" 
 
 &&* 
 
 HISTORICAL 
 
 AND 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE 
 POEMS. 
 
 JOSHUA LAX.
 
 Kitt -
 
 

 
 HISTORICAL 
 
 AND 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSHUA LAX. 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS EXPLANATORY AND OTHER NOTES, 
 
 AND 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS AND LOCAL VIEWS. 
 
 DURHAM: GEO. NEASHAM. 
 1884.
 
 Ail
 
 Dedication. 
 
 TO 
 SAMUEL B. COXON, ESQ., 
 
 IN APPRECIATION OF HIS MANY 
 ADMIRABLE QUALITIES, 
 
 OF HIS 
 ERUDITION, GOOD TASTE, LOVE OF 
 
 BEAUTY, AND ALL THAT IS 
 
 TRULY NOBLE AND ELEVATING, 
 
 AND OF HIS CONSTANT READINESS TO 
 
 RENDER A SERVICE TO THE 
 
 GOOD AND DESERVING NEEDY, 
 
 THIS WORK IS HUMBLY DEDICATED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR,
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 THE BRIDGE AT SHOTLEY. 
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE IN 1840. 
 
 SHOTLEY .SPA WELL. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF JOHN GRAHAM LOUGH. 
 
 EBCHESTER CHURCH. 
 
 ROMAN ALTAR FOUND AT EBCHESTER. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF DR. RENTON. 
 
 NEVILLE'S CROSS. 
 
 HAMSTERLEY HALL. 
 
 HANDLEY CROSS BRIDGE. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ROBERT SMITH SURTEES.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 OVID, in his quaint description of the Temple of 
 Fame, speaks of the structure as being so designed 
 as to reproduce, in a subdued form, every word spoken 
 on sea and shore ; and although, says the poet, the 
 place was always filled with a confused hubbub of 
 low dying sounds, many of the voices were spent and 
 worn before they reached the rendezvous. Whether 
 the footfalls of the present newcomer will ever echo 
 in the corridors of the far-famed palace, it would, 
 perhaps, be premature to conjecture. The writer's 
 ambition does not soar so high. He has no pretentions 
 to renown, nor is it without feelings of diffidence that 
 he ventures to introduce the following pages to the 
 favour of the public. It has been said that every 
 man has one or more qualities which may make him 
 useful both to himself and others ; and if, in the spirit 
 of this axiom, the perusal of the following pages serves 
 to heighten the pleasure of the passing hour, and fling 
 a loftier interest around the ever-flowing stream of 
 human life, the author seeks no nobler recompense. 
 Many of the poems are already well known in West
 
 XVI PREFACE. 
 
 Durham, and if, in their present connected form, they 
 chance to merit a wider circulation, it is to be hoped 
 they will satisfy the expectations of the stranger, not 
 merely in the variety of the subjects chosen, but in 
 purity of tone and sentiment. 
 
 The explanatory footnotes attached to some of the 
 longer poems will perhaps recall not a few favourite 
 incidents and half-forgotten legends, which may tend 
 to enhance the interest and usefulness of the work. 
 
 My very cordial and sincere thanks are due to the 
 printer and publisher, who has been of untold value 
 to me in the dual capacity of councillor and friend. 
 
 JOSHUA LAX. 
 
 Shotley Bridge, March, 1884.
 
 Xist of Subscribers. 
 
 H 
 
 Adamson, Mr. Matthew, Burnopfield, i copy. 
 
 Addison, Mr. J. T., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Ainsworth, Mr. G., Westbank, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Allendale Cottages, The Working Men's Reading Room, i copy. 
 
 Allison, Mr., Hamsterley Mill, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Amos, Mr. Joseph, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Anderson, Mr. James, Black Hedley, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Anderson, Mr. John, woodman, Mosswood, i copy. 
 
 Annandale, W. M., Esq., Lintz Ford, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Annandale, James, Esq., J.P., The Briary, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Annandale, Miss, Shotley Grove, Shotley Bridge, 2 copies. 
 
 Appleby, Mr. Wm., Leazes, Burnopfield, i copy. 
 
 Appleton, Mr. John Reed, F.S.A., Western Hill, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Archbold, Mrs., Sydenham Terrace, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Arkless, Mr. John, Tantobie, i copy. 
 
 Armstrong, Mr. Stephen, Holly Lodge, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Armstrong, Mr. Roger, Hamsterley Hall, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Atkinson, Mr. Robert, Shakespere Terrace, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Atkinson, Mr., Low Hermitage Farm, Satley, Darlington, i copy. 
 
 Aynsley, Mr. William, Consett, i copy. 
 
 to 
 
 Bainbridge, Mr. T. H., Market Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Bailie, Rev. Alexander, The Manse, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Baitey, Rev. Wm., 4, Sutton Street,. Durham, i copy. 
 
 Bancroft & Fawthorp, Messrs., brush manufacturers, Halifax, 
 
 Yorks., 2 copies. 
 
 Barmby, Rev. James, Vicar of Pittington, Durham, 2 copies. 
 Barclay, Mr. R. G., Cauldwell, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Barker, Mr. G. C., Derwent Cote, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 Barnes, Chas. E., Esq., Western Hill, Durham, i copy. 
 Barrass, Mr. Alexander, 7, Loadman Street, Scots wood Road, 
 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Barren, Mr. Cuthbert, Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Bates, Mr. J., watchmaker, West Stanley, Chester-le-Street, i copy. 
 Batey, Isaac, Esq., Hexham, i copy. 
 Baynes, Mr. C., Snow's Green, Shotley Bridge, i copy.
 
 XVlii SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 
 
 Beckwith, Rev. J. S., M.A., Walker Vicarage, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Bell, Mr. Joseph, Swiss Cottage, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Bell, Mr. H., Edmondbyers, i copy. 
 Bell, Mr. T., 14, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Bell, Mr. Wilson/ Baybridge, Blanchland, i copy. 
 Belt, Messrs. Geo. & Sons, 23, Groat Market, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Benson, Mr. R. S., Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Bennett, Mr. J. R., Northumberland Street, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Bernasconi, Mr. A., 41, Dean Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Best, Mr. F., police constable, Westwood, i copy. 
 Beeley, Mr. Henry, 5, Summer Place, Kidderminster, i copy. 
 Black, Messrs. & Sons, Sea View Works, Berwick, i copy. 
 Blackhill Mechanics' Institute, i copy. 
 Boag, Mr. Hugh, Shotley Hall, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Bolton, W. T., Esq., M.D., Prospect House, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Bolton, Mrs., White House Road, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Bowmaker, Mr. E., 10, Beauclarc Terrace, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Bowey, Mr. John, Castleside, i copy. 
 Booth, John, Esq., Summerdale, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brady, Mr. Wm., 4, Eltringham Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Bramley, Mr. Joseph, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Brears, Mr. W., Redwell Hills, Leadgate, i copy. 
 Brewis, Mr. Wm., Newlands Grange, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Britton, Mr. Geo., Friargate, New Scarborough, Wakefield, i copy. 
 Brotherhood, Mr. W., Lanchester, i copy. 
 Brodie, Mr. John, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brodie, Mr. Adam, Town Hall, Consett, i copy. 
 Brooks, John C., Esq., 14, Lovaine Place, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Brooks, Miss, Workhouse, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. N., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Thomas, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Wm., mason, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Geo., Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Joseph, 6, Rose Mount, Consett, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Peter, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Ralph, Baxton Burn, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Brown, Mr. Jno., Little Black Hedley, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Brown, Mrs. D. A., Pittington, Durham, i copy. 
 Bruce, Mr. Thomas, Green Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 .Bruce, Mr. Thos., 3, Green Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Bryson, Rev. D., Shadforth, Durham, i copy. 
 Buckham, Mr. John, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Buckham, Mr. George, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Bullock, Mr. Jno., gardener, Snow's Green, Shotley Bridge, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. XIX 
 
 Bulman, Mr. Thomos, Birkhott, Muggleswick, i copy. 
 Burdess, Mr. Thos., 31, Thomas Street, Monkwearmouth, i copy. 
 Burdess, Mr. Ed., Dock Street East, Monkwearmouth, i copy. 
 Burton, Mr. Eli, Poplar House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Bushby, Mr. Matthew, Blackhall Mill, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 Byers, Mr. H. (Nicholson & Co.), Pilgrim Street, Newcastle, 2 copies. 
 
 Cain, J. C., Esq., Woodbine Villa, Gateshead, i copy. 
 
 Carr, J. Rodham, Esq., LL.D., Carr Stones, Wolsingham, i copy. 
 
 Calvert, Mr. John, Sherburn House, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Campbell, Mr. J. W., Fawcett Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Campbell, Rev. Edward, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Campbell, Mr. W., Jun., 16, Blandford Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Campbell, Mr. W., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Campbell, Rev. A., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Carr, M., Esq., Ebchester Hall, Ebchester, 2 copies. 
 
 Carr, Mr. Jas. D., Sunniside, Tow Law, i copy. 
 
 Carruthers, Mr. John, Castleside, i copy. 
 
 Cawthorne, Mr. Ed. P., butcher, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Chapman, Miss Emma, Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Charlton, Mr. William, Burnopfield, i copy. 
 
 Charlton, Mr. Thos., timber merchant, Burnopfield, i copy. 
 
 Charlton, Mr. W., Dene House, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Charlton, Mr. Thos., Snow's Green Road, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Charlton, Mr. John, High Waskerley, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Chaytor, Mr. R., Hamsterley Colliery, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Cheesman, Mr. W., Iveston, i copy. 
 
 Cherry, Miss, Crossgate, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Cheyne, Mr. James, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Chisholm, Mr. J., engineer, North Skelton Mines, Saltburn, i copy. 
 
 Christopher, Mrs., North-Eastern Hotel, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Christopher, Mr. John, Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Cochrane, Brodie, Esq., Aldin Grange, i copy. 
 
 Cockin, Rev. W., M.A., Vicar of Medomsley, 2 copies. 
 
 Clark, Robert, Esq., Lintz Green House, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Close, Mr. John, Medomsley, i copy. 
 
 Collinson, Mr. John, Grove Schools, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Collinson, Mr. John, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Collinson, Mr. George W., Salem Street P.O., Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Coulson, Mr. T., Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Coulson, Mr. Thomas, Birtley, Chester-le-Street, i copy. 
 
 Coulson, Mr. Joseph, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Cook, Mr. John G., 9, Cort Street, Blackhill, i copy.
 
 xx SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 Cook, Mr. John, 3, Ledger Terrace, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Coupland, Mr. M., Westwood House, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Cowen, Jos., Esq., M.P., 23, Onslow Square,, London, S.W., i copy. 
 Coxon, S. B., Esq., 7, Westminster Chambers, Victoria Street, 
 
 Westminster, London, 12 copies. 
 Coxon, Mr. Ed., Cutlers' Hall Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Cranston, Mr. R., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Crow, A. T., Jun., Esq., Belle Vue Park, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Cruickshank, Mr. Alexander,^ 2, Union [Street, Wallsend, i copy. 
 Gumming, Mr. John, Langley West House, Langley Park, i copy. 
 Currie & Hutchinson, Messrs., chemists, Side, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Curry, Mr. J. T., Delves Lane, Consett, i copy. 
 Curtis & Harvey, Messrs., 74, Lombard St., London, E.G., i copy. 
 Cuthbertson, Rev. James, 2, Esk Terrace, Whitby, i copy. 
 
 B 
 
 Davey, Mr. Wm., Snow's Green, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Davison, Mr. J. W., ironmonger, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Davison, Mr. Charles, Front Street, Consett, i copy. 
 
 De Pledge, Rev. J. P., M.A., Satley, i copy. 
 
 Dickinson, Robert, Esq., J.P., Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Dickinson, Mrs., Belle Vue House, Shotley Bridge, 2 copies. 
 Dickinson, Mrs. W. R., Priestfield Lodge, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 Dickinson, William, Esq., The Villa, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. John, Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. Robert, Shotley Estate, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. Robert, Broad Oak, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. Edward, Ebchester Mill, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. Jos., 15, Barrington Terrace, Hetton-le-Hole, Fence 
 
 Houses, i copy. 
 
 Dixon, Mr. Andrew, Apperley, Stocksfield, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. William, The Lodge, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Dixon, Mr. John, Littletown Farm, Durham, i copy. 
 Dobson, Mr. Henry, The Briary, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Dodd, Mr. H., Rokeby Villa, Durham, i copy. 
 Douglas, Mr. James, Co-operative Store, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Douglas, Chas. D. & Co., 15, Queenhithe, Upper Thames Street, 
 
 London, i copy. 
 
 Douglass, Rev. Wm., Hawthorn Cottage, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Dowson, Mr. Jacob, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Duncan, Mr. Wm., editor Durham Chronicle, i copy. 
 Dunn, Mr. Thomas, Lanchester, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. xxi 
 
 Drummond, Mr. John, Hole House, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Drummond, Mr. John, Kiln Pit Hill, Riding Mill, i copy. 
 
 B 
 
 East, J. G., Esq., Dunster House, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Eden, Mr. Geo., merchant tailor, West Street, Gateshead, i copy. 
 
 Egdell, Mr. J. J., 116, Northumberland Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 i copy. 
 
 Eltringham, Mr. Joseph, Benfieldside, 2 copies. 
 
 Eltringham, Mr. W., Highgate, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Eltringham, Mr. G., Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Elliott, Rev. T., Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Elliott, Mr. William, assistant overseer, Consett, 2 copies. 
 
 Elliott, Mr. Jos. F., St. Ives' Road, Leadgate, i copy. 
 
 Elsdon, Mr. M., Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 England, Mr. John B., Derwent Cote Farm, i copy. 
 
 Erskine, Mr. Geo. H., 15, Adelaide Terrace, New Benwell, New- 
 castle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Fairley, Jas., Esq., Craghead, Chester-le-Street, 2 copies. 
 
