 25 On the Battle of Stamford Bridge, 27 5 Tis sweet to rove at the silent hour..... 28 The Earl of Newcastle’s Vision, 30 Ladye, leave these scenes of grandeur 34 Kirkstall Abbey 35 Song on the Union of the Houses of York and Lancaster, ... 37 The Death of Lord Clifford, 39 He stood amidst the young and brave 43 The Battle of the Standard, 45 Oh 1 can I e’er forget 47 The White Rose of York, 48 X CONTEXTS. PAGE The lovely and the brave . 49 Ah ! who can tell that knight’s despair 51 She hath bound the gilt spurs on his heel 53 Lines on the death of Capt. Richd. Beckett, and Capt. S. Walker 54 The dying warrior 56 The farewell 57 The Battle of Stamford Bridge, 59 The lament of a young bride 63 I mingle in the festive throng 65 Earl Siward’s last request 66 Oh ! leave me not 68 The Wain Stones 69 Ancient British war song 71 Say, wilt thou be a soldier’s bride 73 Knaresbro’ Castle 74 The lover’s address to his steed 77 Forward, Warrior 79 The Knight and the Novice 80 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Escape of Mary, Queen of Scots, 85 The Storm 87 The Queen of Granada 89 Lines on hearing a Lecture delivered on the wrongs of Poland 94 Morning 95 Evening 96 Caesar passing the Rubicon 97 *Tis said within man’s sordid breast 100 Lines on a portrait 102 CONTENTS. Xi PAGE Scarbro’ Castle 104 Serenade 105 The Pirate’s Song 106 Spain 107 SACRED MELODIES. Moses smiteth the Rock at Meribah Ill Whither, O Jerusalem 114 I have heard the soft voice of my love 116 Elijah on Mount Horeb 117 Daniel in the Lions’ Den 119 The Death of Saul 120 Song of the Hebrew women before Saul and David 121 The Prophet’s warning to Nineveh 123 Jerusalem, farewell 125 When the fingers of David swept over the strings 126 The passage of the Red Sea 127 Habakkuk’s faith 129 O thou fairest of Israel’s maids 130 Belshazzar’s Feast 131 Tell me, lovely Hebrew maiden 136 The death of Moses 137 Israel’s lament 139 As proudly the towers arise * 141 O Israel, awake 142 The siege of Jerusalem 144 Joshua commandeth the Sun to stand still 146 The Prophetess 147 O Star of Jerusalem, rise 152 Song of the Hebrew Exiles 153 LAYS OF EBOR. THE EVE OF SAINT MARK. The city’s crowd had sunk Into the arms of sleep ; When the midnight chimes were rung, In tones both loud and deep ; At that still and silent hour, Borne on the passing gale, The sounds were carried forth, Far over hill and vale. The moon shone pale and clear O’er the Minster’s holy fane ; Piercing with a chasten’d light Each antique stained pane ; 2 LAYS OF EBOR. And glancing ’neath the lofty roof, On pillar, tomb and door ; Pour’d a flood of silver light On the cold marble floor. When suddenly a sound The spacious fabric fills ; Like the hum of busy bees, Or the murm’ring of rills. And the organ’s pealing notes Resounded through the pile ; As a promiscuous throng Came up each sweeping aisle. \ There were Kings of ancient days, In royal garb array’d ; With waving plumes, and crowns of gold, On which the moonbeams play’d; Priests clad in flowing robes, And ladies once thought fair ; Proud-crested knights and haughty lords, With mitred prelates there. * But beneath their gay attire, Their fleshless skulls were seen ; LAYS OF EBOR. 3 White rows of teeth, and holes Where bright eyes once had been To the altar’s raised steps, In long array they pass ; And silently they listen to The solemn midnight mass. But hark — the sullen clock proclaims The first glad hour of morn ; The peal upon that spectre crowd Acts like a signal horn : For when the sounds had ceas’d to roll The vaulted nave along ; Each knight and dame had vanished, Gone was the phantom throng. Yet on each eve of good Saint Mark, The spirits of the dead May there be seen at lone midnight, With slow and stately tread, To gather round the holy shrine, And kneel as if in pray’r ; ’Till with the coming day they flee, And melt into the air. b 2 HOW OFTEN, FAIR EBOR, ABOVE THY PROUD WALLS. How often, fair Ebor, above thy proud walls Have ensign and banner their silken folds flung ; While loudly at eve in thy gay festal halls, The harp of the minstrel in gladness hath rung : And monarchs have feasted, and bright eyes have beam’d With a softening glance of enchantment around ; And valour hath triumph’d, and rich armour gleam’d, Where mould’ring ruins now cumber the ground. Oh ! those were the times when the eagle of Rome, From the rough storm of war on thy towers found rest ; And finding in these distant regions a home, Repos’d for a space her invincible crest : But dead are thy chieftains, the good and the brave, Who once were the terror and dread of thy foes ; And as ages have pass’d since they sunk to the grave, Scarce known is the spot where their ashes repose. LAYS OF EBOR. 5 No more from thy gates, lovely city, the train Of barons and vassals march fearlessly forth, With pennon and lance, to the dread battle plain, To drive back the ravaging clans of the north. Then oft from thy walls, did the languishing eye Of beauty forlorn search the country afar ; While her young bosom heav’d with the half sup- press’d sigh, A prayer for her knight who had rush’d to the war. Thy white rose was foremost on each battle plain, When civil dissensions disgraced this fair land ; Yet severe were the woes ’twas thy fate to sustain, For thy bravest who fell beneath death’s icy hand. Though chang’d is the scene, and departed the grandeur Of chieftains whose names and bold deeds are no more ; Along thy grey walls I still love to wander, Recalling in thought the bright days that are o’er. THE VOW OF PRINCE ULPHUS. “ Ulphus, the son of Toraldus, governed in the west parts of Deira, and by reason of a difference likely to happen betwixt his eldest son and his youngest, about his Lord- ship, when he was dead, presently took this course to make them equal : without delay he went to 'York, and taking the horn wherein he was wont to drink with him, he filled it with wine, and kneeling upon his knees before the altar, bestowed upon God and the blessed St. Peter all his lands, tenements, &e.” Deira’s Lord has cross’d his steed, And spurr’d him to his wildest speed ; He left his castle’s stately halls. For ancient Ebor’s lofty walls : His sons had oft disturb’d his peace With this, — who, after his decease Should be left the powerful heir Of his broad lands and Lordships fair — - And Ulphus on that very morn, A deep and solemn oath had sworn, That holy church should have and hold All his possessions, all his gold. LAYS OF EBOIt. The troubled chief made no delay, But fiercely riding on his way ; First proudly pointing to the skies, He sees Saint Peter’s fane arise, And next the city meets his eyes ; Across the plain with slacken’d reins He sweeps, and now the gate he gains ; Guarded by battlements and towers, The pond’rous archway on him lours ; He quickly pass’d the gloomy ward, And reached soon the Minster yard ; First check’d his weary panting steed, Vaulted from off his back with speed ; Then down the arched chancel wide, He pass’d with quick and hasty stride ; Before Saint Peter’s holy shrine, His drinking horn he fill’d with wine ; And kneeling at the altar there, He cross’d himself in fervent pray’r ; Press’d with both hands his throbbing brow, And sighing ratified his vow. While priests whose garments swept the ground, Stood silent, and in order round : — 8 LAYS OF EBOK. “ By the blest rood I swear. As I before it bow ; And call the saints to hear My freely offer’d vow ; Into Saint Peter’s hands, When I shall cease to live, My tenements and lands I hereby freely give ; His shrine I here endow With all my Lordships fair ; And at his altar now, I make the church my heir.” When he this sacred oath had sworn, He drank the w T ine, and gave the horn Into the holy fathers’ hands, To hold thereby his goods and lands ; And though since that eventful day, Many years have roll’d away ; And though Prince Ulphus long hath slept, Still that old horn is safely kept ; By which are held these Lordships now, Bequeathed by the chieftain’s vow. I DREW MY SWORD IN BEAUTY’S CAUSE. I drew my sword in beauty’s cause, Where knights for honour fought ; Her kindling accents of applause, My heart with gladness caught. Her name where banners wav’d above, Was still my battle cry ; But now for unrequited love, Alas ! I vainly sigh. When in the chase she found a charm, And fearlessly would ride ; To shield her lovely form from harm, I still was by her side. At festive board, or splendid ball, Where wealth and grandeur shone ; In gay saloon, or glitt’ring hall, I gaz’d on her alone. But often ’midst the fairest scene, Appears some darker shade ; b 3 10 LAYS OF EBOR. Alas ! that flowers of brightest sheen, Should only soonest fade. Thus I, who deem’d her every vow In warmth of heart was spoken ; And thought her true, — now weep to know, Her vows to me are broken. The flame which now consumes my heart, Was kindled by her smile ; But she now acts the trifler’s part, And breaks this heart the while ; — Where lances crash’d, I’ve borne her glove Amidst my plumage high ; But now for unrequited love, Alas ! I vainly sigh. BOADICEA. In the deep bosom of a gloomy wood, Surrounded by a wild and pathless waste The stern Andraste’s shapeless temple stood, A pile of stones irregularly placed. And near it grew rude oaks of giant size, That long had brav’d fierce winter’s howling blast ; Whose branches hoar spreading across the skies, A sombre shade around the altar cast. But who are these adorn’d in savage state, With rude barbaric arms, and moony shield ; Who on a stately female seem to wait, And prompt obedience to her wishes yield ? The eye of fire, the stern majestic brow, The coronet upon her haughty head, The yellow locks that o’er her shoulders flow, Make known th’ Iceni’s queen, to empire bred. 12 LAYS OF EBOR. In grim array around the altar’s base, Her band of warriors take their silent stand ; Revenge is pictur’d on each hero’s face, And oft he grasps his sword with ardent hand. But their proud queen before the sacred flame, That on the altar blazed high in air ; With anxious gaze, and clasped hands she came, And to the goddess thus preferr’d her pray’r : — “ Great Andraste, as we bow At thine altar, hear us now ; Rise, and stretch thy powerful hand, To save the relics of our land ; Let thy burning wrath devour The haughty Romans’ power ; Give them to feed the fowls of air, Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” (all.) Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” “ Lover of the warlike train, Worship’d on each sanguine plain ; LAYS OF EBOR. 13 By the chieftain’s blood-stained car, Sweeping through the ranks of war ; By the spear, and by the shield, By the gory battle field ; By the dreadful carnage there, Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” (all.) “ Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” “ Mighty one, we claim the fight, Fill each British heart with might ; When the foeman’s banners fly, And peals in air the loud war cry ; When the iron tempest lours, Let that glorious field be ours ; By thine holy temple fair, Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” (all.) “ Goddess, hear a nation’s prayer.” Thus Boadicea spoke — while from the flame That on the altar shone on all around, Rose smould’ring smoke — and dark red flashes came, And sudden tremblings shook the sacred ground. 