 Fairlamb, Mr. J. O., Cutlers' Hall, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Fairlamb, Mr. John, 7, Cutlers' Hall Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Fairlamb, Mr. Thomas, 8, Cutlers' Hall Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Farrar, Rev. Wesley, M.A., The Vicarage, Castleside, i copy. 
 
 Farrar, Rev. H. W., Chaplain Tyne Mission Ship, South Shields, 
 i copy. 
 
 Fawcett, Mr. John, 100, Tynemouth Road, Heaton, Newcastle, 
 i copy. 
 
 Featherstonehaugh, Rev. W., M.A., Edmondbyers, i copy. 
 
 Pewster, Mr. Anthony, Newlands, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Finlayson, Bousfield & Co., Messrs., thread manufacturers, John- 
 stone, Renfrewshire, 2 copies. 
 
 Fitzpatrick, Mr. S. J., Bridge Hill, i copy. 
 
 Fleming, P. R. & Co., 29, Argyle Street, Glasgow, i copy. 
 
 Forster, Miss E. A., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Forster, Mr. John, builder, Medomsley, i copy. 
 
 Forster, Mr. J. W., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Forster, Mr. George, police-constable, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Fowler, James, Esq., Mayor of Durham, i copy. 
 
 Frankland, Mr. Rd., 4, Cross Derwent Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Frankland, Mr. Michael, Derwent Street, Blackhill, i copy.
 
 xxii SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 French, Mr. W., Fore Street, Hexham, i copy. 
 
 $ 
 
 Galloway, Mr. W., Bensham Tower, Gateshead, 2 copies. 
 Gibson, Mr. Michael, Edge Road, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 Gilchrist, Mr. James, Longfield House, Marley Hill, i copy. 
 Gilmour, John, Esq., Llwynypia, near Pontypridd, So. Wales, i copy. 
 Gledstone, Mr. T. L., North-Eastern Bank, Consett, i copy. 
 Gledstone, Rev. J. P., 63, Upper Tulse Hill, London, S.W., i copy. 
 Gledstone, Mr. John, Blackwell, Darlington, i copy. 
 Golightly, Elizabeth, Springfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Gourley, Rev. G. M., Vicar of Blanchland, i copy. 
 Green, Mr. William, Mare Burn Cottage, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Green, Mrs., grocer, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Greenwell, Rev. Wm., M.A., D.C.L., F.S.A., Durham, i copy. 
 Gregson, W., Esq., Baldersby, Thirsk, i copy. 
 Gribbens, Mr. John, Greenwood, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Ground, Mr. Wm., Derwent House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Guthrie, Mr. John, Shotley Grove, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Hall, Mr. Ralph, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Hall, Mr. Jesse, Market Street, Consett, 2 copies. 
 
 Hall, Mr. Robert, Baxton Burn, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Hallatt, Mr. C., 206, Bradford Street, Birmingham, i copy. 
 
 Handcock, Mr., Barcus Close, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Harker, Mr., Consett Station, i copy. 
 
 Hardy, Miss, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Harris, Mr. Daniel, draper, Spen, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Harrison, Mr. George, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Harrison, Mr. Thomas, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Harrison, Mr. J., Sherburn Colliery Station, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Hawdon, Mr. George, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Hedley, Geo., Esq., J.P., Burnhopeside Hall, Lanchester, i copy. 
 
 Hedley, W. H., Esq., Manor House, Medomsley, i copy. 
 
 Henderson, Mr. Richard, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Heppell, Mr. Wm., Espershiels, Riding Mill, i copy. 
 
 Heymer, Mr. John, Benfieldside, 4 copies. 
 
 Hobson, Mr. George, Harperley Mills, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Hodges, Mr. Charles C., Hexham, i copy. 
 
 Hodgson, Mr. Thomas, draper, Blackhill, 3 copies. 
 
 Hodgson, J. W., Esq., Bradley Lodge, Dipton, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. xxiii 
 
 Hogg, Mr. W., 42, Westwood, i copy. 
 
 Hooppell, Rev. R. E., M.A., LL.D., Byers Green Rectory, i copy. 
 
 Hopper, Dr., Dempsterville, Felling-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Hopper, Mr. Robert, Chronicle Office, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Houliston, Mr. A., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Howie, Mr. W. J., 53, Derwent Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Howie, Mr. Thomas, Waterworks, West Hartlepool, i copy. 
 
 Hudspith, Mr. Dickson, Carterway Head, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Hull, Mr. Matthew, 9, Cutlers' Hall, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Humble, Mr., Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Hunt, Mr. George, Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Hunter, Miss, Derwent Villa, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Hunter, Mr. E. H., Derwent House, Seaham Harbour, i copy. 
 
 Hunter, Miss, Haswell Lane, Fence Houses, i copy. 
 
 Hunter, Mr. John G., Littletown Farm, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Huntley, Mr. Joseph, 24, Derby Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Hutchinson, Mr. T., Blanchland, i copy. 
 
 Hyden, Mr. G. T., Sherburn Terrace, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Imrie, Mr. David, i, Tin Mill Place, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Ingles, Mr. James, 146, Manchester Road, Warrington, i copy. 
 Irving, Mr. Thomas, Westwood Farm, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Jackson, Mr. Robert, Guardian Office, Consett, i copy. " 
 
 James, Walter H., Esq., M.P., 6, Whitehall Gardens, London, i 
 
 copy. 
 
 Jamieson, Mrs., Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Jenkins, W., Esq., J.P., Consett Hall, Consett, 4 copies. 
 Jenkins, Rev. E. W., Carey Cottage, Blackhill, 2 copies. 
 Jewers, Mr. John, Benfieldside Edge Road, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Jewitt, Mr. Robson, Castleside, i copy. 
 Johnson, Mr. Ed., 26, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Johnson, Mr. Wm., Unthank, Kiln Pit Hill, Riding Mill, i copy. 
 Johnson, Mr. Geo., Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Johnstone, Mr. Thomas, 24, Cort Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Jones, Dr., Court House, Toypany, Glamorganshire, i copy. 
 
 Kirsopp, Mr. John, Shotley Bridge, i copy.
 
 XXIV SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 
 
 Kitching Bros., Messrs., Kingston Brush Works, Hull, i copy. 
 Kidd, Mr. John, 6, Mount Pleasant, Consett, 2 copies. 
 Kyle, Mr. Robert, Crookgate, Burnopfield, i copy. 
 Kirkup, Mr. John, Consett Station, i copy. 
 Kearney, Rev. Canon, The Brooms, Leadgate, i copy. 
 Keenleyside, Mr., Crook Hall, Consett, i copy. 
 Kane, Mr. J. J., 2, Princess Street, Gateshead, i copy. 
 Kirkup, Mr. J. S., Stanifordam, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Laidlaw, Messrs. R. and Sons, Manor Chare, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Lamb, Mr. Henry, Ledger Terrace, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Lamb, Mr. Richard, Belle Vue, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Lammonby, Mr. Thomas, Leadgate, i copy. 
 Latimer, Richard, Esq., Whitley, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 2 copies. 
 Latimer, Rev. A., Loftus-in-Cleveland, Yorkshire, i copy. 
 Laws, Messrs. J. & Co., Rae Street, Glasgow, i copy. 
 Lax, Mr. William, Llwynypia House, Pontypridd, Glamorganshire, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Lax, Mr. Prosser, Jacksonville, Illinois, U.S.A., i copy. 
 Lax, Miss V. V., Jacksonville, Illinois, U.S.A., i copy. 
 Lax, Mr. Edward C., Jacksonville, Illinois, U.S.A., 2 copies. 
 Lax, Mr. Newark, Jacksonville, Illinois, U.S.A., i copy. 
 Lazenby, Mr. J. B., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Leadbitter, Mr. James, 22, Cutlers' Hall, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Le Keux, Mrs., Old Elvet, Durham, i copy. 
 Leslie, Mr. John, Post Office, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Leslie, Mr. Surtees, 99, Mantua Street, Falcon Lane, Battersea, 
 
 London, S.W., i copy. 
 
 Leslie, Mr. Urwin, Post Office, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Leslie, Miss, Post Office, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Leybourne, Miss Lizzie, Margery Flatts, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Leybourne, Mr. S., Derwent Hill, i copy. 
 Leybourne, Mr. S., Jun., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Leybourne, Mrs. Geo., Castleside, i copy. 
 Lilburn, Chas., Esq., Glenside, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Lisle, Mr. John, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Lisle, Mr. Ralph, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Littlefair, Mr. William, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Locke, Blackett & Co., Messrs., Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Lockhart, Louis C., Esq., Hexham, i copy. 
 Lockwood, Mr. Joseph, Spital Hill, Sheffield, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. xxv 
 
 Logan, William, Esq., Stobbilee House, Langley Park, Durham, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Longstaff, Miss, Pierremont Crescent, Darlington, i copy. 
 Longstaffe, Mr. S. F., F.R.H.S., Norton, i copy. 
 Lough, Mrs., 42, Harewood Square, London, N.W. 
 Lough, Mr. Wm., blacksmith, Consett, i copy. 
 Lowery, Mr. Robert, High Pittington,. Durham, i copy. 
 Lowery, Mr. R. A., High Pittington, Durham, i copy. 
 Lovett, Mr. James, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Lucas, Mrs., Amberley Street, Sunderland, 5 copies. 
 Lumsden, Mr. J. P., Lockerbie, Dumfriesshire, i copy. 
 
 /ID 
 
 Macdonald, Mr. John, Cutlers' Hall, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Mackey, Mr. W., Benfieldside, i copy. 
 Mackey, Mr. Thomas, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 Mackey, Mr. John, Highgate, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Maclauchlan, Mr. Hugh S., 14, Buckingham Street, Adelphi, Lon- 
 don, W.C., i copy. 
 
 Makepeace, Mr. J. N., Institute Terrace, Crook, i copy. 
 Marley, T. E. F., Esq., Fell Mount, Ulverston, i copy. 
 Marshall, Mr. Robert, Highgate, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Marston, Mr. H. C., Ross's Hotel, Edinbrough, 3 copies. 
 Mason, Mr. George, 19, Foundry Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Maxwell, J. A. H., Shotley Bridge Station, i copy. 
 McColvin, Mr. Colin Campbell, Newmarket Street, Consett, i copy 
 Mclntosh, Mr. Duncan, Snow's Green, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 McKeeth, Mr. John, Villiers Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 McKeeth, Mr. J. F., Villiers Street, Sunderland, 2 copies. 
 McLauchlin, Miss, Lanchester, i copy. 
 McPherson, Mr. Allan, grocer, Tantobie, i copy. 
 Meadows, Miss Susan, Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Menham, Mr. Michael, Hendon Old Station, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Mctcalf, Mr. W., Broxbourne Terrace, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Metcalf, Mr. Henry, Fawcett Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Mewes, Mr. John, Jun., 21, Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Milburn, Mr. John, Belford, Northumberland, i copy. 
 Mitchinson, Robert, Esq., Catchgate House, i copy. 
 Moffatt, Mr. J. S., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Mole, Mr. Anthony, 94, Park Road, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Mold, Miss S., Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Monks, Col., Aden Cottage, Durham, i copy. 
 Moody, Mr. B., Ebchester, i copy.
 
 xxvi SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 Moody, Mr. George, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Moon, Mr. John, Cemetery Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Moore, Mr. Wm. John, 29, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Moore, Mr. William, Ashlield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Moore, Mr. William, Bridge End, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Morgan, Mr. Nicholas, 7, Salem Hill, Snnderland, i copy. 
 
 Mosley, Mr. Charles, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Muir, Mr. John Taylor, 20, Bessemer Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Muir, Rev. Joseph, Benfieldside Edge Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Mullen, Mr. John, Pilgrim Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Murray, D. W., Esq., Jesmond Park, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Murray, Mr. Richard, Benfieldside House, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Murray, Mr. J. S., Umguni House, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Murray, Mr. John G., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Muse, Mr. J. T., Castleside House, i copy. 
 
 Neasham, Mr., Middlesbro', i copy. 
 
 Neilson, Mr. John S., 10, Egerton Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Nelson, Mr. Wm., 74, Arundel Street, Sheffield, 2 copies. 
 
 Nicholson, Mr. C. W., Baxton Burn, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Nicholson, Mr. F. C., 46, Dunn Street, Newcastle, i copy. 
 
 Nicholson, Mr. George, Leadgate, i copy. 
 
 Nicholson, Mr. John, Otterburn Terrace, Newcastle, 4 copies. 
 
 Nixon, Mr. Thomas, joiner, Edge Road, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Noble, Mr. Mark, Consett Station, i copy. 
 
 North of England School Furnishing Co., Darlington, 3 copies. 
 
 Nuttall, Rev. J. K., 13, The Oaks, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Oley, Mr. Joseph, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, 4 copies. 
 Oley, Mr. Christopher, Cutlers' Hall Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Oley, Mrs. H., Whittonstall, 2 copies. 
 Oliver, Mr. Robt., Shotley Field Mill, i copy. 
 Oliver, Mr. John, grocer, Stanley, 3 copies. 
 Ormerod, Mr. D., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Osborne, Mr. John, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Osborne, Mr. Pattinson, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Palliser, Mr. James, Foundry Row, Blackhill, i oopy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. XXV11 
 
 Park, Mr. Robert, Mount Pleasant, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Parkinson, Mr. G., Sherburn, Durham, 2 copies. 
 
 Parkinson, Mr. Henry, Railway Terrace, Fence Houses, 2 copies. 
 
 Parkinson, Mr. John L., Sherburn, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Parkinson, Mr. Geo., Jun., Sherburn, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Parnaby, Mr. Chris., Cemetery Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Patterson, Mr. Edward, Shotley Bridge, 2 copies. 
 
 Patterson, Mr. George, Benfieldside Edge Road, i copy. 
 
 Pattinson, Mr. Thomas, Castleside, i copy. 
 
 Pattinson, Mr. Wm., Castleside, i copy. 
 
 Pearson, Mr. Henry, Edge Road, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Pearson, Mr. Geo., Airyholme, Kilnpit Hill, Riding Mill, i copy. 
 
 Pease, Sir Jos. W., Bart., M.P., Hutton Hall, Gisborough, i copy. 
 
 Peile, Geo., Esq., Greenwood, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Pescod, Mr. John, Neville Street, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Petherick, Mr. John, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Pickering, Mr. John, Acton, Blanchland, i copy. 
 
 Powell, Mr. Thomas, Belmont, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Powell, Mr. M., 4, Union Place, Gateshead, i copy. 
 
 Priestman, Jon., Esq., Derwent Lodge, Shotley Bridge, 4 copies. 
 
 Priestman, F., Esq., Holly Lodge, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Pringle, Thos., Esq., Tanfield Lea, 2 copies. 
 
 Proud, Mr. John, newsagent, Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Proudlock, Mr. R. E., 7, Broadwell Row, Oldbury, Birmingham, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Proudlock, Mr. William, St. Neots, Huntingdonshire, i copy. 
 Purvis, Mr. Ralph, Edge Road, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Quin, Mr. Stephen, Westgate Road, Newcastle, i copy. 
 
 rc 
 
 Raine, Rev. F., Hexham, i copy. 
 
 Radcliffe, James, Esq., Stafford Villa, South Stockton, i copy. 
 Ramsay, Mr. Wm., Baxton Burn, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Reed, Mr. W"., Old Surgery, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Reed, Mr. Gawen, Consett Station, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Reed, R. B., Esq., Springfield, Forest Hall, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Reed, Robt., Esq., Lintz Colliery, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 Reid, Mr. Geo., grocer, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Renton, W. M., Esq., M.D., Orchard House, Shotley Bridge, 4 
 copies.
 
 xxviii SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 Renton, Geo., Esq., M.D., Viewlands, Blackhill, 2 copies. 
 Rewcastle, Cuthbert, Esq., Hodgkin, Barnett & Company's Bank, 
 
 Newcastle, i copy. 
 
 Richardson, Mr. Geo., Shotley Bridge, 2 copies. 
 Richardson, Mr. John ]., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Richardson, Mrs., Springfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Richardson, Mr. Robert, Newbottle, Fence Houses, i copy. 
 Richardson, Mr. Wm., 6, Allendale Cottages, i copy. 
 Richardson, Mr. Geo., West View House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Richardson, Alderman T. R., Durham, i copy. 
 Richardson, Chas., Esq., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Richley, Mr. M., Durham Road, Blackhill, 2 copies. 
 Ridley, Mr. G., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Ridley, Mr. Matthew, Snow's Green, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Rimington, Mr. J. M., Whitley, Northumberland, i copy. 
 Rippon, Mr. Robert, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Ritson, Mr. W. H., Lanchester, i copy. 
 Ritson, Wm., Esq., Woodley Field, Hexham, 2 copies. 
 Ritson, U. A., Esq., J.P., 18, Hawthorn Terrace, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Roberts, Messrs. W. & Co., 4, Summer Row, Birmingham, 2 copies. 
 Robinson, Thos. W. U., Esq., F.S.A., Hatfield House, Houghton- 
 
 le-Spring, 2 copies. 
 
 Robinson, J. Hastings, Esq., Church Stretton, Shropshire, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. W., grocer, Medomsley, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. Thomas, Allansford, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. Geo. T., Derwent Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. Wm. Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. Thomas, joiner, Medomsley, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. F., 15, Allendale Cottages, i copy. 
 Robinson, Mr. Robt, Pittington, Durham, i copy. 
 Robinson, Miss, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Robson, Mr. Geo., Edmondbyers, i copy. 
 Robson, Mr. Geo., miller, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Robson, Mr. W., 5, Wesley Terrace, Dipton, i copy. 
 Robson, Mr. John, grocer's assistant, Spa Well Cottage, Shotley 
 
 Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Robson, Mr. John, cartwright, Whittonstall, Stocksfield, i copy. 
 Robson, Mr. Robt, merchant, Castleside, i copy. 
 Roddam, Mr. J., Broad Chare, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Ross-Lewin, Rev. G. H., M.A., Vicarage, Benfieldside, 2 copies. 
 Ross-Lewin, Rev. H. H., Vicarage, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 Rounthwaite, Mr. J. W., surveyor, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Rutherford, Mr. Thomas, 218, High Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Rutland, Mr. Geo., Bank, Shotley Bridge, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. xxix 
 
 Salkeld, Mr. R. W., manager Durham Advertiser, \ copy. 
 
 Seed, Mr. John, Temperance Hall, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Schellenberg, Mr., Consett, i copy. 
 
 Scott, Mr. W. J., Sycamores, Castleside, i copy. 
 
 Scott, Mr. J., East Parade, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Scott, Mr. James, Blaydon Saw Mills, Blaydon-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 
 Shaw, Mr. R. W., Villa Real, Leadgate, i copy. 
 
 Shell, Mr. Wm., Barr House, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Shell, Mr. Wm., Jun., Consett Station, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Sherlock, Mr. Robt., Gold Hill, Waskerley, Darlington, i copy. 
 
 Sherritt, Mr. John, Cutlers' Hall Road, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Shimmin, Mr. Geo., 36, Fawcett Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Shotton, Mr., Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Shotton, Miss, Randolph Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Siddell, Thomas, Esq., Viewfield, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Siddle, Mr. Geo., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Siddle, Mr. N. C., Watling Villa, Willington, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Simpson, Mr. Ralph, 172, Prince Consort Rqad, Gateshead, i copy. 
 
 Slack, Mr. John, bookseller, North Road, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Sloane, Mr. Ed., postmaster, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Geo. G. Taylor, Esq., J.P., Broadwood Park, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Thos. Taylor, Esq., Greencroft Park, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Mrs., 23, Woodbine Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Rev. H., Wesleyan minister, Bedale, Yorks., i copy. 
 .Smith, Mr. Richd., Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Mr. John, Rose Cottage, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Smith, Mr. John, East House, Medomsley, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. Thomas, ironfounder, Blaydon-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. John G., Coppice Hall, near Bilston, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. J. G., The Hencotes, Hexham, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. Francis, Chronicle Office, Durham, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. Geo., u, Queen Street, Consett, i copy. 
 Smith, Mr. John, The Grange, Castleside, i copy. 
 Soulsby, Mr. Joseph, Philadelphia, Fence Houses, i copy. 
 Spraggon, Miss, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Spraggon, Mr. John, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Stephenson, Mr. Charles, Cemetery Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Stoddart, Mr. Wm., Ebchester, i copy. 
 Stout, Mr. Abraham, Advertiser Office, Durham, i copy. 
 Strachan, Mr. Wm., Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Summerson, Mr. Michael, 14, Vane Terrace, Seaham Harbour, 
 i copy.
 
 xxx SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 Surtees, Miss, Hamsterley Hall, Lintz Green, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Miss Eleanor, Hamsterley Hall, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. H., Edmondbyers, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. Joseph, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. John, Co-operative Store, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. Wm., Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. Thomas, Co-operative Store, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. Geo., Wheldon's House, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Surtees, Mr. Jos. L., 19, Sherburn Terrace, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Swan, Robert, Esq., 95, Roker Avenue, Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Swaby, Rev. Wm. 'Proctor, S. Mark's Vicarage, Millfield, Sunder- 
 
 land, i copy. 
 
 Swinburn, Mr. J. T., Black House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Sykes, Rev. E. S., M.A., curate of St. John's, Sunderland, 2 copies. 
 
 Tait, Mr. John, 23, Sherburn Terrace, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Taylor, Mr. Edward, Benfieldside, i copy. . 
 
 Taylor, Mr. Robert, The Terrace, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Taylor, Mr. W. R., Stanifordam, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Taylor, Mr. J. B., High Pittington, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Taylor, Mr. Isaac, 9, Millicent Terrace, Gateshead, i copy. 
 
 Taylor, Mr. Henry, 76, Gilesgate, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Teare, Mr. P., Board Schools, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Telford, Mr. Thomas, 18, Wharncliffe Street, Newcastle, i copy. 
 
 Telford, Mr. Robert, Berry Edge Farm, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Telford, Mr. W., Cutlers' Hall, Benfieldside, i copy. 
 
 Temperley, Mr. Wm., Edmondbyers, i copy. 
 
 Templeton, Mr. S., 4, Bessemer Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Thirlwell, Mr. John, Snod's Edge, Blackhill, 2 copies. 
 
 Thirlwell, Mr. John, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Thirlwell, Mr. Joshua, 12, Allendale Cottages, i copy. 
 
 Thompson, Thomas C., Esq., M.P., i, Lower Grosvenor Place, 
 
 London, i copy. 
 
 Thompson, Mr. James, Sherburn, Durham, i copy. 
 Thompson, Mr. Wm., Cutlers' Hall, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Thompson, Mr. Jas., 42, Cloth Market, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Thompson, Mr. Joseph, Post Office, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Thompson, Mr. John J., Prentice Close House, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Thompson, Mrs. Brewster, 15, Grosvenor Terrace, Harrogate, i 
 
 copy. 
 Thompson, Mr. Thos., Exchange Buildings, Ramsgate, Stockton- 
 
 on-Tees, i copy.
 
 SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. XXXI 
 
 Thompson, Mr. James, registrar, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Thubron, Mr. John, 53, Denvcnt Road, Gateshead, i copy. 
 Tilly, Mr. Wm., Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Tooby, Mr. Geo., 166, Jefferson Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne, i copy. 
 Town, Annandale, Esq., J.P., Allansford, i copy. 
 Tregelles, Edwin O., Esq., Banbury, i copy. 
 Tregenza, Mr. P. P., Malwda Walks, Sheffield, i copy. 
 Trotter, Mr. Andrew, Shotley Grove, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Tucker, Mr. John, 6, Belgrave Terrace, Gateshead, i copy. 
 Turner, Mr. George, 3, Dixon Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Turner, Mr. Wm., Whitehall Lodge, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Turner, Mr. A. E., 41, Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Turner, Mr. Chas., 35, Cromwell Street, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Turnbull, Mr. Thos., \Vhittonstall Woodhouse, Stocksfield, i copy. 
 
 Uncles, Mr. Henry, Wood Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Uytman, Mr. John, 20, Church Street, Johnstone, near Glasgow, 
 
 i copy. 
 
 Urwin, Mr. Wm., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Urwin, Mr. James, New Pittington, Durham, i copy. 
 Urwin, Mr. L., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Urwin, Robt., Esq., St. Nicholas' Buildings, Newcastle, 2 copies. 
 
 Vasey, Miss, Market Place, Durham, i copy. 
 
 Walker, E. J., Esq., Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Walker, Miss V., Shotley House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Walker & Emley, Messrs., Westgate Road, Newcastle, 2 copies. 
 Walton, Mr. Ralph, Bessemer Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Walton, Mr. Ralph, Lanchester, Durham, i copy. 
 Ward, Mr. Wm., Iveston, i copy. 
 
 W T ard, Mr. Wm., Shotley Grove, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wardhaugh, Mr. W., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 \Vardhaugh, Mr. E., High Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Wardhaugh, Mr. W., Junr., Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wardhaugh, Mr. E., Jun., blacksmith, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wardhaugh, Mrs., Baxton Burn, Blackhill, i copy. 
 Wardle, Mr. John, Low Westwood, Ebchester, i copy.
 
 xxxii SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. 
 
 Wardle, Mr John, Ebchester, i copy. 
 
 Watson, Mr. G., Whitley N. School, Hexham, 2 copies. 
 
 Watson, Mr. H. W., Burnopfield, i copy. 
 
 Watson, Mr. T., Wesleyan preacher, Consett, i copy. 
 
 Waugh, Mr. Geo., Low Waskerley, Shotley Bridge,, i copy. 
 
 Waugh, Mr. T., Low Waskerley, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Wayman, J. W., Esq., Mayor of Sunderland, i copy. 
 
 Wheatley, Mr. W., Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 
 Wheatley, Mr. W., veterinary surgeon, 23, Saville Street, South 
 
 Shields, i copy. 
 
 Wheldon, Miss, Shotley Villa, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 6 
 
 Whinney, Mr. Thomas, Cemetery Lodge, Blackhill, i copy. 
 White, Mr. Joseph, Sherburn Hill, Durham, i copy. 
 Whiteley, Mr. Alfred, Lightcliffe, Halifax, i copy. 
 Whitfield, Messrs. & Sons, Winlaton, Blaydon, i copy. 
 Wilbraham, A.B., Esq., Snow's Green House, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wiles, Mr. Wm., Sherburn Terrace, Consett, i copy. 
 Wilkinson, Mr. John, Morrowfield, Chester-le-Street, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. W., Oakfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Willis, Rev. R. G., Goodmanham, Market Weighton, Yorks., i 
 
 copy. 
 
 Willey, Mr. Aaron, Ebchester, i copy. 
 Williams, Mr. R. B., Blackhill, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. George, Springfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wilson, John, Esq,, M.D., Lanchester, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. Robert, 29, Argyle Street, Glasgow, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. Geo., Shotley Hall, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wilson, Charles, Esq., Shotley Park, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. John, 27, Front Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. Henry, 73, Clayton Street, Newcastle, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr. Wm., Jun., Oak Street, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr., exciseman, Lanchester, i copy. 
 Wilson, Mr., Shotley Hall, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wood, Mr. Jas. H., Field Head, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wood, Miss, Springfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Wood, Miss Rebecca, Springfield, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Woodman, Mr. George, Norfolk Street, Sunderland, i copy. 
 Wright, Mr. W. H., East Castle, Leadgate, i copy. 
 Wright, Mr. James, 8, Roger Street, Blackhill, i copy. 
 