14 LAYS OF EBOR. “ Our Goddess hears” they cried with one loud voice, “ She hears our prayers for this our bleeding land ; “ She bids us in the coming fight rejoice, “ She gives our proud oppressors to our hand.” Brave hearts, deceived by these omens dread, ’Gainst the invader’s force they fought in vain ; ’Till the strait pass was piled with heaps of dead, By Roman arms and Roman valour slain. But yet they nobly fell in freedom’s cause, With sword in hand, as best becomes the brave ; There battling for their Queen, their homes, their laws, Each gallant Briton won a glorious grave. WHAT NEWS FROM THE BATTLE FIELD ? What news from the battle field ? — slacken thy speed, And breathe for a moment thy foam-covered steed — In terror and anguish Eve waited all day, What news from the battle field ? — warrior, oh say ! Oh ! stay me not lady, delay me not now, The best of our knights on the plain are laid low ; It grieves me to say, at the head of his band, Thy lover fell nobly, his sword in his hand. The horseman spurr’d onward — she sought the wide plain, Where her own belov’d chieftain lay cold huongst the slain ; The war cry around her rang loud on the air, But no one would injure a creature so fair. She knew her brave knight by the star on his breast, But his gay shield was riven, and gory his crest ; She sunk on his bosom, and gave up her breath, They were parted in life, but united in death. THE FUNERAL OF THE EMPEROR SEVERUS, WHO DIED AT YORK, 5TH FEBRUARY, A.D. 212. Why are those maidens weeping ? Why falls the pearly tear ? ’Tis for an Emperor sleeping In death upon his bier. The great Severus now lies dead, Within old Ebor’s walls ; The purple pall is o’er him spread In his own palace halls. Conqueror in many a field, Chief of the dauntless heart ; Ah ! what avail’d thy gleaming shield, Against Death’s fatal dart ? But slowly from the city now, Beneath the portal arch, With mournful look and gloomy brow, The Roman soldiers march. LAYS OF EBOR. 17 And borne by them in martial pride, The corse in mail array’d ; With sword and buckler by his side, On lofty bier is laid. And next a band array’d in white, Of Roman ladies fair ; For grief they wore no bracelets bright, Or jewels in their hair. While wafted on the rising gale, Across the spacious plain ; Rose the shrill funereal wail From that sad weeping train. At length they reach the lofty pyre, Whereon the corse is laid ; His sons apply the kindling fire, When each due rite is paid. Then o’er the lifeless body there, Resounds the trumpet’s note ; And proudly in the morning air, The eagle banners float. 18 LAYS OF EBOR. The troops around the blazing mass, Three times the circuit made ; With arms revers’d the soldiers pass, To soothe the Royal shade. A FROWN HAD GATHER’D O’ER HIS BROW. A frown had gather’d o’er his brow, And darken’d in his eye ; Unheeded is her soothing now, Unfelt each broken sigh. His lips that breath’d affection’s tale, And beam’d their sweetest smile Upon that weeping maiden pale, Are silent now the while. As she around him fondly clung, Imploringly she spoke ; And softly from her winning tongue, The faltering accents broke ; “ My own dear love, thy gentle heart “ I did not mean to grieve ; “ Do not in wrath from me depart, “ Forgive me, oh ! forgive.” 20 LAYS OF EBOR. His breast had been as marble cold, If he away had thrown The hand that with a timid hold, So gently clasp’d his own. In his fond arms reclining, Her pardon now she hears ; Again a smile is shining In radiance through her tears. THE DEATH OF RICHARD II. IN PONTEFRACT CASTLE. It is related by some historians, that Richard II. met his death in the following manner, in Pontefract Castle : — Sir Piers Exton, with eight attendants, entered his dungeon ; the deposed monarch, aw T are of their intention, snatched a pole- axe from one of the men, and defended himself so fiercely, that four of the soldiers fell beneath his arm. Sir Piers Exton at length got behind him, and with a violent blow 7 on the head brought him to the ground, where he was imme- diately dispatched. Damp and dreary was the place, Far from the light of day ; Where one of regal race, A hopeless captive lay. Once England’s royal crown Adorn’d that gloomy brow ; And his dark and with’ring frown, Made e’en the proudest bow. But ah ! the glorious hour Of his high sway is o’er ; 22 LAYS OF EBOR. And the symbols of his pow’r, His hand shall grasp no more. And no nobles by his side, Stand with knightly helm and plume ; And exchang’d his halls of pride, For a lonely dungeon’s gloom. Though he hath fall’n so low, Though prison’d and alone ; Yet he looks as haughty now, As when he press’d a throne. His mind doth not forget, Though forc’d with all to part ; That he’s a ruler yet, A monarch in his heart. But hark ! along the path That leads unto his cell, Are voices heard in wrath, That in loud tumult swell. And the clash of arms resounds, With the heavy tramp of feet; LAYS OF EBOR. 23 As in haste the monarch bounds From his cold stony seat. Turns in the lock the key, Appears an armed band ; Then did that lone one see, His hour was near at hand. But he seems undaunted there, Though his murderers are nigh ; And revenge was in the glare Of his fiery flashing eye. His was no soul to quail Beneath the deadly stroke ; But erect, as in the gale, Appears the hardy oak, He makes a gallant stand ; They assail him, but in vain ; Four of that ruffian band Will never rise again. But ah ! that fatal blow, Dealt by a coward’s arm, LAYS OF EBOR. Hath laid the monarch low, In his streaming life blood warm. He lies in the crimson tide, The dreadful struggle’s o’er ; And his kindling eye of pride, Will darkly frown no more. In his kingly helm and shield, Where the war cries loudest swell Such a death in the red field, Had become his proud heart well. LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING THE RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE, IN COMPANY WITH A LADY. I have roam’d o’er the mound where Pontefract’s towers, In their glory and grandeur so proudly arose ; The home and stronghold where a monarch’s brave powers, Long withstood the assaults of their furious foes. But no seneschal waited obsequiously there, To marshal my steps through the once stately halls ; No trumpet’s shrill summons was borne on the air, No standard unfurl’d its bright folds o’er the walls. Where loudly re-echo’d the clanking of mail, The light foot of beauty the turf gently presses ; For the banner of war floating wild in the gale, Now wave in the breezes her light silken tresses. c 26 LAYS OF EBOR. Farewell, thou grey pile, although left to decay, Tradition still tells of the glories which shone Around thee, when chiefs of the old feudal day, Dwelt with pomp in the halls now deserted and lone. ON THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD BRIDGE. Deepest woe to the hour when for England’s fair strand, The chieftains of Norway have left their own land ; With Denmark combining, they raise the white sail, And their dark raven banner is unfurl’d to the gale. On the banks of the Derwent King Harold they meet, O’er their army is heard the loud cry of defeat ; Their bravest and best on the cold plain are lying, Surrounded with slaughter, the dead and the dying. And the fair northern maidens across the deep main, May look long for the ships of their lovers in vain ; They deem not in England, far o’er the blue wave, That each hero is silent and cold in his grave. ’TIS SWEET TO ROVE AT THE SILENT HOUR. ’Tis sweet to rove at the silent hour Of solemn and lone midnight ; On dreary wold, or in leafy bower, Beneath the moon’s pale light. Or to wander midst ruins huge and vast, Moss-clad fragments grey and hoar ; Which speak to the heart of times long past, And days that return no more. Of days, when once in the halls of pride, Proud banners were wont to gleam ; And the minstrel’s song resounded wide, Where rises the owl’s shrill scream. Or within the Minster’s fretted aisle, To pace midst the sombre gloom That pervades the ancient holy pile ; And gaze on each antique tomb ; LAYS OF EBOR. 159 Which holds the dust of the hero brave, Who only yielded to death ; Or holy prelate, or statesman grave, Who in peace resign’d his breath. Oh ! ’tis there the melancholy mind, When the crowded city’s throng Is sunk in repose, will pleasure find, And rejoice to wander long. THE EARL OF NEWCASTLE’S VISION. Iii the year 1643, when this country was rent with the wars between the King and Parliament, a battle was fought on Adwalton Moor, near Leeds, between the Royalists, com- manded by the Earl of Newcastle, and the Parliamentarian army under Sir Thomas Fairfax ; the latter of whom had made an unsuccessful attempt to relieve Bradford, then besieged by the King’s troops. The engagement, which was bloody, resulted in the defeat of Fairfax, who was driven through Leeds, and was obliged to take refuge in the Garrison at Hull. The siege of Bradford was now pressed with great vigour, and though the steeple of the church, which was the citadel, was hung round with wool- packs, the town fell into the hands of Newcastle, who had determined to give it up to military execution. From this sanguinary purpose, according to tradition, he was dis- suaded by an apparition, in female form, which appeared to him while he slept at Bowling Hall, the night before the entry of the royal army, and with the cry of “ Pity poor “ Bradford !” implored him to spare the town. — The peti- tion of the messenger prevailed, and the lives of the unarmed inhabitants were spared. The shades of night began to fall, Enveloping with sable pall The precincts of old Bowling Hall, Where proud Newcastle lay. LAYS OF EBOB. 31 His angry eye and brow of gloom, Told plainly of poor Bradford’s doom, As he pass’d to his lonely room, To wait the coming day, — A day that should to sword and fire Give that fair town; both son and sire, He vow’d, should midst the flame expire, For arming ’gainst their King. His plumed helm a table graced, His trusty sword was near him placed, The cuirass that his bosom braced, Upon the floor was flung. Then on the couch he threw him down, His thoughts were on that doomed town, And on his dearly bought renown, When Fairfax lost the day ; — A day that saw, midst seas of gore, The royal standard proudly soar Triumphant on Adwalton Moor, — That long contested field. 32 LAYS OF EBOR* The night was still, serene and clear, He dreams, or surely does he hear — When a soft voice, low whisp’ring near, Said “ Pity poor Bradford.” Upstarting with a sudden bound, He cast an anxious glance around, And with astonishment he found A female near him stand. Mournful she seem’d, though young and fair, She clasp’d her hands as if in pray’r, And sighing said “ In pity spare 46 This poor devoted town.” Newcastle was as brave a knight As e’er spurr’d charger into fight ; But who can say that solemn night, He was devoid of fear ? The ranks of war he oft had led, Had seen the field with slaughter spread, Yet never felt he so much dread, As at that lonely hour. LAYS OF EBOR, 33 To call for aid lie vainly tries, His tongue its wonted use denies, And when again he rais’d his eyes, The visitant had fled. And whither fled, no one could say, The guards had watch’d till dawning day, But no one ever cross’d their way, They all and each declar’d. But changed was Newcastle’s vow, The gloom had vanish’d from his brow, He spoke in mercy’s accents now, u Let Bradford town be spar’d.” LAD YE, LEAVE THESE SCENES OF GRANDEUR. Ladye, leave these scenes of grandeur, These cold and stately halls ; And with thine own huntsman wander, From these proud castle walls. Hasten, from thy lattice come, Ere fades each twinkling star ; I’ll bear thee to my peaceful home, O’er yonder mountains far. Ladye, the sparkling diamond’s rays, The plumes that gaily dance ; The coronet where jewels blaze, Oft hide a care-worn glance. Then turn thee from such toys as these, They were not made for thee ; — Where softly sighs the whisp’ring breeze, Oh ! Ladye, fly with me. KIRKSTALL ABBEY. No more the pealing anthem’s strain Resounds in Kirkstall’s walls ; No more the swelling vesper hymn Is heard when evening falls. Where lauds at midnight once were sung, By torches’ lurid glare ; The silver moonbeams from on high, Have now an entrance there. No more the lively matin bell Is heard o’er hill and dale ; And where the sacred altar stood, Now grows the primrose pale. Where holy monks devoutly pray’d, And told their beads the while ; The wind alone, with ruthless blast, Sweeps down each mould’ring aisle. 36 LAYS OF EBOR. Instead of carving rich and quaint, Which deck’d its ancient halls ; The ivy’s clasping arms are cast Around the hoary walls. And where the cloisters’ fretted roof On Gothic pillars stood ; The only sound that echoes there, Is Aire’s meandering flood. The tow’r which late so proudly brav’d Fierce winter’s stormy skies ; Now rent asunder by the blast, A heap of ruins lies. But though each sacred charm is gone, Which grac’d its better day ; Yet still the venerable pile Is lovely in decay. SONG ON THE UNION OF THE RIVAL HOUSES OF YORK AND LANCASTER, BY THE MARRIAGE OF HENRY VII. WITH THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. The Red and White Roses are blended in one, The father no more lifts the sword ’gainst his son ; No lovely young maiden is heard to complain, For a lover laid cold in his gore on the plain ; No more doth the mother lament o’er her son, For Red and White Roses are blended in one. Alas ! for old England, that war should arise Beneath the mild beams of her own sunny skies ; Alas ! that our kindred in armour were seen, Where only the feast and the dance should have been ; But dissensions have ceas’d, and the slaughter is done, Now Red and White Roses are blended in one. Bright days are before us, the wild shout of war For ever is banish’d our country afar ; 38 LAYS OF EBOR. Long, long may it be, ere the trumpet shall call Our chieftains to battle from bower and hall ; They rest from their toil, with the fame they have won, Beneath the two Roses now blended in one. The peasant may roam o’er the gay smiling plain, He sees it no longer strewn o’er with the slain ; At eve in his cottage, afraid of no foes, He murmurs this prayer, ere he sinks to repose — “ Heaven bless our good king who his reign hath begun, With blending the Red and White Roses in one.” THE DEATH OF LORD CLIFFORD. On the approach of the last decisive battle between the rival houses of York and Lancaster, Lord Clifford advanced to Ferry- bridge, with the flower of Craven under his command ; after forcing the passage of the Aire, he marched towards Tad- caster, but stopping at a small village called Deindingdale, between Towton and Scarthingwell, he took off his gorget, at which moment he was struck in the throat by a headless arrow, shot out of a bush, and immediately expired. In the fields about Ferrybridge and Brotherton Marsh, there have been often found human skeletons and ancient armour, which denote the severe conflict which took place, before Clifford was able to force the pass of Ferrybridge. Once more in hapless Henry’s cause, His trusty sword Lord Clifford draws ; And arming at the trumpet’s sound, His ready vassals gather’d round ; The pride of Craven with him came, To vindicate King Henry’s claim ; They left their own green hills afar, To mingle in the ranks of war : Their crimson banners proudly flew, As near to Ferrybridge they drew ; 40 LAYS OF EBOR. But ere they pass that guarded way, Their swords that way must win, By meeting yonder war array Amidst the battle’s din. The White Rose standards gleam’d on high, “ For York and Edward,” was the cry ; And loud stern Clifford’s voice was heard, As soon to charge he gave the word. Then the clang of blows arose, As the hostile parties close, And the field with gore was wet, When the charging squadrons met ; And the pealing wild hurra, Rose above the direful fray ; Long and bloody prov’d the fight, Fiercely fought each gallant knight ; The archers pour’d their shafts like rain. Until that red and trampled plain Was cover’d o’er with warriors slain ; At length the Yorkists, tir’d and worn, To greater numbers yield ; By Craven soldiers overborne, They slowly quit the field. Lord Clifford, now the strife is done, And the pass of Ferrybridge is won, LAYS OF EBOE. 41 Recall’d from fight his scatter’d band, And issued then his last command, To Tadcaster to take their way, Where his sovereign’s army lay : Well known is that contested ground, The bloody passage of the Aire ; And bones and armour often found, Denote the dreadful conflict there. But Clifford’s wonted mood is chang’d, And though his friends are round him rang’d, He heeds them not ; — his downcast eye Shews thoughts across his bosom fly He fain would hide : Ah ! can it be, He thinks upon the cruelty He practis’d on York’s youthful son, When Wakefield’s bloody field was won ; That saw Queen Margaret’s banners wave, Above that field, and Edward’s grave ? At last he slowly rais’d his eyes, And to his charger’s side applies The pointed spur ; the gallant steed Darted across the plain with speed, As from the yew bow flies the reed ; 42 LAYS OF EBOR. Fatigued with the morning’s fight, His soldiers followed as they might ; He drew his rein at Deindingdale, As if to woo the passing gale, Began to loose his plaited mail ; His gorget from his throat he drew, When shrill was heard a bowstring’s twang, And from a bush an arrow flew ; And Clifford’s heavy armour rang. The startled vassals gaz’d around, They saw their lord upon the ground, His glittering arms were stain’d with blood, And in his throat the weapon stood ; From whence it came no one could tell, His soldiers scour’d the country well ; All was in vain, he ne’er was found, Who gave that sudden fatal wound. HE STOOD AMIDST THE YOUNG AND BRAVE. He stood amidst the young and brave, With helm and shield and lance ; I saw his snow-white plumage wave, I met his falcon glance. But when he saw my streaming eyes, And that my cheek was pale ; I mark’d his bosom heave with sighs, Beneath his coat of mail. Oh then I lov’d my hero more, In that heart-rending hour ; Than e’er I thought I could before, When in proud hall and bower, Where minstrels rais’d the thrilling song, And gazed each haughty fair ; He shone amidst the noble throng, The noblest chieftain there. 44 LAYS OF EBOR. But ’twas no time for us to meet, — The banners wide were flung, And with the chargers’ trampling feet, The spacious court-yard rung ; — He’s gone his country’s foes to fight, Far o’er the deep blue sea ; But ere he vanish’d from my sight, He waved his hand to me. THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD, FOUGHT AT NORTHALLERTON, 23RD AUGUST, 1138. The sound of a trumpet was heard from afar, It told of invasion, of rapine and war ; And the lance and the sabre were grasp’d by each hand, As the gathering cry echoed loud through the land. To arms, sons of Ebor, the foemen are nigh, Unsheathe the bright sword, wave the banner on high ; Caparison the charger, and seize the strong shield, Brace on the plum’d helmet, and spur to the field. Though the ranks of the foe like a whirlwind roll on, Defend the fair land which your forefathers won ; Stand forth in defence of your monarch and laws, Your country’s, your own, and posterity’s cause. Now the clangour of battle rose loud on the gale, And many a brave chieftain lay gasping and pale ; 46 LAYS OF EBOR. While above their fall’ll bodies still raged the fierce strife Of warriors contending for fame and for life. But see from the field the invaders are flying, One half of their number left bleeding and dying ; And the glad shout of conquest is ringing around, As the victors pursue o’er the sternly fought ground. Long Scotland shall weep, and her maidens shall mourn, Their lovers no more to their arms will return ; On the moorlands of Cuton they sleep in their gore, And reply to the voice of affection no more. OH! CAN I E’ER FORGET? Oh ! can I e’er forget, The hours we used to rove, The times that we have met In yonder leafy grove ; Where by the pale moonlight, He knelt on bended knee, And I believed — as well I might — The vows he swore to me ? But he hath me forsaken, And lightly spurn’d my hand ; And in haste his way hath taken To a far distant land. And disappointment o’er My heart her seal hath set ; — Though I see him now no more, Oh ! can I e’er forget ? THE WHITE ROSE OF YORK. Strike the harp, Ebor, in praise of that flower, Which gleams on thy banners the terror of foes, The badge of thy Kings, the pride of the bower, The foremost in battle, the virgin White Rose. When on the gory ground, Spreading destruction round, Like ocean’s billows our heroes advancing ; High o’er the raging fight, As a star of the night, Brightly it beams amidst helms and plumes dancing. In the gay festive scene, on beauty’s soft breast, Midst her diamonds’ dark flashes its pale leafs repose ; ’Tis worn by each knight on his proud waving crest, Unstain’d by dishonour, old Ebor’s White Rose. But should the trumpet’s knell Of its Red rival tell, From the rich banquet to the field rush the brave ; Soon on the battle plain, Gleaming midst heaps of slain, In triumph it floats o’er the foeman’s red grave. THE LOVELY AND THE BRAVE. The field was won, the strife was o’er, The pealing war-cry rose no more Upon the bloody plain ; But many a brave and noble knight, Who oft had stemm’d the raging fight, Lay cold amongst the slain. The wind was hush’d, the moon shone clear, Nor plume nor banner waved near, All, all was silent there ; Save the wounded warrior’s sigh, Whose piercing cries of agony Rose on the still night air. But o’er that field of woe and dread, See yonder lovely lady tread, Where friend and foeman lay ; And now behold her gently stoop, Where Ebor’s sons — a valiant troop — So bravely fought that day. D 50 LAYS OF EBOE. By his bright and glimmering mail, She found her lover cold and pale, Who oft the fight had fir’d ; She gaz’d upon his corslet riven, Then rais’d her swimming eyes to heaven, And fainted and expir’d. She by her hero’s side was found ; And on that gory battle ground Was dug their lowly grave ; Their spirits now are with the blest, And in one tomb together rest, The lovely and the brave. OH! WHO CAN TELL THAT KNIGHT’S DESPAIR? The following stanzas were occasioned by reading the “ Legend of Pontefract,” in the Romance of History, when Sir Richard Shirley, in scaling the walls of Pontefract Castle by night, (wherein the lady to whom he was betrothed, was imprisoned,) found, on gaining the battlements, a figure wrapt in a soldier’s cloak, by whom he was recognized, and accosted by his name. The Knight, afraid of an alarm being given, and his plan for surprising the castle rendered abortive by this discovery, immediately seized the figure in his arms, and threw it from the ramparts into the court-yard below. He then hurried to the tower where he expected to find his lady, but found, on entering the room, a soldier of the garrison, who