 Yuile, Mr., Shotley, Shotley Bridge, i copy. 
 Young, Mr. Wm., Durham Road, Blackhill, i copy.
 
 to 1ber flDaje0t$, (Stueen Victoria. 
 
 |ADY, the noblest of your favoured reign 
 With trembling speak the merits of their Queen, 
 Lest all-impotent be their feeble strain 
 To breathe the praises due ; much less, I ween, 
 Should one, your humblest subject, be so vain 
 As bind his thoughts, though love-inspired, in rhyme : 
 He had not thus have shown so bold a mien, 
 Had not a volume in Victoria's time 
 Seemed, lacking her bright name, a sun-forsaken clime. 
 
 Recalling infancy, Victoria's name 
 
 First pressed the tender tablets of my heart, 
 
 And deeply has it written there its claim 
 
 To that deep reverence which a mother taught ; 
 
 The honour is not mine : the patriot thought 
 
 Was breathed into my being e'er to dwell. 
 
 Afar in other realms I've roved, and caught 
 
 Its echoes like to distant music's swell, 
 
 Which wooed my bosom back to shores it loved so well.
 
 STANZAS TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 Happy, O glorious England, thou art now ! 
 
 A monarch rules by virtue swayed ; and ne'er 
 
 Did thy proud crown sit on a worthier brow, 
 
 Where smiling freedom mocks the tyrant's sneer, 
 
 And pity dwells, to misery ever dear ; 
 
 And leaps within her shrine when kindred woe' 
 
 Goes through the land, and mourners shed the tear 
 
 The thrilling tear, bereavement bids to flow 
 
 To quench the glowing joy that happier days bestow. 
 
 Happy, O Albion ! for in this alone 
 
 Thou art more blest than other lands may be ; 
 
 It is not in the splendour of a throne, 
 
 Which sheds its glory over earth and sea, 
 
 That honour finds an immortality : 
 
 'Tis that religion's light is shining there, 
 
 Pointing a radiant pathway to the sky, 
 
 Dispensed with woman's tenderness and care, 
 
 O Virtue, Honour, Truth, what triumphs you may share ! 
 
 When o'er the land the gloom of sorrow came, 
 
 From legion hearts the smile of joy to chase, 
 
 When he succumbed to death whose honoured name 
 
 Keeps in the hearts of men its wonted place, 
 
 Lady, " o'er him who uttered nothing base," 
 
 With you the nation poured its warmest tears, 
 
 And time shall ne'er that sympathy erase ; 
 
 The patriot father, who that name reveres, 
 
 Shall tell it to his child to ring, through countless years. 
 
 A noble spirit ! such his spouse hath been : 
 
 If patriot rapture did his breast inspire, 
 
 Twas nursed within the bosom of his Queen, 
 
 To burn as burns Vesuvius' quenchless fire. 
 
 If England's morals have not mounted higher 
 
 Towards the haven of some purer clime, 
 
 And marked the age with deeds the good admire, 
 
 It is not that her monarch smiled on crime, 
 
 But rather taught the heart to ponder things sublime.
 
 STANZAS TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 In other climes, far o'er the booming seas, 
 
 Wherever Britain's name is heard to ring, 
 
 (And is there one lone spot of earth whose breeze 
 
 Has not been vocal with its echoing ?) 
 
 Victoria's name is as a magic thing, 
 
 Flinging enchantments o'er the hearts of men ; 
 
 The savage dreams its power, lingering 
 
 By waving forest, mountain, crag, and glen, 
 
 And blesses freedom's home and Albion's glorious Queen. 
 
 The sable son of Afric's torrid zone, 
 
 The slave of tyranny's desire for gold, 
 
 Looks to our shore with bosom-rending groan 
 
 And asks, with pity, why he's bought and sold ? 
 
 Lady, no fault is yours ; the Briton bold 
 
 Would have the world as mountain breezes, free ! 
 
 Brave Livingstone ! thou of heroic mould, 
 
 The fettered millions look with hope to thee : 
 
 Urge on thy soul's desire till crowned by victory. 
 
 Thou art no fabled child of fevered thought, 
 
 And he who seeks a thrilling tale to tell 
 
 To glowing hearts of future ages, fraught 
 
 With all the varied elements which swell 
 
 The human breast, may turn to thee and dwell 
 
 On deeds illumed by Truth's eternal light : 
 
 And if his genius fit the subject well, 
 
 It will be shown the best and bravest fight 
 
 Without the sword or shield, save heaven's protecting might. 
 
 So, lady, God your sword and shield hath been ; 
 In vain the wretch has sought your blood to spill, 
 To take a life the millions love, I ween ; 
 But pistols err, nor men have power to kill 
 Whom God protects, escape the flashing steel, 
 And tempests howling through the sounding sky ; 
 The toppling crags, winds, waves, obey His will : 
 To such in vain do danger's arrows fly, 
 For guided by His hand, they harmlessly pass by.
 
 STANZAS TO QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 Blest be the children of your house and heart, 
 
 And whereso'er their fields of labour lie ; 
 
 May that fair wisdom ne'er their souls desert, 
 
 Taught and impressed beneath a parent's eye. 
 
 And O ! may virtue ever linger by, 
 
 And guide them safely through the snares of earth, 
 
 To breathe the blessing which shall never die, 
 
 And emulate their parents' deeds and worth ; 
 
 Whilst, lady, from our hearts this wish we would pour forth 
 
 O ! long may she, the Mother of the Isles, 
 
 Bless her brave children with a mother's 'care, 
 
 Throw o'er our homes the sunshine of her smiles, 
 
 And reign a welcome guardian angel there ; 
 
 Beloved of the nations, may she spare 
 
 Our tears through long and happy years to come, 
 
 And though her brow the widow's wreath may wear, 
 
 Which points, like autumn's seer leaves, to the tomb, 
 
 Her virtue's lights shall shine like starbeams 'mid the gloom.
 
 jjO sounding domes, which echo to the tread, 
 
 Nor towers majestic rear their forms on high, 
 Nor ancient palace lifts its sombre head, 
 
 To kiss the blue or brave the stormy sky, 
 Hast thou, sweet village ; but where'er the eye 
 
 Turns in its musings, Beauty greets the sight ; 
 Whether upon the shining river by, 
 
 When pale Diana pours her flood of light, 
 And mortals love with awe beneath the tranquil night ; 
 
 * Shotley Bridge is situated on the right bank of the river Derwent, 
 at an equal distance of fourteen miles from Newcastle, Durham, and 
 Hexham. The Derwent here divides the counties of Durham and 
 Northumberland, and is spanned by a bridge of one arch, or, more 
 correctly speaking, of two arches of the same form and dimension put 
 up at different times ; the western one, much older of the two, having 
 been found too narrow for convenient traffic, the eastern part was added 
 about sixty years ago. A bridge evidently existed here five or six 
 hundred years ago, for in the survey of Bishop Hatfield, we find under 
 Benfieldsidc, one of the vills of the Manor of Lanchester, William 
 Broune holding I messuage and 12 acres, formerly held by William at 
 the Brig ; and, again, Thomas of the Brig held I messuage and 27 acres, 
 formerly held by John Abell. It may be assumed, however, from the 
 fact of a ford existing at Shotley until comparatively recent times, that 
 the bridge was a wooden structure for foot passengers only. The 
 engraving on the opposite page represents the bridge as it appeared in 
 1838, since which time the surroundings have undergone but slight 
 alteration. The view from this point is exceedingly picturesque, whether 
 you look up or down the river. Immediately above the bridge, the 
 river dashes over a ledge of millstone grit, through which the water 
 has cut numerous channels, into a pool, known as "Jenny's Hole," 
 from which many a noble trout has been taken in days gone by, when 
 the adjoining hostelry of the Bridge Inn was a famous and lavcurite
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Or on the landscape, where wood, field, and glen 
 
 Vie in their wealth of loveliness, and smile 
 As things of human mind on wayward men, 
 
 To draw them forth from error, and beguile 
 The lower passions. Virtue's free the while, 
 
 Calling the heart to objects more divine. 
 Alas ! that sin the meanest breast should soil, 
 
 Since mother Nature is a holy shrine 
 Of purity and joy : partake and ne'er repine. 
 
 resort for anglers. From the bridge to the Paper Mill, higher up the 
 stream, the banks on both sides are overhung with beech and oak, and 
 the river has formed its bed in the millstone grit, which it has laid bare. 
 This rock, as its name implies, has long been used for millstones, for 
 which, from its extreme hardness, it is peculiarly adapted. That such 
 has been its use in this locality five centuries ago, the records to be 
 presently referred to conclusively prove. The earliest mention of Shotley 
 Bridge by name is in an admittance of Gilbert de Brendon to " one acre 
 of new waste which lies near the high street which leads to Shotley 
 Brigg," rendering 6d. yearly, recorded in the Halmote Roll of the Manor 
 of Manchester, under Benfieldside, nth Hatfield (1356). In the same 
 Roll, in the nth year of Bishop Skirlaw, (1399), John Robinson is fined 
 for not having John Milner of Iveston to answer the Lord for five 
 millstones obtained at Shotle Brig ; and at a subsequent Court (vol. 3> 
 p. 571) the jury of the vill of Benfieldside present that "John Sadler 
 'arrested John Milner of Ilhestane (Iveston) for two pairs of millstones, 
 of the value of two shillings, for the Lord's rent for leave to dig the 
 millstones in the Lord's soil near Shotle Brig." The Halmote Rolls 
 contain numerous entries of payments made for license to dig millstones 
 out of the bed of the river, and frequent fines are inflicted for taking 
 them without the Lord's license. John, the Miller of Iveston, was not 
 the only offender. Thomas Brown is fined qd. for taking a pair of 
 quernstones without leave (p. 300). At the same Court, John of Iveston 
 is amerced in 6d. for a small millstone, for the payment of which the said 
 Thomas Brown, though trespasser himself, is not refused as his surety. 
 It is curious to observe traces of these depredations upon the Lord's 
 strict rights still existing in the river bed, after the lapse of five centuries. 
 Between the bridge and the Paper Mill, may be seen numerous round 
 holes in the millstone grit, from which millstones have been taken ; and 
 as in some places the slow action of the water on this hard rock has 
 almost worn away the trace of the holes from which it is evident mill- 
 stones at a remote period have been removed, it is not difficult to believe 
 that the entries above refer to some of the existing marks. The accom- 
 panying woodcut is taken from a sketch by Richardson, and will convey 
 an idea of the village near 50 years ago, before the transition from rural 
 retirement into a species of surburbari town had commenced. Now, 
 however, the slopes above the village are covered with handsome villas, 
 whose sites have been well chosen, and whose architectural characteristics 
 harmonise with the features of the adjoining landscape. History of West 
 Durham.
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Reader, deem not the soul which gladly lingers 
 
 By Beauty's dwellings, in the flower or tree, 
 Whose glorious tints are touched by peerless fingers, 
 
 Or the still shining lake or surging sea, 
 Looks not through these upon Eternity, 
 
 Or worships beauty in a narrow sense 
 For her sweet sake alone, for it is free 
 
 To trace the limitless intelligence, 
 Who made the hallowed lovelier things, that thence 
 
 Mankind might quaff the spirit of His lore ; 
 
 And thus, with other aid, their souls might climb 
 To His high altar on a purer shore, 
 
 And breathe the love and majesty sublime, 
 Which live in vigour in that stainless clime, 
 
 Where Hunger, Sin, and Hate can have no home. 
 O God ! that man should choose the curse of crime, 
 
 And give within his breast the viper room, 
 Whose sting can poison here, and damn him in the tomb. 
 
 Here, in these shades, in Summer's genial air, 
 
 'Mid gardens sloping toward the river's shore, 
 Are flowers as fragrant, blushing maids as fair, 
 
 As Eastern clime can boast, or gods adore. 
 Here may the gloomy poet dream his lore, 
 
 Where nought save man blots Nature's comely face, 
 And hear in sounds, the river's dashing roar, 
 
 The full-voiced winds, the song-bird's gushing praise, 
 The spirit-notes of Him whose being fills all space. 
 
 Come roam with me, my friend, and we will share 
 
 The tender pleasures of a waking dream. 
 First, let us to the Hally Well repair, 
 
 Thou art, I think, a stranger to my theme. 
 Here, many years ago, a man supreme 
 
 In mind and wealth among his fellows round, 
 Raised yon fair cots which in the sun-light gleam, 
 
 That humble shed by moss-grown heather crowned, 
 Whence flows a copious spring of water from the ground.
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Here quaffed the scurvy-smitten ones of yore, 
 
 And praised the merits of the healing flood, 
 The breeze, but still the benefactor more,* 
 
 And grew in ardour as their health grew good ; 
 But he who labouring for the public stood 
 
 Admired, respected, loved, is slighted now ; 
 A seeming error raised the multitude, 
 
 And those who shared his bounty most, I vow, 
 Remember all his faults, his virtues ne'er allow. 
 
 * Jonathan Richardson, who projected and carried into execution 
 those great improvements that have quite changed the general aspect of 
 Shotley Bridge. He was connected with the Durham and Northumber- 
 land District Bank at the time of its failure in 1857, and he was blamed 
 by some for the unfortunate occurrence, which brought poverty to many 
 a previously happy home ; but that the accusations laid to his charge 
 were groundless has many a time ere this been proved. History of West 
 Durham. 
 