informed him, that, being prevailed on by the lady’s entreaties, to allow her to escape, he had given her his cloak. Sir Richard heard the man’s story until he came to this part, when the fatal truth flashing upon his mind, he fainted ; and though he lived many years afterwards, he never recovered his reason. It need scarcely be told, that he had in mistake thrown the “ ladye of his love” from the walls, as, being muffled in the soldier’s cloak, he had taken her for a sentinel belonging to the castle. Ah ! who can tell that Knight’s despair, When to the turret speeding; He found that ’twas his own lov’d fair, In the court-yard lay bleeding ? d 2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS um v RT URBAN* 52 LAYS OF EBOR. She, whom he would have died to save, Had he her dear form known ; Met at his hands a bloody grave, From the dark ramparts thrown. * The moonbeams shone serenely fair Upon the frowning walls ; When, surpris’d to see her lover there, His name she gently calls. And what could cause him to forget The voice of one so dear ? For oft before that voice had met The chieftain’s charmed ear. But now, ye warriors, bear him forth, No more he’ll lead your band ; Since the only one he lov’d on earth, Hath perish’d by his hand. His glassy eye to Heaven is cast, While not a word is spoken ; But the sigh that from his bosom pass’d, Told that his heart was broken. SHE HATH BOUND THE GILT SPURS ON HIS HEEL. She hath bound the gilt spurs on his heel, The dark plumage wav’d over his brow ; By his side the broad falchion of steel, Her fair hands are fastening now. His coat of chain armour is laced, And brightly it gleams on his breast ; But oh ! her lov’d fingers have placed The White Rose of York on his crest. “ Now go,” she said unto her Knight, “ And loyal and brave may’st thou prove, “ When thy banner is rais’d in the fight, “ For the cause of old Ebor and love.” She is gone — and that chief is alone, But his lance is now laid in the rest ; And first on the battle field shone, The White Rose of York on his crest, LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A MONUMENT IN THE PARISH CHURCH OF DEEDS, ERECTED IN MEMORY OF CAPT. SAMUEL WALKER, AND CAPT. RICHARD BECKETT, “ WHO FELL IN THE PRIME OF LIFE, IN THE GLORIOUS BATTLE OF TALA VERA, IN SPAIN,” JULY 28th, 1809. Oh ! breathe but a sigh o’er the fate of the brave, ’Tis a tribute they ask from the hearts of the free ; ’Tis paid by the land where they found a red grave, There , their names and their deeds fondly cherish’d will be. ’Midst carnage and slaughter, death’s fatal dart found them, Engaged hand to hand with their numerous foes ; With the standards of war waving proudly around them, Like soldiers and Britons, they sunk to repose. LAYS OF EBOR. 55 The fierce charger swept round their last gory bed ; For the whisper of prayer, rang the loud battle cry ; No hand of affection held each drooping head, No mother was near to receive their last sigh. But in tones loud as thunder, the cannon were hurling Their missiles, as fast as fall winter’s cold rains ; And the wreaths of white smoke o’er the crimson plain curling, Form’d a beautiful shroud round the warriors’ remains. Although distant their tombs o’er the dark rolling wave, Yet sweetly they slumber beneath the green mould ; And the tears of a nation they battled to save, Will flow when the fate of the heroes is told. THE DYING WARRIOR. Extended on the gory field, Beside his shatter’d spear and shield, With scarf and surcoat riven ; His drooping head lean’d on one hand, The other grasp’d his broken brand, His eye was rais’d to heaven. The* plumage from his helm was shorn, And through his batter’d corslet torn, A rent extended wide ; His noble face was deadly pale, And oozing through his blood-stain’d mail, Ran forth the crimson tide. And see, his hand drops from his brow ; Where are his friends and vassals now, Their dying Lord to aid ? He strives to speak — to pray — in vain, — ’Tis o’er, and lifeless on the plain, That gallant knight is laid. THE FAREWELL. His foot was in the stirrup, and his hand was on the mane, When a voice broke on his ear, “ Oh ! say farewell again ; “ It grieves me sore to see thee thus to distant lands depart, “ Thou knowest not the agony which rends my burst- ing heart.” In tears the lady stood, while he bow’d his lofty crest, And sighing, clasp’d her once again unto his mail-clad breast ; “ Weep not my bride,” the hero cried, “nor to this sorrow yield, “ I to thy arms will soon return with glory from the field. 58 LAYS OF EBOR. “ My Isabel, — I love thee more than parting words can tell, “ But hark — the trumpet rends the air, once more farewell, farewell His foot then sought the stirrup, he grasp’d his charger’s mane, And with the whirlwind’s rapid speed, he swept across the plain. THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD BRIDGE. FOUGHT ON THE 25th SePT. 1066. This poem was suggested by reading the “ Song of the Maidens” on the battle of Bannockburn, in Allan Cunningham’s Songs of Scotland. Let each Norwegian maiden gay List to my song and weep ; Ah ! woe betide the fatal day, When o’er the briny deep, Your galleys sought fair England’s strand, To plunder and subdue ; And proudly o’er the doomed land, Your raven banner flew. Yet weep and wail each Danish dame, Let Norway’s ladies mourn ; Your lovers that to England came, Will never more return. And why should Denmark’s ladies weep, And Norway’s maidens mourn ? 60 LAYS OF EBOR. Our heroes, though they’ve cross’d the deep, In triumph will return : It is the dames of fair England Must learn to weep and wail ; When each brave chieftain left our strand, And rais’d the swelling sail, They swore to plunder and divide Your poor devoted land ; Proudly as conquerors to ride, Or die with sword in hand. But yonder is King Harold brave, And see each gallant knight, The plumes upon their helmets wave, As eager for the fight, They range themselves in shining ranks, Couch’d is each pointed spear ; And now on Derwent’s fertile banks The Saxon troops appear. And England’s foes must tremble now, At sight of that array ; Thousands will on the ground lay low, Ere close of that dread day. LAYS OF EBOR. 61 Loud the shouts of war are swelling Upon the list’ning ear ; High and stern defiance telling, As host to host draws near. And hark — King Harold’s orders are To cross fair Derwent’s stream ; O’er Stamford Bridge the pomp of war, Lances and standards gleam. And though proud Norway’s battle axe Rends many a Saxon shield ; Before the keen and temper’d Sax, The stern invaders yield. See yonder, where Earl Edwin rides To charge the pirate Danes ; The gore that laves his courser’s sides, Is drawn from royal veins. For fierce Harfager how lies dead Amongst the common slain ; And low is bloody Tosti’s head Upon the crimson plain. By aid of gallant Morcar’s glaive, The raven flag is ours ; No more on England’s shores to wave, Leading the Danish pow’rs. 62 LAYS OF EBOR. Then weep, ye northern maidens gay, Tear your fair hair and sigh, Ye e’er should know of that dread day, Which saw your bravest die. On each side your troops are flying Before the Saxon pow’rs ; Cover’d o’er with dead and dying, The gory field is ours. Then weep and wail, each Danish dame, And beat your breasts and mourn ; Your lovers that to England came, Did never more return. THE LAMENT OF A YOUNG BRIDE OVER THE BODY OF HER HUSBAND. And has my hero fallen on the reeking battle plain, And is that noble heart at last laid cold amongst the slain ? I fondly thought to see thee come with glory round thy brow, To clasp thy now deserted bride — and thou art here laid low. I see the lock of braided hair, I see the scarf I gave, I little thought ’twould serve to deck thee for thy bloody grave ; But sleep in peace, thou gallant one, thy warfare now is o’er, And toil and suffering shall assail thy gentle soul no more. Had I been nigh when thou didst sink into the arms of death, To have held thy head upon my breast, and caught thy latest breath ; 64 LAYS OF EBOR. But faint and weary thou didst fall upom the gory ground, And thy last painful sigh was drawn while slaughter reign’d around. But perhaps this boon in mercy was unto me denied, To have seen thy parting agonies, I also should have died ; — But what is this life now to me ; Oh ! that kind heaven would send, And join me once again to thee, my husband and my friend. I MINGLE IN THE FESTIVE THRONG. I mingle in the festive throng, With wit and beauty near ; But vainly peals the joyous song, My aching heart to cheer. The form of grace, the sparkling eye, Each lovely smiling fair, But causes in my breast a sigh, For one, not present there. I think on scenes now past, when she, Far from these halls of grandeur ; ’Midst sylvan shades, with only me, Delighted us’d to wander. But there, I miss her bright eyes’ ray, Her sweet enchanting smile ; And though all else are light and gay, My spirits droop the while. EARL SIWARD’S LAST REQUEST. This nobleman died at York, a. d. 1055. A short time before his death, it is recorded, that calling for his attendants, he requested them to gird on his armour, and to give him his shield and battle-axe, for having lived a warrior, he was determined to die like one. His desire w T as complied with, and he immediately expired. From his couch of woe and pain Earl Si ward rais’d his head, As his vassals gather’d round him, the fainting hero said ; “ Alas ! alas ! that e’er I should my life ignobly yield, “ After so often braving death in many a battle field. “ But bring to me my coat of mail,” the dying chieftain cried ; “ Buckle my shield upon my arm, my falchion by my side ; “ Give me my heavy battle-axe again within my grasp, “And place the helmet on my head, and close the brazen clasp : LAYS OF EBOR. 67 “ A warrior I have liv’d — as a warrior I will die And as he spoke a glance of flame illum’d his fading eye ; And now supported by his friends, that leader sick and pale, Is axm’d with sword and battle-axe, and clad in plate and mail. Again his burnish’d buckler is brac’d upon his arm, As though the implements of war to Death could give a charm ; Once more the plumage on his helm wav’d proudly o’er his head, His wish was scarce accomplish’d, ere his noble spirit fled. OH ! LEAVE ME NOT. “ Oh leave me not,” she whisper’d then, And gently held my hand ; Repose thee in this lovely glen, Leave not thy native land ; Let not the ocean’s rolling tide Bear thee afar from home ; In forests dark, or deserts wide, Or trackless wastes to roam.” As thus she spoke in accents mild, I clasp’d her to my heart ; She gaz’d upon my face and smil’d, “ Then shall we never part.” “ No, dearest, in this valley fair, With thee I still will rove ; For other scenes I have no care, When bless’d by thee and love.” THE WAIN STONES.. On the summit of a mountain that overlooks Broughton and Kirby, near Stokesley, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, is a singular monument, called by the neighbouring people, the ‘ Wain Stones,’ which, according to the most probable etymo- logy of the word, may denote the stones of lamentation, and are probably Danish, erected in memory of some chieftain slain there. It consists of a rude collection of stones, some of them of an immense size, and all of them apparently in their natural position, except one, which stands erect, and appears to have formed a part of some ancient Cromlech.” Behold the ancient signs of grief, On yonder mountain’s brow ; Are they in memory of some chief, Now mouldering below ? Say are they piled above the tomb, Of some fierce pirate Dane ; Who here receiv’d invasion’s doom, In bloody battle slain ? 