 + From the earliest ages, men have placed a high value upon mineral 
 waters, as possessing divine remedies for various diseases which afflict 
 mankind. The common well, in many oriental countries, was viewed 
 as of vital importance, simply because of the value of water in their 
 arid climate ; and especially in the wilderness a spring, was viewed as a 
 direct bounty of Providence, because it was necessary to the preservation 
 of life, and hence called " the living water," or the water of life. But 
 where the waters of a spring either constantly, or recurrently at certain 
 periods, were known to have some healing properties, there arose in the 
 minds of the people a more immediate recognition of divine purpose, 
 and an increased veneration. Our Saxon forefathers, also, according to 
 the customs of the ancients, had their sacred fountains, especially such 
 as were thought to have healing virtues, and from them we have derived 
 the name " Hally Well." Some have written the name " Holy Well," 
 and supposed ' ' Hally Well " to be a corruption or provincialism ; but, 
 as a matter of fact, the common people preserve the original of names 
 longer than the learned. Hally is the adjective form of the Saxon word 
 hal, meaning sound in bodily health ; and, secondly, sound in a moral 
 sense. The hally well, therefore, was no doubt so denominated while 
 the Saxon was the mother tongue of the common people. " Spa" is the 
 name of a town in Belgium, famed for its medicinal waters, and is now 
 generally given to all mineral springs ; hence the name has been applied 
 to the mineral waters of Shotley. Tradition points out a hally well at 
 Shotley from time immemorial, and its water was always thought to be 
 remedial in scrofulous complaints. An old inhabitant, who was wont to 
 court the Muses, has fairly well expressed the received opinion in these 
 lines 
 
 " No scurvy in your skin can dwell, 
 If you only drink the Hally Well." 
 
 In the beginning of this century, there were those in the village wh 
 could remember their juvenile sports around the spring, where they used
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 But Time's old car majestically rolled on, 
 
 Correcting error, showing fallacy ; 
 And men of narrower sense than Richardson, 
 
 See now the vision as he saw with eye, 
 Whose glance prescient read the Future's sky, 
 
 Which canopied the world's commercial maze : 
 Had Honour not been forced the field to fly, 
 
 As cursed Mistrust looked on with withering gaze, 
 Men had not wronged him then, nor spared till now their praise. 
 
 to drink for the purpose of seeing each other's grimaces at the taste. 
 Many people at that time from distant places used to frequent the well 
 to drink the water, and carry away supplies for use at home. The 
 water used to stand in a natural basin formed by surrounding hillocks 
 of moss and grass, the quantity never seeming to vary. The water 
 having formed a sort of bog, was drained away into the Derwent ; 
 and it was noticed that the sides of the channel in which the water 
 flowed were always of a vermilion colour, indicating the presence of a 
 considerable quantity of iron. Such, according to Mr. Ryan's History 
 of Shotley Spa, to which interesting little work we are indebted for 
 many of the foregoing details, was the condition of the well about 
 seventy-five years ago. The time, however, was to come when the 
 valuable spring was to be made more widely known. In 1838, Mr. 
 Jonathan Richardson, the owner of the estate, made a search for the 
 source of the once famous mineral water, and under the guidance of 
 some old inhabitants he succeeded in finding the hally well. There was, 
 however, much to be done in order to bring the Spa into deserved 
 notoriety, and to make the situation suitable for a health resort. But, 
 confident in the high value of the mineral spring, he immediately under- 
 took the necessary improvements and erections required, and his energy 
 and liberality, seldom surpassed, soon made every arrangement for the 
 accommodation of visitors to Shotley Spa. An upright stone was placed 
 over the well, and the water was made to flow through a spout into a 
 round, low basin,- as in the accompanying woodcut, which depicts the 
 well surrounded by visitors to the Spa, and which is reproduced from a 
 sketch made by Richardson in 1838. A saloon and bathroom were 
 erected a short distance off, carriage drives and footpaths were formed, 
 and soon the estate resembled an ornamental garden. To the south-east 
 of the Spa, and in close proximity, a handsome hotel, planned on a large 
 scale, with a suitable set of stables, was built ; and other residences 
 starting into existence at the same time for the accommodation of the 
 visitors who flocked to the place, the general aspect of the village 
 rapidly changed. The Spa is about half-a-mile from the town, and 
 is surrounded by some romantic scenery. After passing through the 
 lodge gates, a broad walk or carriage road winding under a lofty canopy 
 of trees, leads you towards the Spa, and round the haughs in which it 
 is situated. The visitor will then observe that he has entered a natural 
 park, and treads on the arena, or rather the meadow-floor of a vast 
 ampitheatre, formed by the graceful circumvolution of the banks towering 
 around ; the trees, of rich and varied foliage, and rising above each
 
 16 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Thou hast, companion of my way, an eye 
 
 For Heaven's Creations Nature's loveliness. 
 Look eastward on that scene's sublimity, 
 
 That emerald mantled beauteous precipice ; 
 The cloud-aspiring trees, with fond caress 
 
 The zephyrs woo them. Mark their graceful motion : 
 Wave piled on wave receding might impress 
 
 Thy breast that thou wert gazing on an ocean 
 With endless hues adorned, in proud and wild devotion. 
 
 A few steps onward, I have yet to show 
 
 Thine eyes delighted, an enchanting dell ; 
 The sunbeams peep into its depths below, 
 
 In whose soft light the shadowy glories dwell. 
 Here the calm-loving fern a tale may tell, 
 
 And woo thee from distraction to repose ; 
 The moss-grown rock, the flower, the streamlet's swell, 
 
 Preach each their sermon, breathing joys and woes, 
 Shall raise thy tender soul to Love's volcanic throes. 
 
 There are whom beauty cannot thrill, 
 
 Nor love to aught ecstatic wake, 
 Who see nought glorious in the rill, 
 
 The silver saugh or shining lake, 
 Who walk by fields of starry flowers, 
 Or sylvan nooks, or twilight bowers, 
 Or where the mountains' craggy forms, 
 Bury their heads in clouds and storms, 
 Or kiss the far inviting blue 
 'Mid freshest air and purest dew, 
 Or by the roaring waterfalls, 
 Where echo unto echo calls, 
 Without a wonder, sigh, or thought 
 
 Of whence all came, what hand had given, 
 And cold as marble feel for nought, 
 Who weep not, glow not, are not fraught 
 
 With living light, which flows from heaven. 
 
 other on the valley sides, will appear as innumerable spectators. Around 
 the area of this ampitheatre, the carriage-road, pleasingly curved, runs 
 more than a mile, sometimes skirting the wood, and again going under 
 its canopy, sometimes being inflected by the Derwent's pebbled channel, 
 and again allowing a pleasant plantation to hide the beauty and increase 
 the musical ripple of the stream. History of West Durham,
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Such men may walk the battle plain 
 \\ here nations' saviours fought, in vain ; 
 They climb the Alps, with quaking fear, 
 For what ? to say they've ventured there, 
 But feel no thrill for majesty 
 Investing every feature by ; 
 The smiling vale reposed beneath, 
 As sweet as joy, and calm as death ; 
 Whilst far above, in glancing light 
 The snowpack rears its stainless white, 
 
 Evincing purity is given 
 
 Proportioned to the height it soars : 
 
 The whiter still, the nearer heaven 
 Perfection seeks celestial shores. 
 
 Enough ! we'll bend our way along the river, 
 
 And view the waters glide, and fume, and glance, 
 As on their chainless course they roll for ever, 
 
 And to their self-made music lilting dance ; 
 Now glittering sheen, beneath the blue expanse 
 
 Of Heaven's glory in its noontide glare ; 
 Now nursing quivering moonbeams as they prance, 
 
 Now mirroring deep the canopy of air 
 Begemmed with " Isles of light," so wonderful and fair. 
 
 This quiet village wooes our gaze again, 
 
 And breathes felicity along the shore. 
 Give me thine ear, I will its tale explain : 
 
 Here (when the rod of persecution bore 
 On Luther's converts, and their souls no more 
 
 Could bear the pressure of the tyrant's will) 
 Fled many an artizan,* who dug the ore, 
 
 Which fell to shapes obedient to their skill ; 
 The polished sword and knife flashed from the busy mill. 
 
 * The history of Shotley Bridge, as a place of importance, may be said 
 to have commenced at the close of the seventeenth century, when it was 
 colonized by a few German refugees, who fled from their own country for 
 the sake of religious liberty. The Shotley colonists came from Solingen,
 
 1 8 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Here hummed with hollow roar the water-wheel, 
 
 As hissed the blade upon the circling stone ; 
 There clashed the hammer with the sparkling steel ; 
 
 The sounding anvil rang with bell-like tone. 
 Skill reared for memory an immortal throne, 
 
 And Derwent's waters rivalled Tagus' fame. 
 Now the last anvil's silent and alone ; 
 
 The Mill has an existence but in name, 
 And death has all from whence the deeds of genius came. 
 
 a small city of Cleve Berg, in Germany, celebrated of old for cutlery 
 manufactures. Their names, as far as can be ascertained with any 
 degree of certainty, were Oley, Vooz, Mole, and Bertram. The a'ccount 
 of their choosing this locality preserved among their descendants is that 
 they sought for a place suited to their purpose in several parts of 
 England, especially near the metropolis ; but wanting to conceal the 
 secret of their excellence in tempering and some other mysteries of 
 their art, they sought a locus standi on the Tyne, and not having found 
 one there, they commenced to explore the Derwent, following the course 
 of the river until they reached Shotley, where the remarkable softness of 
 the water, the excellence of the ironstone in the neighbouring hills, and 
 no doubt the seclusion of the spot, induced them to terminate their 
 pilgrimage. Situated thus during the long continental wars, having 
 abundant orders, the Germans, and especially the Oleys, the principal 
 proprietors, enjoyed a long-continued flow of prosperity. Their swords 
 equalled in flexibility, strength, and elegance the distinguished blades of 
 Damascus and Toledo. As an instance of their skill, it is related that 
 one of the sword -makers, Robert Oley, who left Shotley Bridge at the 
 beginning of this century, made a wager with eight foremen smiths that 
 he would produce within a fortnight a spring which should excel any 
 they might make. At the expiration of the stated time, Oley appeared 
 at the place of meeting, but apparently without the spring. He was at 
 once declared to have lost the wager. Coolly placing his hat on the 
 table, Oley announced that his spring was there, and asked some one 
 to take it out of the hat. None, however, complied with the request, 
 for the spring which lay coiled up. in the hat was a fine, double-edged 
 sword. Oley himself now took out the sword, and then offered to pay 
 the amount of the wager to anyone who could tell which way the weapon 
 had been coiled, but no one was able to do so. A portion of the 
 sword-mill used by the Germans is still standing on the right bank of the 
 'river, near the bridge. Several of the houses which they occupied bore 
 inscriptions at the early part of the present century, which told the cause 
 of the sword-makers leaving their fatherland, but the most of these 
 inscriptions are now altogether illegible or partly effaced. Above the 
 doorway of an old two-storied house, once the property of the Oleys, 
 and now owned by the Messrs Annandale, there is a stone inserted, 
 bearing an inscription in German, dated 1691. By those who know 
 the language, the following is considered to be a good translation : 
 " The blessing of the Lord makes rich without care, so long as you are
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 19 
 
 Yes, those brave colonists brought useful arts,* 
 
 And through their genius gave our valley fame. 
 Theirs was the high-born principle that darts 
 
 Through Freedom's bosoms, as the quenchless flame 
 Bursts forth from Etna, which no despot's name 
 
 Nor threat, nor vengence for an hour can mar, 
 Nor crush into obedience, nor tame ; 
 
 No ! when the tyrant's dust is scattered far, 
 Fair Freedom's fires shall burn and dazzle like a star. 
 
 In that gray pile, now lit with Summer's ray, 
 
 Some thoughtful boy or hoary Christian sire, 
 When toil gave place to rest with dying day, 
 
 No doubt rehearsed the stories round the fire, 
 How the poor lad (the mark of Popish ire) 
 
 Sang in the streets his sweetest hymns for bread, 
 With that deep pathos sorrow can inspire, 
 
 Till sympathetic Cotta had him led 
 Unto her home, and saw her young guest clothed and fed. 
 
 industrious in your vocation, and do what is ordered you." At the close 
 of Napoleon's era of wars, the demand for swords diminished, and what 
 was once a flourishing industry soon afterwards ceased altogether. Many 
 of the old German families have become extinct, or are lost in other 
 family names, but some remain beside the Oley family, and in particular 
 several families of the Moles originally written Moll whose ancestor, 
 it is said, appropriately with his name as now pronounced, came over 
 to this country covered up in a tub. History of West Durham. 
 
 * The Oleys were sword -makers, the Moles sword-grinders, the Vooz' 
 traded between Germany and England, and the^ Bertrams were steel 
 manufacturers at Blackhall Mill, about three-and-a-half-miles below 
 Shotley Bridge. A forge of theirs stood on the site of a neat cottage 
 occupied by Mr. Campbell, the property of the very worthy and enter- 
 prising gentlemen, the Messrs. Annandale, on the left bank of the 
 Derwent, just above their High Paper Mill ; and about a mile further 
 up the river, on the same side, near Allansford, are the remains of an 
 old furnace, which probably had been used by the Bertrams. The 
 effect of the extreme heat can yet be traced on the glazed stones. A 
 few yards from this pile, up a steep acclivity to the west, are three 
 minous kilns, where the ironstone appears to have been put through its 
 first process roasting. The shape of the furnace had been hexagonal, 
 narrowing towards the top ; that of the kilns round, narrowing towards 
 the bottom.
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Or how the hero of immortal mind, 
 
 In solitary grandeur stood before 
 The mighty throng at Worms, whose ranks combined 
 
 The Emperor, Judge, Duke, Prince, Ambassador, 
 Magnificent and awful, yet he bore 
 
 The dauntless brow of changeless Truth e'en there ; 
 Disclosed he then his eagle thoughts to soar, 
 
 And left a Christian conqueror to share 
 A lot the glorious sons of Light must ever dare. 
 