70 Li AYS OF EBOR. Or do they mark the lonely spot, Where beauty’s form is laid ; Which else for them had been forgot, Lost in oblivion’s shade ? Or perhaps it rises o’er the grave, (That Cromlech huge and stern,) Of holy monk, or monarch brave, Or ancient minstrel’s urn. But whether bard, or prince, or fair, Or chieftain of renown, Or heathen king reposes there, Is now to us unknown. All is forgbt, his deeds, his race, His name and title high ; We only know, it marks the place Where human ashes lie. ANCIENT BRITISH WAR SONG, Hark, the trumpet’s notes resound, Death or victory ; Breathing fierce defiance round, Death or victory ; Soldiers, who will never fly, Let your sabres flash on high, Be these words your battle cry ; “ Death or victory.” By your friends in conflict slain, Death or victory ; Strewn upon each gory plain, Death or victory ; Soldiers, see the hostile powers, When the cloud of battle lours, To revenge them be it ours ; Death or victory. 72 LAYS OF EBOR. By your country’s standard fair, Death or victory ; Floating proudly in the air, Death or victory ; Soldiers, one and all be brave, Then its sacred folds shall wave O’er the foeman’s bloody grave ; Death or victory. Quickly now your ranks unite, Death or victory ; Forward, forward to the fight, Death or victory ; Soldiers, now your banners rear, Firmly grasp each pointed spear, Charge, and bid adieu to fear ; Death or victory. SAY, WILT THOU BE A SOLDIER’S BRIDE? Say, wilt thou be a soldier’s bride, And leave thy much lov’d home ; ’Midst toil and danger by my side, In distant climes to roam ? And canst thou leave thy friends afar, And cross the raging sea, To brave the ruthless hand of war, And all for love of me ? If I possess a place above All else in thy young heart, Then come, my first, my only love, We never more will part. I’ll ne’er forsake thee, nor forget The vows which make thee mine ; For since the hour when first we met, My heart was wholly thine. E KNARESBRO’ CASTLE. See where Knaresbro’s castled towers O’erlook the vale below ; But on the mould’ring turrets is Seen neither sling nor bow. But once on its time-shatter’d walls, Stood vassals clad in mail ; And feudal banners from on high Wav’d in the passing gale. Oft from its frowning battlements, The trumpet’s blast arose, Breathing in its piercing notes, Defiance to its foes. Then drawbridge and portcullis strong, Their strength combin’d to guard ; And tilts and warlike games were held Within the spacious yard. LAYS OF EBOK. 75 And oft within its ancient halls, Have minstrels rais’d the song ; While chiefs and ladies list’ning round, Applauded loud and long. And there to win his fair one’s smile, Each gallant knight hath tried ; While in the gloomy vaults below, Have wretched captives sigh’d. But now the minstrel’s harp is mute, And ceas’d the trumpet’s sound ; And waving standards now no more Float o’er its battled mound. No more its knights ride proudly forth, With plumage dancing high ; While armed vassals in the rear Ring out their battle cry. No more at dawn of day is heard The bugle’s clanging knell ; No thronging serfs urge on the chase, Through woodland, moor, and dell. e 2 76 BAYS OF EBOR. Though desolate and lonely now, And grey its walls with age, Yet history these scenes hath penn’d In her immortal page. THE LOVER’S ADDRESS TO HIS STEED. Oh ! gallop away, My own good grey, Take the path to my lady’s bower ; I hear the knell Of the vesper bell, And ’tis near th’appointed hour. Though gone each ray Of the burning day, Yet thy foot is both fleet and sure ; By the pale moonbeam, We’ll cross the stream, And sweep over mountain and moor. How her heart will bound, When she hears the sound Of thy hoofs on the distant plain ; Joy will beam in her eyes, When again she descries The toss of thy beautiful mane. 78 LAYS OF EBOR. Then swiftly speed, My gallant steed, Let nothing impede thy career ; But away, away, No longer delay, For the time of our meeting draws near. FORWARD, WARRIOR. Forward, warrior, swords are clashing, See each war-horse proudly prancing Helms are rending, lances flashing, Snow-white plumage gaily dancing. Thy father’s banner waving o’er thee, Calls thee to defend it now ; A wreath of glory is before thee, Win it, place it on thy brow. Warrior, if, o’erpower’d by numbers, Thou art doom’d to press the plain, Think how sweet will be thy slumbers, Stretch’d amongst the knightly slain. Long the minstrel’s song and story Of thy noble deeds shall tell, Ere thou graced thy couch of glory, — Gallant warrior, fare thee well. THE KNIGHT AND THE NOVICE. Oh fly with me, Ladye, from this place of gloom, Nor shroud in the cloister thy beauty’s young bloom ; Bid adieu to thy cell, leave this old hoary pile, For a bower where I shall but live in thy smile. The fair Ladye listen’d, She did not reply ; But a tear-drop glisten’d Within her blue eye. Her blushes so bright Her secret confess’d ; Well pleas’d the young Knight His tender suit press’d. When the vespers are o’er, when the grey twilight falls, I’ll bear thee away from this dark convent’s walls, To my castle, where thou ’midst the fairest shall shine ; Long I’ve lov’d thee, fair Ladye, then deign to be mine. LAYS OF EBOR. 81 He ceas’d with a sigh. She trembled all over ; And just rais’d her eye, To gaze on her lover. “ When the vesper bell’s tone “ Resounds down the glen ; u I will meet thee alone, “ And fly with thee then.” e 3 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE ESCAPE OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE. Where yonder isolated walls Frown darkly o’er the scene, There, distant from her own bright halls, Is Scotland’s lovely Queen. Yes, she who shone in court and bower, The fairest of the fair, Now weeps within a gloomy tower, A lonely captive there. ’Tis midnight — sunk in soft repose, The Castle’s inmates lie ; But she, the prison’d one, arose, Hope beaming in her eye. — 86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And lo ! a little fragile bark, On the broad lake appears ; And bounding o’er the billows dark, Lochleven’s shore it nears. And then was heard a gentle call, — An answering voice replied ; And soon within the massive wall, A wicket open’d wide. And ’midst the chilly dews of night, Came forth a graceful dame ; And with a fairy footstep light, Down to the beach she came. ’Tis Mary — grasping now his oar, The gallant Douglas bends, To row her safely to yon shore, Where wait her trusty friends. And see — they near the wish’d-for land, Her nobles bend the knee ; The keel now furrows up the sand, And Scotland’s Queen is free. THE STORM. Borne gently o’er the rippling seas, A ship was seen to glide ; With canvass flutt’ring in the breeze, She nobly stemm’d the tide. But o’er that placid scene, dark clouds Are gath’ring in the sky ; The blast that whistles through the shrouds, Foretells a tempest nigh. And loudly peals the thunder’s roar, Red gleams the light’ning’s flash, And fiercely ’gainst the rocky shore, The raging billows dash. And then was seen that vessel’s form Borne on the rolling main ; As struggling ’gainst the dreadful storm, The seamen strove in vain. 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And night came on, with not a ray Of light their course to guide ; Of human aid bereft, they lay Upon the heaving tide. At times a sudden lurid flash Was seen from off the shore ; And faintly ’midst the surge’s dash, Was heard a cannon’s roar. The call was vain, no help was nigh, As driven near the land, The foaming waves ran mountains high, And broke upon the strand. Now daylight beams, the storm is o’er, Where is that vessel fair ? See yonder planks, wash’d on the shore, Her hapless fate declare. THE QUEEN OF GRANADA. The original of the following story is to be found in the Romance of History, relating to Spain. Brightly glance the beams of morning, O’er the distant mountains blue, Each high minaret adorning, With a tinge of golden hue. And the mists of night dispersing, ’Neath the clear unclouded sky, Give to view Granada city, Whose fair Queen is doom’d to die. For Zegries vile had fill’d the breast Of the King with jealous grief ; How his consort was enamour’d Of an Abencerrage chief. At the base and sland’rous story, Fiercely rose the monarch’s rage ; Horrid punishment he threaten’d, Nothing could his wrath assuage. 90 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. “ Take the traitress,” cried he loudly, “ Chain her to the fatal tree ; “ In the Plaza de Nueva, “ She shall rue her treachery ; “ Unless within three days there shall “ Four knights of noble name, “ Meet her accusers in the lists, “ And clear her tarnish’d fame.” Th’ appointed time hath swiftly flown, And brought no welcome aid ; And now her cruel lingering doom, Must be no more delay’d. By Moorish guards escorted to The Bibarambla square ; And fainting at th’ approach of death, In dragg’d that lady fair. On the towers of th’ Alhambra, In the streets of Zacatin, Were crowds of noble ladies weeping, To behold the mournful scene. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 91 In the square the haughty Zegries, As the woeful train drew nigh, Shouted when they saw their victim, “ Prepare thee, Queen, to die. “ The given time hath now expir’d, “ And yet appears no knight, “ To draw his sword in thy behalf, “ And meet us in the fight.” But hark ! a lonely bugle note, Re-echoes far and wide ; And soon within the guarded lists, Four armed champions ride. Though the steel vizors which they wore, Conceal’d each warrior’s face, Yet, judging from their dress and arms, They seem’d of Turkish race. And the foremost stranger knight, Unto the Queen draws near ; And tells her in the Moorish tongue, To banish every fear. 92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But suddenly a flourish loud Of trumpets rent the air $ And Turkish knights and Moorish chiefs For battle now prepare. It was a fearful sight to see, These foes in fight engage ; As fiercely they each other met, Burning with hostile rage. Their ashen spears are shiver’d, And strewn upon the ground ; And now their gleaming scimitars, Deal mighty blows around. And see — two of the treach’rous Moors Lie bleeding on the field ; While the rest, dismay’d and wounded, To the unknown champions yield. Gone is each traitor’s vaunting pride, As ’neath the victor’s blade, Mercy they earnestly implor’d, And full confession made. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 93 And slowly said their dying chief ; — • “ I spread these slanders foul, “ Our Queen — oh she is innocent, — “ Alla receive my soul/’ To hear the wicked plot expos’d, Rejoiced the list’ning crowd ; And from th’ assembled throng arose A shout of triumph loud. But now preparing to depart, The victors of the day, From fair Granada’s stately gates, They swiftly take their way. And soon the Moorish chieftains there Are told with deep surprise, These brave defenders of the Queen Were Christians in disguise. Now within each stately hall Resound harmonious lays ; Where minstrels strike the joyous harp In the brave strangers’ praise. LINES WRITTEN AFTER HEARING A LEC- TURE DELIVERED ON THE W r RONGS OF POLAND, BY A POLISH EXILE. Can England unmov’d hear the voice of the brave, Pleading Liberty’s cause in her own happy isle ; Demanding revenge on the tyrant and slave, And greet not the patriot’s request with a smile ? How often has Russia’s fell weapon been dyed With the blood of the noble, the good, and the fair ; While the Vistula roll’d on a gore-crimson’d tide, And the vain cry for mercy rose shrill on the air. Do the orphan’s lament and the widow’s deep sigh Awake not an answering chord in thy breast ? Oh ! land of the free, wave thy banners on high, And leave to the hand of just Heaven the rest. In the good cause of freedom, few years have roll’d o’er Since thou stoodst in thy might, unconquer’d, alone ; Then arise in thy prowess, Britannia once more, To hurl a proud despot from tyranny’s throne. MORNING. Before the approach of the sun’s early beams. The dark mists of night are fast rolling away ; And mountains and valleys, wide forests and streams, Are gleaming with light from the bright orb of day. On each drooping flower bespangled with dew, On each purple violet and rose bud so fair, The rays of the morn shed a soft golden hue, As slowly they ope their rich leaves to the air. As the wind just awake softly sighs through the trees, Where each feather’d songster is pouring its strain ; The green blooming foliage waves in the breeze, Which bears the sweet music o’er woodland and plain. EVENING. The sun has gone down in the rich glowing west, While evening steals on with her shadowy pall ; Now gathers the mist on the rock’s rugged breast, And fades in the distance each palace and hall. Behold yon fair orb that emerges to view, Like the light of a beacon that gleams from afar ; She keeps her bright course on her pathway of blue, Outshining in splendour each planet and star. The lake’s glassy waters reflect her mild light, As gently they murmur along the green shore ; While the silence that reigns ’neath the mantle of night, Is broke by the distant cascade’s sullen roar. CESAR PASSING THE RUBICON. “ He ( Caesar) was near Rimini, on the banks of a little stream called the Rubicon, where proper Italy was considered to end, and which no General could venture to pass with- out permission of the Senate, under penalty of being declared a public enemy. It was a moment of importance, not to Caesar only, but to the future world. Should he submit, or should he lead his army against Rome, against his country ? On horseback, in the open air, Caesar all night long pondered this weighty question. At day break, his anxious soldiers found him still riding to and fro, deep sunk in thought. At length he cried — “ The die is cast gave his horse the spurs, and sprang across the stream, followed by his troops.” — Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia — Outlines of History . On his fiery charger pacing By yonder streamlet’s side ; Surrounded by his Legions, See Rome’s brave leader ride. And they gaze upon the hero Who so oft had led them on, F 98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O’er many a gory field of strife, Where victory’s wreath was won. Why on the banks of that small stream, Doth Caesar doubting stand ? The chief who but to be obey’d, Needs only to command. But his country’s laws forbid him Thus to enter her domain, Attended by his horse and foot, A formidable train. The sun has set, and evening cast Her dark mists o’er the sky ; Unheeded is the change by him, He raises not his eye. And even when night’s shadows fled Before the morning air, The early beams still found him plung’d In deep thought, riding there. But see, he turns his courser, And as though a charge he led ; His glitt’ring blade he now unsheathes, And waves it o’er his head ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 99 Now he fiercely spurs his steed, And exclaims “ the die is cast ; ” The war horse gave a sudden bound, And the Rubicon is pass’d. f 2 ’TIS SAID WITHIN MAN’S SORDID BREAST. ’Tis said within man’s sordid breast affection is not found, That his cold heart can only be with golden fetters bound ; And but to gild his early years, Love sheds a joyous ray, For soon ambitious worldly cares chase each soft thought away. But that in woman’s gentle breast the mystic flame burns pure, And unalloy’d by selfish views, for ever will endure ; When once her whisper’d vows are given, the world might strive in vain, From the beloved chosen one, her constant heart to gain. But they who say the soul of man is dead to passion’s smart, Have never known the feelings of a true and manly heart ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 101 For let his firmer mind but be with love’s bright flame possess’d, Nor time, nor distance can erase affection from his breast. LINES ON A PORTRAIT. When on the likeness of a friend we gaze, Torn from our arms by death’s untimely doom ; On memory’s page crowd thoughts of happy days, We spent with him now mould’ring in the tomb. The soldier on the gory field of war, The sailor distant from his native shore, Muse o’er the pictur’d form of friends afar, — Friends they perhaps are doom’d to see no more. They love the fond similitude to trace, Of wife, of children, or of parent dear ; And as they look upon some well known face, Steals down each toil-worn cheek the trickling tear. The youth condemn’d by adverse fate to part, Far from his fair, in foreign climes to rove ; Her sweet resemblance worn upon his heart, Fans the pure flame of constancy and love. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 103 The widow too, with mingled pain and joy, While her fond bosom swells with bursting sighs, Speaks to her son — “ That was thy father, boy As the lov’d portrait meets her streaming eyes. Then let us Cherish the memorial rare, That gives in glowing colours to the view, The beaming eyes, the smile, the waving hair, Of child, of husband, or of lover true. SCARBRO’ CASTLE. Rais’d high above the dashing waves, See Scarbro’ Castle frown ; Their wildest rage it proudly braves, And looks in triumph down. Since first the Norman’s hand of pride Adorn’d its stately halls ; How often hath war’s crimson tide, Stream’d ’neath its lofty walls. Amidst rebellion’s headlong course, It stood in danger’s hour ; Vain was the dread artillery’s force, Against each massive tow’r. And may its ancient ramparts high, On yonder sea-beat rock, Stand long in sullen majesty, And brave the tempest’s shock. SERENADE. Awake, dearest Inez, the night breeze is sweeping. In gentleness o’er the blue waves of the lake ; In pearly dew bath’d, each sweet flow’ret is sleeping, Then awake, dearest Inez, awake, O awake. The moon’s paly beams in their splendour are glancing O’er mountain and vale, nature’s charms to discover; My Gondola is on the bright billows dancing, Then answer, fair ladye, the call of thy lover. My soul’s sweetest idol, thy lattice unbar, Come forth, my own love, of these pleasures partake ; Soon the rays of the morn will be seen from afar, Then awake, dearest Inez, awake, O awake. THE PIRATE’S SONG. From yonder tall mast my dark colours are flying, In the sea breeze so proudly, all nations defying ; While my galley just heaves with the tide’s gentle motion, As at anchor she rides, a true queen of the ocean. No vessel before was e’er mann’d by a crew, So dauntless and daring, so gallant and true ; On the wild foaming billows, that black flag on high, With me they will conquer, with me they will die. To proud kings and nobles I leave the tame land, They may rule in their glory, with sceptre in hand ; But o’er the wide ocean I love to range free, The sword is my sceptre, my realm is the sea. See that wreath of white smoke rising high in the air, Hark ! a gun ! ’tis the signal on board to repair ; From our bowers of beauty it calls us away, One cheer ere we leave them, brave comrades, hurra! SPAIN. O for the land renown’d of yore, Home of the brave and free ; Where glory wav’d her banners o’er The sons of chivalry. In bower and hall where harps were strung, In every minstrel’s strain, The praises of our land were sung, The sunny clime of Spain, O for the land of cloudless skies ; The clime of love and song ; How fair thine orange groves arise, What charms to thee belong. At evening hour, thy light guitar With heart enchanting strain, Rings o’er the hills and vales afar, In sweet romantic Spain. 108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O for the land where dark eyes throw Their witching glances round ; And in holy fane, by the taper’s glow, The solemn vespers sound. ’Till death’s cold grasp shall seize my hand, While life and breath remain, I’ll sing the praises of that land, The sunny clime of Spain. SACRED MELODIES. SACRED MELODIES. MOSES SMITETH THE ROCK AT MERIBAH. Beneath Arabia’s sultry sky, Amidst the burning sand, With drooping brow and languid eye, The hosts of Israel stand. No trees within that desert drear, Their shelt’ring branches wave ; No sparkling fountain gushes near, Their parched lips to lave. And hark, from that tumultuous crowd, What shouts of anguish rise ; Again they peal in tones more loud, Cleaving the cloudless skies. While many a haggard toil-worn brow Their sufferings disclose ; Against God’s holy prophets now, The mingled voices rose. 112 SACRED MELODIES. “ O ! had we died on Paran’s plain, “ With friend and kinsman dear ; “ Far better had we there been slain, “ Than thus to languish here. “ O ! most unwisely have ye done, “ To bring our numerous host, “ To perish ’neath this torrid sun, “ Far from fair Egypt's coast. “ This is no place where milk and wine “ In rich abundance flow ; “ Or drooping from the curling vine, “ The grapes’ ripe clusters glow. “ For water, lo, we vainly sigh, “ Behold each fainting band ; — “ For lack of water here we die, “ Far from the promised land.” As in one piercing cry of woe, Their angry voices swell ; Before the Lord, the prophets low Upon their faces fell. And God his gracious will declares, To save from ruin’s brink; SACRED MELODIES. 113 He listens to their earnest prayers, To give the people drink. And see, the prophet waves his rod, And the loud tumult ends ; “ Ye rebels, hear, know that your God “ His mercy still extends.” And then while all stood gazing round, He smote the solid rock, Which rent, while shook the parched ground, As by an earthquake’s shock. And from that fissure deep and wide, A stream impetuous ran ; And soon of its refreshing tide, Drank every beast and man. Their cries of suffering now are o’er, Their lamentations cease ; The hymn of praise resounds once more, And all again is peace. WHITHER, O JERUSALEM Whither, O Jerusalem, Are all thy glories flown ! How is thy beauty faded, And perish’d thy renown ! No more the lute and timbrel With joy thy praises ring ; And silent is the harp Of thy holy minstrel king. Dead are the chiefs and princes, Who led thy martial train, To combat with the heathen On each red battle plain. And gone thy dark-eyed maidens, Who mingled in the throng, To welcome back each hero, With dance and sacred song. SACRED MELODIES. 