 Thou know'st, my friend, of Luther, and may'st deem 
 
 Those German Christians nursed his thoughts, and fanned 
 Their patriot fires when he became their theme 
 
 In turning to their much-loved fatherland ; 
 For home has aye a power at her command 
 
 A witchery about her naught excels : 
 Her mountains are the loveliest that stand 
 
 Beneath high heaven ; her woodlands, streams, and dells, 
 And maidens ever wear a thousand starry spells. 
 
 A halo cinctures the enchanting spot 
 
 Where we are born, which, as the years roll on, 
 Gathers in radiance whatsoe'er our lot, 
 
 The humble cot, the palace or the throne. 
 If thou hast wandered in another zone, 
 
 Far from thy native hills and valleys fair, 
 This truth thou'st learnt, which death can blot alone 
 
 From out thy breast, and thought the sunshine there 
 Less cheering than the clouds known to thy country dear. 
 
 Hence, this is fitting passion to disclose, 
 
 For Pity wakes and thrills thy breast and mine 
 When poring on the exiles' wrongs and woes, 
 
 Who wept, but dared not seek their lovely Rhine ; 
 Their sorrows were not fruitless : a divine 
 
 And holy purpose was their guiding light ; 
 The bud they cherished has become a vine, 
 
 Which breathes to every clime a wild delight, 
 And every home may know its comfort-giving might.
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Come with me to yon bridge that spans the flood, 
 
 For here a charming landscape meets the eye, 
 Where oft in adoration I have stood 
 
 And listened to the twilight breezes sigh 
 Like human voices soft and feelingly ; 
 
 And mused upon the graceful trees reclining, 
 Wooing the gentle waters gliding by, 
 
 Like maids with loose locks o'er a mirror shining, 
 A conquest of some heart with woman's skill designing. 
 
 Behold that channelled rock ! could sculptor's art 
 
 Copy its rude sublimity ? where brawl 
 The twisting currents ; with delirious start 
 
 They fuming leap the tiny waterfall. 
 List the soft echoes to each other call, 
 
 The hollow moaning, and the hissing sound : 
 Well might'st thou think the elements were all 
 
 Peopled with being, passionate but bound, 
 And harmless in their strife, yet solemn and profound. 
 
 I would that thou had'st lingered here with me, 
 
 When winter walked relentless through the wood, 
 An'd seen the snow glance on each leafless tree ; 
 
 The sunbeams darting through the fissured cloud, 
 Falling upon the feathered branch and flood, 
 
 (jiving innumerable mimic stars to earth, 
 Which smiled and glanced in seeming gratitude, 
 
 Thanking their parent for their radiant birth, 
 Thy feeling heart, I know, in joyance had gone forth. 
 
 The sounds which thou to rapture fire, 
 
 And o'er the valley glide, 
 Flow from yon heavenward pointing spire 
 
 Upon the green hill side. 
 
 St. Cuthbert's bells, as shadows creep 
 
 Along the twilight lea, 
 Make glad the sombre hour, and steep 
 
 The ear in melody.
 
 22 SHOTLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Thou'st felt the magic power of sound ;- 
 When first those bells, 'tis said, 
 
 Rushed on the limpid air around, 
 And woke the sunny glade, 
 
 The lark, in her aerial home, 
 Poised as the humming bird 
 
 Above the honeysuckle's bloom, 
 And charmed to silence heard. 
 
 The thrush and linnet ceased their lay, 
 The black-bird's echoing strain 
 
 No longer trembled thro' the spray, 
 Or quavered o'er the plain. 
 
 The hare from out her native dell 
 Came skipping to the sounds, 
 
 Nor felt the fear-inspired spell 
 Of huntsmen and of hounds. 
 
 The troutlet, to the trembling roll, 
 Which o'er the waters played, 
 
 Disported in his favourite pool 
 As if by magic's aid. 
 
 But thou and I must part, my friend, 
 
 Thy patience serves thee well ; 
 When next thou would'st thy soul unbend 
 From meaner things, oh ! may it end 
 As calm as this. Farewell !
 
 Iballgartb.* 
 
 ijOME, stir my soul, thou welcome Melancholy 
 Friend and inspirer of my tenderest strains, 
 Companion of my wand'rings, free from folly, 
 Through the deep dells, by waterfalls, o'er plains, 
 Where the enchantress, Solitude, remains, 
 And wields her spell-fraught wand o'er those who seek 
 Her throne amid the flowers of her domains ; 
 Where Echo talks her lore, and warblers speak 
 A language full of soul Love's pathos never weak. 
 
 * Hallgarth is the name of that central part of the parish of 
 Pittington which was anciently called the Manor (manerium) of the 
 Monks of Durham, to whom the whole parish belonged. It was 
 usually held in the Prior's hands as the demesne of the A'ibey, 
 instead of being leased to tenants, as other parts of the parish were. 
 In it the Parish Church is situated, which is consequently known in 
 the localijty as Hallgarth Church, the parish itself being also often 
 spoken of as Hallgarth parish. The name is doubtless derived from 
 " Prior's Hall," which formerly stood in a plot of ground, now a 
 garden, north of the Churchyard, " garth" meaning the surrounding 
 enclosure. This " Prior's Hall " was a building for the occasional 
 residence of the Prior of Durham, and for holding of courts, with 
 chambers for monks, and with extensive farm buildings round it. 
 Ruins of the Hall built in the sixteenth century by Hugh White- 
 head, the last Prior and first Dean of Durham, remained, in the 
 aforesaid plot of ground, which is still called " Prior's Garth," till 
 recent times. Hallgarth Church, which is one of the most interesting 
 in the county, may be concluded to stand on the site of an earlier 
 Saxon one ; for there can be little doubt that Pittington was an
 
 24 HALLGARTH. 
 
 Oft, Melancholy, hast thou tinged my thought, , 
 In boyish musings by this sombre pile ; 
 When the rich landscape was with beauty fraught, 
 Whose starry flowers seemed on me to smile 
 As creatures sensitive whom pleasures guile ; 
 Or hang their heads with mine on pensive woe, 
 And, thrilling, weep their dewy tears the while, 
 In kindred pity for some friend laid low, 
 To whom fond memory clings, and never shall forego. 
 
 Years long, not many, o'er my head have passed 
 Since on this scene of youth, hope, sorrow, bliss, 
 I gazed. In other lands Iv'e roved, nor cast 
 My eye on aught that charmed it like to this ; 
 The stream, whose trembling waves the flowers kiss 
 With lips of redolency, fair with rays, 
 The Church, throned on a mound of loveliness, 
 The tombs, where soft light falls, and Pity strays, 
 The meads and pastures, beautiful beyond all praise ; 
 
 ancient Saxon settlement long before the Norman Conquest, and 
 before the monks of Lindisfarne settled finally at Durham, and built 
 their Abbey there. But of such early church no traces remain, or 
 at any rate have been so far discovered, unless it be a sun-dial, 
 now built into the southern wall of the Church, which has been 
 pronounced by competent authority to be Saxon. The earliest part 
 of the present Church may be assigned to a date not later than 
 A.D. noo. But it has been added to and otherwise altered at 
 various later times. The north aisle, with its beautiful round 
 Norman arches, may have been added about A.D. 1150 ; the pointed 
 arches of the south aisle, in what is called the Early English style, 
 mark a later addition. Till the year 1846, the original Norman 
 chancel arch remained, beyond which was a long chancel of the 
 Early English period. But in the year above mentioned, restoration 
 (often complained of by antiquaries as demolition) was undertaken. 
 The old chancel was pulled down, the nave and aisles were prolonged 
 eastward to the extent of one additional arch on each side, a new 
 chancel arch was made, and the present short chancel erected 
 beyond it. Thus the original proportions of the Church were 
 destroyed, and interesting features may have been swept away. 
 But it is a Church both beautiful and interesting still, the arcade 
 of the northern aisle, with the zigzag mouldings of its arches, and 
 the unique spiral ornamentation of its columns, being admired by 
 all beholders as peculiarly effective. For its venerable beauty, no 
 less than for the associations that surround it, well worthy is old 
 Hallgarth Church of the reverent affection with which it is regarded 
 by the parishioners.
 
 HALLGAK'I'II. 25 
 
 Nursing the flocks, which roam and rest at will, 
 The distant wood, which lifts its emerald head 
 Towards the heavens, the high familiar hill 
 (Once of the Druid Chiefs the haunt, 'tis said), . 
 These tell me of my boyhood, and upbraid 
 My mind with passions of Youth's gushing spring, 
 Breathing of Hope and Love still unbetrayed 
 By stern experience ; but whate'er they bring, 
 Alternate joy and woe, my soul shall to them cling. 
 
 There, o'er the undulating pastures fair,* 
 Which rise like visions of some realm of light 
 Within my bosom, lies the footpath where 
 Full oft I've trod, and, far as aching sight 
 Could reach into the blue, have traced the flight 
 Of my heart's warbler in his wanderings ; 
 And quaffed his spirit, fraught with wild delight, 
 Till I beheld earth's monarchs as but things 
 Slaves to Ambition's wiles the shepherds as true kings. 
 
 Those fields to me are as a fairy dwelling, 
 Haunted by innocent and lovely forms, 
 The mirror of my childhood's dreams, revealing 
 Hopes, which have faded, but retain some charms 
 With sorrow blended : so the sunbeam warms 
 And gilds the darkling clouds on which it plays. 
 The flowers I loved have still their hues and balms, 
 The rivulet its chime, the birds their lays, 
 And Beauty still is here which cheered mine earlier days. 
 
 Looking abroad, scarce half a league away, 
 My wandering eye falls on the Haunted Lane,f 
 Whence walked the Lady in her white array, 
 And shrieked (as story tells) as if in pain, 
 Till Echo caught the sorrow of her strain, 
 And bore it onward through the shadowy night ; 
 And maidens, youths, and women tried in vain 
 To hush their fears : they trembled with affright, 
 And talked with voice subdued o'er cottage fires bright 
 
 * Sherburn Pastures. 
 
 f " The Long-Peace-Lady Lane." About fifty years ago, the 
 people living in the vicinity of Hallgarth, who were more superstitous
 
 26 HALLOA A' 771. 
 
 And yonder, where the curling smoke ascends 
 From out the valley, stands the clattering Mill.* 
 The murder of a gentle maiden lends, 
 Though long ago, a solemn memory still 
 Unto the spot ; whilst here the glittering rill 
 (Sweet though its murmers otherwise would seem) 
 Breathes to the ear, the tree, the vale, the hill, 
 The anguish of her dying groan, till stream, 
 And winds, and human heart, are pregnant with the theme. 
 
 There stands the dwelling of my father's friend, f 
 Encompassed by a growth of fine old trees 
 (Where noisy rooks and chattering starlings blend 
 Their notes on the morn and evening breeze), 
 And walls whose blushing cherries erst could please 
 My sight, and lure my boyish hands to crime. 
 How changed the scene ! The man who loved not ease 
 Has paid off Nature's debt is done with Time, 
 And he, the wanton boy, is now in manhood's prime. 
 
 then than now, were much alarmed by cries of " murder" coming 
 from the direction of this lane. Tradition says that a lady was 
 murdered here, but when, how, and by whom, we know not ; and 
 that her ghost frequently appeared near the spot where she had 
 suffered death (and had been seen by many persons), as a protest 
 that her blood was yet unavenged. This story was so thoroughly 
 believed that if some mischievous fellow who had nerve enough went 
 to and shouted " murder " from this lane late at night, or very early 
 in the morning, the pits in its immediate vicinity were laid idle for 
 the ensuing day : the pitmen utterly refusing to go to work, believing 
 that should they do so, some great calamity would befall them. 
 
 * Hallgarth Mill, about half-a-mile to the west of the Church, 
 where Mary Ann Westrop was murdered by her fellow-servant, 
 Thomas Clark. Touching this sad event, which caused such a pain- 
 ful excitement throughout the North of England, and particularly 
 in the district where it occurred, a plain marble tablet was erected 
 by subscription in one of the windows of the north aisle of Pittington 
 Church, bearing the following inscription: " In memory of Mary 
 Ann Westrop, who in the i8th year of her age, on the evening of 
 Sunday, the 8th of August, 1830 (during the absence of her master 
 and mistress), was cruelly murdered at Hallgarth Mill, in this parish, 
 by a man, her fellow-servant, who was executed for the offence at 
 Durham, on Monday, the 28th of February, 1831." 
 
 t The residence of the late Henry Newby, Esq., an enterprising 
 agriculturist, who farmed Hallgarth for many years, under the 
 Shepherdsons.
 
 //.///. a A />///. 27 
 
 Nearer the hallowed ground whereon I tread 
 With tombstones studded, verdant through Decay, 
 Above the trees a mansion* rears its head, 
 And calls up memories of another day ; 
 A reverend manf before me stands, and gray 
 With many winters, wise (evincing cares), 
 Humane, and humble, glowing with the ray 
 Religion flashes : on his brow he bears 
 The deep, broad stamp of Thought his eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 Too feeble now (he prays, but weeps the while) 
 To pour the Spirit of his God o'er men ; 
 The voice, whose accents rang through every aisle, 
 And many hearts, I ween, and not in vain, 
 Is lost in sighs, nor shall return again, 
 For Death, the dread destroyer, lingers by : 
 A day and he shall know no more of pain. 
 Soft be his pillowed rest ! he shall not die 
 If Virtue, Honour, Truth, e'er blossom in the sky ! 
 
 Ere yet I enter thee, old hoary pile, 
 Dim with the dust of ages, let me muse 
 A moment 'mong the tombs, while yet the smile 
 Of daylight shows the landscape's glorious hues. 
 Here sleepeth one,{ who knew him ne'er refuse 
 The honour due the noble dead : his mind 
 Was fraught with that mild moving power, which wooes 
 And draws the softer passions from his kind, 
 Which, twined in tender cords, true friendships firmly bind. 
 
 * Hallgarth Vicarage. 
 
 + The Rev. Dr. James Miller, Vicar, who died about the year 1850. 
 
 " In memory of Thomas Robinson, Sherburn, gentleman, aetat 
 35, obit June 28th, 1867." Mr. Robinson bravely sacrificed his life 
 in a gallant, yet unhappily vain, attempt to rescue a drowning boy 
 below Kepier, near Durham. Born of highly respectable parents, 
 Mr. Robinson's education was the liberal one of a gentleman 
 without reference to any particular business or profession. He was 
 first placed under the tuition of the Rev. Isaac Todd, Vicar of 
 Shincliffe ; afterwards, at the great school of Repton, and, ultimately, 
 with a distinguished clergyman in Derbyshire, About manhood, he 
 studied farming with Mr. Septimus Smith, of Norham, as a useful 
 preparation for managing his own landed property at Sherburn. 
 But of retiring and studious habits at all times, he was perhaps 
 more frequently within doors than without, and became, and ever
 
 28 HALLGARTH. 
 
 The hands, which moulder in their kindred dust, 
 Devoid of cunning, lost to passion's fire, 
 Have swept yon organ's pealing keys till burst 
 Sweet music's spirit forth, which e'er inspires 
 The breast with joy, as Jubal's heavenly lyre 
 Gave birth to rapture never felt before. 
 Enough ! since listening ears I would not tire : 
 Sweet be the bliss that bids his spirit soar 
 Through love-enchanted skies which glory's radiance pour. 
 
 Mysterious memory of one* who shined, 
 Perchance of Valour, in the olden time ; 
 Whose deeds of chivalry may have been twined 
 In graceful numbers and in flowing rhyme, 
 Time-shrouded now, and lost, howe'er sublime. 
 Thy right hand grasps the sword, thy left the shield, 
 Which point Imagination to thy prime, 
 When passion's frenzy seized thee on the field, 
 Where many a foeman fell ere thou to death didst yield. 
 
 afterwards continued, an ardent lover of literature classic and 
 romantic English and French ancient and modern. One of his 
 accomplishments and perhaps the dearest to him was music. He 
 studied it with the greatest ardour, and attained no ordinary power 
 in the execution of the masterpieces of the great German and Italian 
 schools, both on the piano and organ. His command of the latter 
 instrument arose partly from early study under the celebrated 
 Cooper, and partly from his love of sacred music his turn of mind, 
 in fact, being essentially religious. He was a lover of nature as well 
 as of art, and besides the noblest landscapes of our own country, 
 had repeatedly visited the classic beauties of Italy, and the Alpine 
 grandeurs of Switzerland. 
 
 * On the north side of the south aisle is the recumbent figure of a 
 Knight, placed here for better preservation (for he used to lie outside 
 the Church) by the present much and deservedly respected Vicar, 
 the Rev. J. Barmby. It has been suggested to us, by an undoubted 
 authority, that in supposing the recumbent Knight to have been a 
 Saxon who probably fought against the Conqueror, we appear to 
 have allowed our imagination too bold a flight. This view is un- 
 doubtedly correct, for the character of the armour proves him to 
 have been a Knight of a period considerably later than the time of 
 the Norman Conquest. From the bearings of the shield, so far as 
 we can make them out, probably he was a Lumley, or one of the 
 Fitz-Marmadukes, who were cognate with the Lumleys, and bore 
 the same arms. But nothing is known of him beyond what may be 
 thus conjectured.
 
 HALLGARTH. 29 
 
 Wast thou a leader in the ranks of death 
 The Wellington of some far distant age ? 
 And hardy warriors, led o'er mead and heath, 
 Didst for the right a furious warfare wage ? 
 Or did Ambition's wiles thy soul engage, 
 And send thee onward to a goal of shame ? 
 Perhaps thy deeds may deck some Saxon page, 
 Or thou mightst win with William's host a name- 
 Thou answerest naught, but breathst thou honour won and fame. 
 
 The spirits of the past breathe o'er my brain, 
 The blue-eyed Saxon 's in my vision glassed, 
 Like exhumed gem, on which the light again 
 Shone, giving 't all the splendour of the past. 
 The labours of his skilful hand are cast 
 In ruins 'neath my feet, and, hidden, lie 
 A shattered wreck : tombs, pillars, sculpture vast, 
 Which once in grandeur rose to greet the eye, 
 And charm and woo the gaze of pilgrims passing by. 
 
 There is a melancholy in the change, 
 Which breathes the mockery of mortal sway ; 
 The eye o'er vanished centuries may range, 
 And then behold but blossom and decay. 
 Thrpnes rise as by a magic hand to-day, 
 And flourish (for a little space, I ween), 
 Until some stronger monarch, bent on prey, 
 Imbued with all the fires of conquest keen, 
 Lays waste the halls of pride, nor weepeth o'er the scene. 
 
 And so, great Norman, in thy pride and power 
 Thou shiverest in his grasp a Harold's sword ; 
 The Saxon dynasty, this luckless hour, 
 Was blasted, ne'er more to be restored. 
 Here, Conqueror of these islands ! at thy word 
 These walls, uncrumbled yet, arose on high, 
 And stand among thy monuments abroad ; 
 Thy deeds are with us yet : the musing eye 
 Tells to the glowing mind thine immortality.
 
 30 HALLGARTH. 
 
 Old Church ! though vanished is thine early glory, 
 The harmony of arch and column gone, 
 (The Modern's hand, in trying to restore thee 
 To former beauty, finds its skill outdone), 
 Thy faded frescoes now but remnants shown, 
 Beyond all sacred piles I love thee yet ! 
 'Tis not the memory of youth alone 
 That knits me to thee, for my cheeks are wet 
 From thoughts of some who sleep I never may forget.
 
 Go the jfain? Jfielbs of 
 
 JO the fairy fields of light 
 
 Let us go with wild delight, 
 Where the fragrance of the beauty-beaming flower 
 
 fills the air ; 
 And the varied songs that flow 
 From the woodlands as they blow 
 Will supplant the surly sorrow and dispense the dying care. 
 
 By the rippling rills we'll rove, 
 
 Give our choicest thoughts to love, 
 And pause where placid purity forms Nature's mirror there, 
 
 And the speckled beauties glide 
 
 Through the deep pellucid tide : 
 
 Here we'll quaff with every sense the light that leaves the 
 landscape fair : 
 
 View the sombre shade that dwells 
 
 On the beauteous heather fells, 
 List the balmy zephyrs whisper with a soft aeolian strain, 
 
 Blended with the warblings wild 
 
 Of the lark, sweet music's child, 
 Who pours his melting raptures o'er the pleasure-thrilling brain. 
 
 Tis no low ambition now 
 
 Which wakes the bosom's glow, 
 In the grandeur that surrounds us shines the majesty of God, 
 
 From the sun's refulgent light, 
 
 And the moon and stars of night, 
 To the smallest ray that twinkles on the dewdrop or the flood.
 
 32 TO THE FAIRY FIELDS OF LIGHT. 
 
 In the sunset's waves of gold, 
 
 On the snowy cloudlet's fold 
 A fleecy couch for Angels who would view the deeds of earth 
 
 In the crag, the tree, the flower, 
 
 There's infinity of power, 
 
 And a splendour of construction which denotes their heavenly 
 birth. 
 
 Let us woo thee, lovely Sneep,* 
 
 Where the solemn shadows creep, 
 And the green-robed rocky ramparts rise for liberty a throne : 
 
 Here the twisting Derwent's seen, 
 
 Singing praises of the scene, 
 Dallying, lingering, as if loth to leave the glowing glories shone. 
 
 Now the frenzied eye may gaze, 
 
 And the soul expand with praise 
 The unutterable something which we ne'er can realise : 
 
 It will not die, but burns 
 
 As the light of thought returns, 
 And like a rainbow blends its hues, and fades again to rise. 
 
 Here Carrf has tuned his lyre, 
 
 Whose soul thou didst inspire 
 With the magic of thy beauty, till he could not choose but sing : 
 
 His flowing numbers glide 
 
 In the soundings of the tide, 
 And are deathless as its melody, and liquid as its ring. 
 
 * To those who have not seen this beautiful natural picture which lies 
 on the Derwent about a mile above Allansford, a description would be 
 altogether vain ; and those who have not seen it would derive little benefit 
 from any pen and ink sketch, however well it might be drawn. 
 
 t John Carr, LL.D. of Muggleswick, author of an ode to the 
 Derwent, in which he speaks of the love he bore the Sneep.
 
 TO THE FAIRY FIELDS O/-' LIGHT. 33 
 
 But where'er the eyes repose, 
 
 In legions charms disclose, 
 And every sound that trembles on the ear awakes a joy : 
 
 The song-bird's warblings clear 
 
 Are softer, sweeter here, 
 Than those which other groves reveal, or rain adown the sky. 
 
 Strange imagination sprung, 
 
 If story be not wrong, 
 From the eye of genius falling on that rocky towering steep : 
 
 Lough* gazed, and lo ! arose 
 
 A " Milo " with his woes,f 
 And thou sharest the immortality of both, enchanting Sneep. 
 
 * John Graham Lough, the celebrated sculptor, was born at Greenhead, 
 about a mile from the Sneep. After serving an apprenticeship as a 
 stonemason at Shotley Field, and being engaged as a journeyman in 
 the erection of the Newcastle Literary and Philosophical Society's 
 Library, he betook himself to London, to push his fortune in the world 
 of art. His journey forms one of the most romantic episodes in his life. 
 He persuaded the captain of a collier who was just sailing for London 
 to take him on board, offering him a guinea for his passage money, but on 
 their arrival the captain refused to take a farthing. At Lough's request, 
 the captain took him to the British Museum, where in company with this 
 good, kind, rough companion, he saw what he was panting to find, the 
 " Elgin Marbles." The captain insisted on Lough returning and sleeping 
 on board his vessel as long as it was detained in the docks, finally urging 
 him not to remain in such a wilderness place as London, adding, " it 
 shall cost you nothing to go back with me to canny Newcastle." After 
 Lough went first to London, Mr. Silvertop wished him to go to Rome 
 to study the models of the great Italian sculptors, and offered to defray 
 his expenses when in Rome. Lough, however, refused to go, and said 
 that " he would not serve a second apprenticeship." Mr. Silvertop took 
 offence at Lough's refusal to go to Rome, and left him to his unaided 
 resources. It was, doubtless, during this period, when no hand was 
 stretched out to help him, that he suffered the terrible privations touchingly 
 
 t It is said that Lough got his conception of " Milo " through gazing 
 on the stupendous rocks at the Sneep. Where the association exists 
 might puzzle a philosopher, but people of a strongly imaginative eye 
 behold, on looking into the fire-grate, most remarkable forms firekin^s, 
 "witches skimming dizzy crags," angels, devils, mountains, chasms, 
 valleys, &c., which to a duller eye is but a fire; as "a primrose by a 
 river's brim " was to Peter Bell, of Wordsworth's muse, but a yellow 
 primrose, nothing more. Alas ! for our dreams of the human family 
 arriving at a higher state of perfection. This but describes the state of 
 apathy into which thousands of our brothers and sisters have fallen.
 
 34 TO THE FAIRY FIELDS OF LIGHT. 
 
 But alas ! we cannot dwell 
 
 Always 'neath beauty's spell, 
 The curse thrown over mortals to its mission still is true : 
 
 The evening turneth gray, 
 
 Duty beckons us away, 
 So, to all that yields us rapture, with regret, we bid adieu ! 
 
 alluded to by Haydon. After a time, however, it seems that Mr, 
 Silvertop's heart misgave him, and he called on Lough as he was engaged 
 in his room sculpturing his Milo. Mr. Silvertop addressed him with the 
 familiar words, " Well, . Lough, how are you coming on?" Lough 
 answered, " Oh, very well, sir ; I am working away here, and living on 
 bread and water, as I have been accustomed to do." After this a five- 
 pound note was sent to Lough, by or doubtless through Mr. Silvertop. 
 While Lough was thus engaged, a circumstance occurred, which threatened 
 to be the forerunner of his ruin, which proved, however, to be the 
 turning point in his fortune His room being too small for the sculpturing 
 of Milo, he could not get to the upper part of the statue so as to be able 
 to use his chisel with sufficient freedom. What was he to do in such a 
 case ? He acted like Alexander the Great, who cut the Gordian knot 
 when he could not untie it. With the recklessness of a bold genius reduced 
 to desperation, he actually broke through the ceiling of the room above 
 him, and made for himself sufficient space to work at his statue. Hue 
 and cry was instantly raised against him for this infraction of the rights 
 of property. The owner began to take steps for instituting legal 
 proceedings, and even consulted Mr. Brougham (afterwards Lord 
 Brougham) for this purpose. Struck with the singularity of the account 
 which was given him, Brougham went to look at the Milo, and see for 
 himself what Lough had done. On his return from viewing Milo, 
 Brougham told some of his friends that he had witnessed the strangest sight 
 that ever came before him during his whole life, and narrated the 
 circumstances. The news of the strange affair soon spread, and, before 
 long, the whole street where Lough's room was situated was lined with 
 the carriages of ladies and gentlemen, who had come to view the place, 
 and to see Milo. A subscription was set on foot for Lough (to which 
 Mr. Silvertop would doubtless contribute handsomely), the owner of the 
 upper room was paid for the damage done to his property, and the law 
 proceedings were staid. Lough was thus relieved from his dreadful 
 privations, and, through orders which soon came in to him for different 
 pieces of sculpture, the basis of his fortune was laid. The house where 
 he modelled his Milo has been pulled down, and the spot of his early 
 struggles and indefatigable industry is now consecrated by having a 
 Church built on it. History of West Durham,
 
 Written on IReabtna 
 '0 poems. 
 