115 Though Zion now is fallen Beneath the foeman’s chain ; Yet like the desert phoenix, She shall arise again. And her daughters once more strike Their harps with glad acclaim ; In one loud burst of melody, To praise Jehovah’s name. I HAVE HEARD THE SOFT VOICE OF MY LOVE. I have heard the soft voice of my love, Desiring me not to delay ; As I gazed from my lattice above, He said, My belov’d, come away : Come arise, my own love and my fair, The deluging rains are all o’er ; Sweetest fragrance is borne on the air, And winter prevaileth no more. The face of the earth with fair flowers Is deck’d with a bountiful hand ; The birds sweetly sing in the bowers, The turtle is heard in the land ; The young vine trees perfume the calm air, The leaves of the fig tree look gay ; Then awake, my own love and my fair, Arise, and with me come away. ELIJAH ON MOUNT HOREB On Horeb’s holy mount the aged prophet stood, His eyes were cast to heav’n in melancholy mood ; “ I grieve to think,” he said,” how Judah is bereft, “ Her holiest are slain, and I alone am left.” Before his ardent gaze the Lord of Hosts pass’d by, The raging winds roar’d fierce across the darken’d sky ; The rocks were rent in twain from the firm mountain’s side, But not in that loud blast did Israel’s God abide. Next with the earthquake’s force, each hill shook to its base, They trembled to behold their great Creator’s face ; And then before the eyes of that prophetic man, Lightnings and blazing fires along the mountain ran. Not in that dreadful shock, which shook the solid ground ; Or in the raging fire, was great Jehovah found ; 118 SACRED MELODIES. But last a still small voice rose calmly on the air ; Then fear oppress’d his heart — he knew his God was there. DANIEL IN THE LION’S DEN. The King of Chaldea ascends not his throne, His banqueting hall is deserted and lone ; No nobles or chiefs to the revelry throng, Nor rose on that evening the minstrel’s song. With the earliest dawn the monarch arose, And in haste to the den of the lions he goes ; “ Oh, Daniel !” he cried, while grief clouded his brow, “ Can the God whom thou servest deliver thee now?” “ Oh King, live for ever !” the prophet replied, “ An angel from heaven hath been by my side ; “ He banish’d my fears, and bade my grief cease, “ In the den of the lions, oh King ! I have peace.” And glad was the heart of that great monarch then, Soon Daniel was drawn from that dark loathsome den ; Unharmed he stood, he bore not a wound, He had faith in his God, and his mercy he found. THE DEATH OF SAUL. On Gilboa’s mountain lying, See a warrior fainting, dying, Low droops his plumed head ; Weep, Zion, for thy bravest son, Thy leader, thine anointed one, The royal Saul is dead ! O mighty chief, thy people’s shield, How often on the battle field, Before thy flaming spear, Hath fled the foeman’s armed train, Like deer across the desert plain, When Israel’s King drew near ! Then weep that Judah’s chosen band Should fly before Philistia’s hand, While, bathed in his gore, Which stream’d from many a gushing wound, Their monarch press’d the bloody ground, And saw their shame no more. SONG OF THE HEBREW WOMEN BEFORE SAUL AND DAVID. Let Israel come forth with song and with dance, To welcome her King and his warrior band ; Twine Victory’s garland round each hero’s lance, Since her voice is again heard in joy o’er the land. Hail to thee, great monarch, invincible Saul ! Long shall thy bold deeds be recounted in story ; Be David our champion exalted o’er all, Our country is fill’d with his fame and his glory. CHORUS. Lo ! Saul hath his thousands of Philistines slain, Tens of thousands by David are stretch’d on the plain. O’er the young hero’s head there waved no crest, His limbs were unfetter’d by plate or by mail ; No cuirass of steel bound his dauntless breast, As he rush’d in his pride along Elah’s green vale. G 122 SACRED MELODIES. Let a bold strain of music triumphantly flow, Let the shout be as loud as the waves of the sea When they roar in their wrath, that our nation may know, The heathen hath fallen, and Israel is free. CHORUS. Lo ! Saul hath his thousands of Philistines slain, Tens of thousands by David are stretched on the plain. THE PROPHET’S WARNING TO NINEVEH. Sons of Nineveh, give ear, Woe and desolation’s near, O’er your city hangs the rod Of a fierce offended God ; And when forty days are o’er, Nineveh shall be no more. Each proud temple, warlike tower, Marble palace, lady’s bower, Towering spire, stately hall, Gate of strength and lofty wall, Broken, torn, and hurl’d around, Soon will strew the trembling ground. Haughty monarch, chieftain brave, Lady fair, and lowly slave ; All thy beauty, all thy power, Wait but the appointed hour, When the angel’s wasting hand, Scatters death throughout the land. G 2 124 SACRED MELODIES. See the vivid lightnings glare Brightly in the darkening air ; And from yonder sable cloud, Hark — the thunder roars aloud ; Nineveh, the tempest’s gloom Tells of thy approaching doom. Hear the warning of the Lord, Listen to his prophet’s word ; Of your heathen rites repent, Ere his burning wrath is sent ; Or, when forty days are o’er, Nineveh shall be no more. JERUSALEM, FAREWELL! Jerusalem, farewell ! Of cities once the chief ; Oh more than we can tell, Our bosoms swell with grief, To see thy regal towers, Thou pride of Canaan’s land ; Thy palaces and bowers, In the proud Roman’s hand. Though in far distant regions we’re destin’d to rove. The land of our fathers we ever shall love. Jerusalem, farewell! Within our native halls, We see the heathen dwell, His banner on our walls; Though now, alas ! we part, To wander far from thee ; Within each Hebrew heart, Thy name enshrin’d shall be. Though in far distant regions we’re destin’d to rove, The land of our fathers we ever shall love. WHEN THE FINGERS OF DAVID SWEPT OVER THE STRINGS. When the fingers of David swept over the strings Of his harp, while aloud rose the song, Of glory and praise to the great King of Kings, And entranc’d stood the listening throng ; O say, did that monarch, so holy and brave, As the music roll’d down the wide hall, E’er think that the proud heathen’s banners would wave, In triumph o’er Zion’s high wall ? Yet such is the fate of Jerusalem now, Departed her glory and worth ; The sign of oppression is stamp’d on her brow, And her sons are dispers’d o’er the earth. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. See Israel stand trembling on Baal-Zephon’s coast, Their camp is beleaguer’d by proud Pharaoh’s host ; The surges of ocean roll wild at their feet, The fierce troops of Egypt prevent their retreat. The breast of each Hebrew is fill’d with alarms, Half fainting to view the dread gleaming of arms ; Amidst their loud murmurs the prophet is heard, And the tones of complaint are hush’d at his word. “ Fear nothing,” he said, “ from the foeman’s bright sword, “ But place all your trust in Jehovah your Lord And see through the deep main a path opens wide, The foam-crested billows roll back in their pride. The depths of the sea are exposed to the day, The dark heaving waters have yielded a way ; And Israel hath pass’d through the lone ocean wild, With camel and driver, and woman and child. 128 SACRED MELODIES. But Pharaoh pursues on his gem-studded car, With horsemen and chariots harness’d for war; The uttermost bounds of the Desert they reach, Their steeds proudly prance on the red sandy beach. Through the rough dashing spray they fiercely advance, Unsheath’d is each sabre, and couch’d is each lance ; And hark, loudly pealing, a wild shout of joy, The whole race of Israel they swear to destroy. But clouds, darkly rolling, obscure the blue sky, The black frowning tempest is gath’ring on high ; And brightly the levin brands flash through the gloom, O Egypt ! they speak of thy horrible doom. Then on came the billows resistless in force, O’erwhelming in fury both chariot and horse ; And deep in the ocean, entomb’d by the wave, Lie monarch and soldier, proud chieftain and slave. And banner and plumage are waving no more, But are strewn far and near like weeds on the shore ; And Israel thus rescued, a glad note of praise, With songs of thanksgiving, to Heaven they raise. HABAKKUK’S FAITH. Though the fig tree its blossom no more shall put forth, And no grapes on the vine shall be found ; Though the olive’s rich labour shall fail in the earth, And sterility cover the ground ; Though the numerous flocks be cut off' from the fold, And the herds from the stall and the field ; Yet I will rejoice, as did Israel of old, In Jehovah, my strength and my shield. G 3 O THOU FAIREST OF ISRAEL’S MAIDS. O thou fairest of Israel’s maids, Where can thy beloved one be ? Fast are falling the evening shades, Then come, we will seek him with thee. — My love hath gone where the gay rose, And the vine and the myrtle trees rise ; And the lilies unfolding, expose Their virgin white leaves to the skies. Where the gale sweeps o’er groves of perfume, My lover delighteth to rove ; — But forget their rich beauty and bloom, And return to the arms of thy love. Till the shadows of night shall depart, Ere the morning shall banish each star; Come as swiftly as bounds the young hart, Along Bether’s green mountains afar. BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST. Within the walls of Babylon, Clad in a robe of pride ; Broider’d with gold and sparkling gems, His satraps by his side ; And seated on a throne of state, With crown upon his head ; Before Belshazzar’s haughty eye The royal feast was spread ; A thousand lords and ladies fair Composed the glitt’ring throng ; And oft the monarch stoop’d to hear The minstrel’s swelling song. At length, inflam’d with wine and mirth, He rais’d his voice aloud ; And silent was the revelry Of that gay courtly crowd ; “ Bring forth the sacred vessels that “ The Jews possess’d of yore ; “ Which my great sire with conquering hand “ From their proud city bore : 132 SACRED MELODIES. “ And fill them high with sparkling wine, “ My Princes, Queens, and Lords, “ And praise the Gods of Babylon Such were Belshazzar’s words. Then forth were brought the cups of gold, With carving rich and rare ; In Zion’s temple once they shone, In holy service there ; And at the King’s command arose A pealing shout of joy ; When lo ! before their wond’ring eyes, Their pleasure to destroy, — A lonely hand appear’d within The wide and lofty hall, And wrote and trac’d strange characters, Upon the marble wall. Then fear and trembling seiz’d upon The heart of that proud King ; He cried aloud, “ Before me now “ The Chaldean sages bring ; “ And he who shall explain these words, “ Shall wear a chain of gold ; SACRED MELODIES. 133 “ And clad in scarlet, in my realm “ The third high rank shall hold.” But to read these mystic letters, No Chaldean they could find ; r And changed was the Monarch’s mien, And troubled was his mind. But from amongst the gazing throng, His lovely Queen draws near ; And strives with winning tenderness, His awe-struck heart to cheer. 44 O live for ever, mighty King ! “ Look not with fear around ; 44 For in thy kingdom there is one, “ Who will these words expound ; 44 He is of Judah’s conquer’d race, 44 A captive in the land ; 44 Taken when Jerusalem 44 Fell ’neath thy father’s hand. 44 His name is Daniel ; now, O King ! 44 Command him to be sought.” The monarch wills, and Daniel soon Into the hall is brought. 134 SACRED MELODIES. A gorgeous robe, a title high, A chain of massive gold, Were promis’d, if the meaning of These words he could unfold. “ Thy gifts be to thyself, O King ! “ Bestow them not on me,” The prophet said, “ yet I will read “ These mystic lines to thee. “ The Lord of Hosts gave to thy sire “ A kingdom and a throne ; “ And glory, honour, wealth, and power, “ He gave to him alone. But when his heart rebell’d against “ The Majesty of heaven, “ The crown that fill’d his breast with pride, “ From his proud head was riven ; “ And to the desert wilds afar, “ He then was driven forth ; “ Until he gave due worship to “ The Lord of Heaven and Earth. “ But thou, O King ! who knewst what fate “ Befel thy regal sire ; SACRED MELODIES. 135 “ What could induce thee thus to dare “ The God of Judah’s ire ? “ But to the meaning of the words “ Trac’d on thy palace wall ; — “ Thy kingdom it is finished , “ And now is doom'd to fall ; u j? or thou art weigh'd, and wanting found, “ By the high hand of Heaven ; “ Thy kingdom is now gone from thee , “ To Medes and Persians given?' The prophet paus’d ; — a deaf’ning shout Assail’d the list’ning crowd ; And trampling feet and clashing arms, With martial clangors loud ; Some gain the palace battlements, From whence they view with fear The Persian horse, the light arm’d Mede, Advance in full career. Against that armed multitude, The satraps fought in vain; Belshazzar ere that night was o’er, In his own halls lay slain. TELL ME, LOVELY HEBREW MAIDEN. Tell me, lovely Hebrew maiden, From whence arise thy fears ? Why is thy heart with grief o’erladen, Thy dark eye fill’d with tears ? I see thee gaze with wistful eye, From Zion’s ramparts steep ; I hear thee heave the frequent sigh, Then say, why dost thou weep ? Listen, warrior, to my story, In Philistia’s land afar, My lover seeking fame and glory, Forsook me for the war. He said, in answer to each tear, That soon he would return ; But ah ! I am left lonely here, His absence still to mourn. SACRED MELODIES. 13 And thus, when morning’s earliest rays Beam o’er the distant plain, From these proud battlements I gaze, To see my chief again; — But perhaps he lies upon the field, In death’s cold slumbers bound ; Wonder not, warrior, that I yield To sorrow so profound. THE DEATH OF MOSES. Hark ! the murmurs of grief arise loud from the train Of mourners assembled on Moab’s wide plain ; ’Tis a people’s lament for a father and head, The leader of Israel — their prophet — is dead ; And matrons and maidens are bitterly weeping Their chieftain and guide in his lonely grave sleeping. But weep not, O Israel, his sufferings are o’er, Which on earth for your many transgressions he bore ; A voice from on high bade his labours to cease, The hand that hath led you now resteth in peace ; Undaunted and calm Pisgah's mountain he trod, Whence his spirit was call’d to the Throne of his God. ISRAEL'S LAMENT. Sons of Israel, lament for our father-land's fall, For the fate that condemns us as exiles to roam, Despis’d and insulted in bower and in hall, Far, far from Judea, the land of our home. We think on the time when o’er Jordan’s bright waters, To the uttermost bounds of the wide desert plain, The glad song of praise from Jerusalem’s daughters, Rang loud to the harp and the cymbal’s sweet strain. But our virgins, alas ! are now cold in the grave, * Where the lip of the minstrel for ever is mute ; They slumber in peace where the tall cedars wave, They listen no more to the silver ton’d lute. And dim is the splendour, extinguish’d the blaze Of renown which illumin’d our once happy land ; As the snow that dissolves in the sun’s burning rays, Her grandeur hath fallen 'neath the heathen’s proud hand. 140 SACRED MELODIES. Though we weep, as we think on the days that are o’er, Though the star of our glory in darkness hath set ; The arm that dispers’d, can restore us once more, And that arm in our cause will be stretched forth yet. AS PROUDLY THE TOWERS ARISE. As proudly the towers arise The city of Zion above ; As Tirzah so beautiful lies, So fair is the form of my love ; As an army with banners display’d, Triumphantly waving in air ; E’en so stately the form of my maid, So graceful the mien of my fair. As the morning breaks through the blue skies, As sunbeams are piercing and clear ; E’en so bright is the glance of her eyes, In beauty when she doth appear ; As the moon in the heavens above, Disperses the darkness of night; So return, my own fair one, my dove, And banish my gloom by thy sight. O ISRAEL, AWAKE! O Israel, awake from the sleep which hath bound thee, Through ages of sorrow, oppression, and shame ; The light of the gospel is beaming around thee, O turn not away from its soul-cleansing flame. Long the tribes of thy nation in darkness have slept, And the songs of thy minstrels been hush’d in the land ; But pity’s moist eye o’er thy sufferings hath wept, And thy day of deliverance now is at hand. For the God of your fathers in ancient times swore, The remnant of Jacob to gather again ; As a shepherd his sheep, but in multitude more Than the grains of the sand on Arabia’s plain. SACRED MELODIES. 143 He who died on the cross shall then fill Zion’s throne, And your harps shall ring loud to his praise on that day; He shall reign without rival, shall govern alone, And truth, love, and mercy attend on his sway. THE SIEGE OF JERUSALEM. Pale turn’d each haughty Jewish brow, When first the trumpet’s call, Told that the Roman legions now Approach’d fair Zion’s wall. And battle cry and cymbal’s clang, Re-echo’d o’er that ground, Where once the harp of Judah rang, And gladness reign’d around. But on the ramparts soon appear, Their nation’s cause to aid, Brave warriors arm’d with shield and spear, With banners wide display’d ; Whose silken folds stream’d in the air, Most glorious to behold, Gleaming with richest colours rare, Of purple and of gold. SACRED MELODIES. 145 Then loud the shout of war arose, And shook each gilded dome ; Hurling defiance at their foes, Defiance to proud Rome. Yet nearer each besieging band Their destin’d places take; And silent now they waiting stand, The fierce assault to make. But who shall dare to raise the lay, The gloomy tale to tell, — The terrors of that dreadful day, When David’s city fell ! We know her lofty walls were cast In fragments o’er the sand ; We know the eagle standards pass’d In triumph through the land. H JOSHUA COMMANDETH THE SUN TO STAND STILL. The kings of the mountains, united by fear, Against Gibeon’s city encamped appear ; A loud shout of rage o’er the wide plain they send, As Israel draws nigh to protect and defend. But the voice of the Lord unto Joshua came, And spake to that chieftain in accents of flame ; “ Fear not, I have given them into thy hand, “ Not a man of that host before thee shall stand.” The night is now o’er, and the morning so fair Shews the standards of Israel waving in air ; » As the early beams glance over plumage and sword, Their leader thus spoke in the name of the Lord : “ O sun, let thy rays upon Gibeon remain, “ O moon, be thou still over Ajalon’s plain ; “ Till vengeance we take on the fierce mountain band, “ And drive these idolaters from Canaan’s land.” SACRED MELODIES. 147 Loucl blew the shrill trumpet the call to the field. The heathenish hosts to the Israelites yield ; From Gibeon’s high walls unto Beth-horon way, They ceas’d not to follow, o’ertake, and to slay. In number as sand on the surf-beaten shore, The proud heathen troops are laid low in their gore. Their lances are shiver’d, their banners are riven, Before the dread force of the chosen of heaven. THE PROPHETESS. On Zion’s wall a maiden stood alone, And thoughtfully she gazed from the proud battle- ments On the fair country round ; The verdant Mount of Olives, the Valley of Jehosha- phat, Recalling many a tale of Israel’s earlier day, With Cedron’s winding stream, lay all before her ; Yet pensive seem’d the maid, and sighing deeply, Turn’d away from the enchanting prospect. Her countenance, though pale, was beautiful, Her raven hair in clustering ringlets hung, Through which a neck, pure as the finest ivory might be seen, Her arms were bare, and round her wrists were clasp’d Bracelets of the purest beaten gold ; Keenly she glanced on all around, And oh ! such flashes came from her dark eye, As made her seem of more than mortal kind. SACKED MELODIES. 149 A loose robe hung around her, And on the wall beside her was a harp, On which she lean’d, and drew her hand at times Across the trembling chords, and then such strains resounded As would detain an angel in his flight, To wonder and to listen. But suddenly she ceas’d, and gaz’d again on the bright regions round ; And as she gaz’d, her eye would fill with tears, And weeping, she would turn away her head. At length, as the big tear roll’d down her cheek, She seized her harp, and woke its notes again, And her impassioned grief found vent in song. SONG. Oh ! Zion, fair Zion, though proudly on high Thy banners are waving o’er palace and hall ; Yet, City of David, I heave the deep sigh, To know that thy grandeur and glory must fall. The bright wreath of fame which encircles thee now, By the hand of the foeman will rudely be crush’d ; h 3 150 SACRED MELODIES. Thy young and thy fair to the Heathen must bow, Who will trample thy beauty and pride in the dust. I see — for to me it is given alone, To view all the dangers that compass thee round ; I see thy walls riven, o’erturn’d thy proud throne, While the wreck of thy temple is strewn o’er the ground. In fancy I hear the death-dirge of thy brave, ’Midst the wild din of war that is borne on the gale ; Now thy hour is arriv’d, and in glory’s red grave, Each high-minded chieftain is silent and pale. In that sad day of wrath, by oppression’s stern hand, Thy matrons and maids will as captives be led ; To languish and weep in a far distant land, Oh ! happier they who will rest with the dead. Then Zion, fair Zion, though proudly on high, Thy banners are waving o’er palace and hall ; Yet, City of David, I heave the deep sigh, To know that thy grandeur and glory must fall. SACRED MELODIES. 151 Here ceas’d the maid, and the melodious sounds That from her lyre and voice united flow’d Along the frowning ramparts, died away ; She dried the tears that fast had stream’d down her pale cheek, While this her mournful melody she sung ; And drawing close around her now The robe, which as she sung, had been thrown wildly back, Slowly withdrew : The stragglers who had gathered round, to listen to her song, Gaz’d on her as she pass’d, and said “ ’Tis Zillah, the young prophetess.” O STAR OF JERUSALEM, RISE. O Star of Jerusalem, rise, O’er the clouds which envelope thy light Thy path was once bright in the skies, Ere thy splendour was quenched in night And Israel with banners unfurl’d, Like a fierce lion rush’d to the war ; While gazed a wondering world, At the light of her glory afar. But Salem is desolate now, The nations behold her with scorn ; Her diadem torn from her brow, Like a widow she sitteth forlorn. Though her grandeur be laid in the dust, And her sons wear captivity’s chain, In Jehovah is placed their trust, To restore them to Zion again. SONG OF THE HEBREW EXILES. When shall our lonely captive band, Possess again our father-land ? Dispers’d and scatter’d o’er the earth, When will our God his arm stretch forth, To bring the remnants of our host, Once more to fair Judea’s coast ? Jehovah ! hear our fervent pray’r, In mercy now thy people spare. Ages of sorrow we have borne, Words of insult, looks of scorn ; Oppress’d with woe, and rack’d with pains, Our limbs have worn the Gentile’s chains ; While victims to the foeman’s pride, What numbers of our race have died ! Jehovah ! hear our fervent pray’r, In mercy now thy people spare. Hasten the time, O Israel’s God ! When the green vales our fathers trod, SACRED MELODIES. 154 Our longing eyes again shall meet, Again receive our weary feet; No more in distant lands to roam, But there for ever find a home. Jehovah ! hear our fervent pray’r, In mercy now thy people spare. THE END. * EDWARD BAINES AND SON, PRINTERS, LEEDS. #