 N roaming through this varied world of ours, 
 'Mong shadowy glens, by bubbling stream or 
 
 fountain, 
 
 Or where reflective solitude embowers, 
 Or tempests howl across the herbless mountain, 
 Or holding high communion with the flowers, 
 Or listening to the wild waves hollow sounding, 
 With what a majesty they touch the feelings, 
 How chastely then the soul drinks their revealings ! 
 
 Then looking on the sky, whose mighty grandeur 
 
 Defies the power of mortal mind for ever, 
 
 To comprehend how worlds on worlds do wander 
 
 Through trackless space, directed by their Giver 
 
 To an immortal goal, where not the hand or 
 
 Infinite will is seen ; then turning to the river, 
 
 Behold its glassy face glide to the ocean, 
 
 Say dost thy soul not thrill with deep emotion ?
 
 36 SHELLEY'S POEMS. 
 
 Look on the leaves which come not till the season 
 Of genial Spring, whose mild rains steep the earth, 
 And call the flow'rets from their ice-bound prison 
 In blushing fragrance to their annual birth. 
 Then Summer comes like thing endowed with reason, 
 And draws the blue snake from his dark cave forth ; 
 Then Autumn reaps the harvest of the sun, 
 Completing what her sister Spring begun. 
 
 The Nightingale to night and solitude 
 Pours out his soul, which trembles over earth ; 
 The laverock, from his watch-tower in the cloud 
 His flowing thrilling song of praise sends forth ; 
 The blackbird, piping in the echoing wood, 
 The thrush and linnets warbling, give birth 
 To soft and tender passion, and are fraught 
 With food for wildest, sweetest, dearest thought. 
 
 " The golden glowworm in her dewy, dell," 
 
 The insect tribe of many a beauteous hue, 
 
 Which charm the eye and bid the bosom swell, 
 
 The twinkling brilliance of a drop of dew, 
 
 The bow of heaven which strikes us like a spell, 
 
 And all the harmony of things, not few, 
 
 Are but the breathings of the Deity, 
 
 To wake the slumbering soul to prospects in the sky. 
 
 The painted Indian, God's untutored child, 
 
 Whose savage orbs ne'er gazed upon a book, 
 
 Save the wide volume of his native wild, 
 
 The mountain, forest, lake, and whispering brook, 
 
 Heaven's azure dome, whose million meek eyes smiled, 
 
 And seemed the spirit of them all to look 
 
 Into his soul, which knew no other law 
 
 Than that by nature taught, inspiring awe,
 
 StlKl. LEY'S I'OE.MX. 37 
 
 The lofty hills in hoary majesty, 
 The rippling brooklet and the murmuring waves, 
 The fragrant airs which through the valley sigh 
 The trees, the flowery plains, and echoing caves, 
 The lightning's flash along the gloomy sky, 
 The roaring thunders when the storm-king raves, 
 Have writ their language on his willing soul, 
 And prove th' " Great Spirit" author of the whole. 
 
 Then, Shelley, thou would'st tell us " there's no God," 
 
 All Nature gives thy impious words the lie ; 
 
 If, sooth, thou sufferedst from His chastening rod, 
 
 And failing to detect with erring eye 
 
 The object of the ruling hand abroad, 
 
 "Which sweeps the desert, ocean, and the sky, 
 
 Had'st thou no remedy, but darkly mope 
 
 And vainly try to blight our happiness and hope ? 
 
 Think'st thou, vain man, because endowed with thought 
 
 To make the lightning serve thy mighty will 
 
 And chainless intellect, that thou art fraught 
 
 With power Omnipotent ? That matchless skill 
 
 Of deeds immortal sprang by chance from nought ? 
 
 That thy transcendent strength to save or kill 
 
 Had no more worthy origin ? Go, bow 
 
 Before yon mossy rock, 't has greater faith than thou. 
 
 Immortal Shelley ! thou whose mental might 
 Played with ideas, as with toys a child, 
 Rocks, mountains, rivers, oceans, skies, thy light 
 Shone on them as the lightning's flash ; though wild 
 Thy fevered brain could feel, impart delight, 
 Enchanting man ; then thou hast turned and smiled, 
 And from thy faithless heart exclaimed, " no God 
 Reigns over us ; " hence Chance inspired a clod !
 
 38 SHELLEY'S POEMS. 
 
 There is a God ! and on Him man will lean 
 And build his storied hopes while dwelling here, 
 Wearing, from solace, that meek, gentle mien, 
 That speechless eloquence of silenced fear, 
 No dread of death such aspect bears ; serene 
 And calm, as lovely waveless lakes appear, 
 The heavens reflected in their depths below 
 In starry beauty's quiet slumber glow. 
 
 There is a glory in Religious teaching 
 Inspired with bliss and joy, no tongue can tell ; 
 Nor Atheist's laugh, nor Deist's soulless preaching 
 Can break the magic of the sacred spell, 
 Where Faith and Hope like sirens sing, bewitching 
 The heart, where darkling sorrows wont to dwell, 
 Begetting Love and Peace, the aim of Him 
 Before whose eyes all their lights are dim. 
 
 Say, Shelley, wast thou happy here below ? 
 Did not the passion in thy bosom nursed, 
 Become to thee to all mankind a foe, 
 And leave thee, e'en in youth, a thing accursed ? 
 Did'st never see the Christian's face a-glow 
 With tranquil smiles, or hear the heavenly burst 
 Of music from his joy o'erburthened breast, 
 Which marked his future home, a home of rest ? 
 
 Whate'er has Atheism done for this our world 
 But curse it ? Has Paine's infidelity 
 Not many a million to destruction hurled, 
 By the sad aid .of heartless Sophistry ? 
 The sails which bore his bark of life were furled 
 O'er awful, writhing, helpless agony ! 
 Contrast his death with Addison's, and see 
 The calm that waits on Christianity.
 
 SHELLEY'S AV-.J/.V. 39 
 
 Vain, godless man hath tried, hut never yet 
 
 1 ,eit e'en one record on historic page 
 
 Which breathes felicity. Men may forget, 
 
 And have, in this and every other age, 
 
 Their living God ; but neler or seldom set, 
 
 (When future glory would the soul engage) 
 
 Their hopes on aught short of the mighty Rock 
 
 Which stands the tern pests breath and earthquake's shock. 
 
 Oh ! misery, nursed of hate, about the heart 
 Entwines, as snakes around the'ir victims bound, 
 Till man becomes a fiend from poison's smart, 
 Yet planted there the immedicable wound, 
 Cherishing wretchedness with miser art, 
 Till Sin has left him in a gulf profound, 
 Companion to Despair, and ceaseless pain, 
 Where radiant hope may never beam again. 
 
 Our chance is all with virtue. Our despair 
 
 Springs out of Vice's most detested fruit ; 
 
 If nought beyond the grave could claim our care, 
 
 And blotted from our souls each, every doubt, 
 
 Nothing to dread more than our sufferings here, 
 
 And death were final when our breath goes out, 
 
 Still let me with Religion, Virtue dwell, 
 
 And shun thy spirit, Vice, which makes fair earth a hell.
 
 OLinco to tbe Derwent 
 
 F, Derwent, in his dearth of power, 
 An humble votary sing thy praise 
 In weaker strains than whom thy dower 
 Of loveliness inspired to pour 
 Their loftier, sweeter lays, 
 
 Chide not ; he loves as well as they 
 Who quaffed thy changing seasons' charms, 
 When rocks were rent and borne away 
 As feathers 'neath thy wanton spray, 
 In frowning grandeur's arms : 
 
 Or milder Spring, whose genial gale 
 
 Had soothed thy mane adorned thy braes, 
 
 Or Summer spread her deeper veil, 
 
 Or hoary Autumn did reveal 
 
 Her glory-tinted face.
 
 LINES Y'O THE DERU'LM. 
 
 How sweet thy sylvan shades to rove, 
 Or on thy sunny banks to lie ; 
 To list the blending lays of love, 
 That gush from every echoing grove, 
 Or rain adown the sky ; 
 
 To catch the glow of beauty's face, 
 And ponder well each floweret's eye : 
 To dwell upon its peerless grace, 
 Its birth in Nature's God to trace, 
 To thrill with wakened joy ; 
 
 To look on heaven-aspiring trees, 
 Adorned in vernal robes of green ; 
 Their graceful motions as the breeze 
 Embraces each, till like the seas 
 Their heaving breasts are seen ; 
 
 To muse within the silent dell, 
 While resting on some mossy stone 
 (Where Nature's shadowy glories dwell), 
 On fern and herb, and floral bell, 
 Enraptured and alone ; 
 
 To trace thee to the infant rills,* 
 When summer's tints enchant the eye, 
 That gush between the purple hills, 
 Where hums the bee the laverock trills 
 His melting melody ; 
 
 * The source of the Derwent, about a mile and a half above Blanchland, 
 is well worth a visit. At the confluence of two small streams which 
 have their fountains among the wild, yet beautiful, heather hills, stands a 
 remarkable rock known by the formidable name of "Gibraltar." Beneath 
 the brow of this romantic pile, which occupies the narrow neck of land 
 formed by those burns, and towards the junction of the same, is to be 
 seen a bright spring well, which will gladden the heart of the visitor. 
 The woods on either side from this spot to Bay Bridge (about a mile), in 
 the valley of the Derwent, are positively charming to those who have an 
 eye for the majesty of Nature.
 
 42 LINES TO THE DERIVENT. 
 
 To linger by the hoary, rocks 
 Which guard as sentinels thy way, 
 Crowned with the hardy heather's locks, 
 Braving the strong-wing'd tempests' shocks, 
 Or lit with summer's ray ; 
 
 To watch thy tributaries roll 
 In soft and soothing light along ; 
 To hear their bells of liquid toll, 
 Or prattle as some mystic soul 
 Their waters dwelt among ; 
 
 To mount some promontory's height, 
 
 Commanding well thy winding ways, 
 
 And turn the eye in wild delight 
 
 Upon thy margin's fringes bright, 
 
 Knoll, woodland, glen and field, where light 
 
 And beauty mingled blaze ! 
 
 Yes, Derwent, 'tis no meagre joy 
 
 That thrills their hearts who roam thy shore 
 
 I loved thee when a trembling boy, 
 
 For thou hast wondrous charms ; my eye 
 
 Beholds but to adore. 
 
 As on some bright enchanted stream, 
 By fairies trod I dreamt of thee : 
 Thou wert my bosom's earliest theme 
 Ere it was wont on rhymes to dream, 
 But fetterless and free. 
 
 Nor is this strange ; for she to whom 
 I owe my being all I know 
 Of thoughts which out of virtue come 
 Was reared, and wore her maiden bloom 
 Upon thy banks, drank their perfume 
 And music of thy flow.
 
 LINES TO THE DERWENT. 43 
 
 My bosom long has been the shrine 
 A cherished sanctuary where 
 Her stories superstitous twine, 
 And blend with visions more divine 
 Committed to my care. 
 
 Say, Derwent, thou who art so old, 
 Thou can'st, if that thou wilt, I think, 
 Strange stories of the past unfold 
 Of nature's savage child who strolled 
 First on thy sounding brink. 
 
 Thou'st seen him 'neath the Roman's spear 
 Sink trembling on the flowery sod, 
 And heard him with distracted ear 
 His deities invoking there ; 
 For oh ! he knew not God. 
 
 Tell me, has many a Saxon maid, 
 Of flaxen lock and azure eye, 
 Thy stilly wave a mirror made, 
 And, lingering, her bright face surveyed 
 Of blushing roses dye ? 
 
 Thou must, if tales be true, have felt 
 The trip of gentle Ebba's* feet, 
 And heard her as by thee she knelt, 
 Her soul to adoration melt, 
 In accents wild and sweet. 
 
 The Christian's God, for she had known 
 The " Prince of Peace," inspired her prayer ; 
 With face upturned towards His throne, 
 To solitude and thee alone 
 Of earth she told her care. 
 
 For an account of St. Ebba, see page 59.
 
 44 LINES TO THE DERWENT. 
 
 Say, Derwent, do her ashes rest 
 
 In some deep glen or mound of thine ? 
 
 Tis sad that o'er so pure a breast 
 
 No monumental marks attest 
 
 To human eye the worthy guest 
 
 That fills so dear a shrme. 
 
 Thou must have checked thy crystal tide 
 When erst the impious Dane appeared, 
 And wrapped in flames the house of pride, 
 Which rose in splendour on thy side, 
 This royal maiden reared : 
 
 Or frowned as through thy bosom rushed 
 The host* from Caledonia wild ; 
 Thy hoarser sounds to silence hushed, 
 As Ethelbergaf gazing blushed, 
 For she was virtue's child. 
 
 Had Edwin or PaulinusJ tuned 
 To sing thy praises no 'rapturing lyre ? 
 Did Radcliffe's generous bosom bound, 
 When first thy hallowed charms he found, 
 And burn with po'tic fire ? 
 
 * The Scotch, 30,000 strong, led by David II, King of Scotland, 
 crossed the Derwent at Ebchester, after traversing some miles of the 
 Roman Road, " Watling Street," and encamped at night amid the ruins 
 of the Vindomora of the Itinerary of Antoninus, before proceeding to 
 the battle of Neville's Cross, which terminated so disastrously for the 
 brave Scots. . The King fell into the hands of the English, and was kept 
 in captivity eleven years. 
 
 + Ethelberga, the wife of King Edwin, who succeeded Ethelfred, and 
 reigned from 626 to 633 over Northumbria. 
 
 J Paulinus, Archbishop of York, a Roman missionary, who came 
 north with King Edwin and Ethelberga in 626, converted thousands 
 of Northumbrian Britons, and Edwin himself to Christianity ; and when 
 Edwin fell in the battle of Hatfield Chase, in Yorkshire, fled with the 
 royal widow and her children, and found an asylum in Kent, 
 
 See page 62.
 
 LINES TO THE DERWENT. 45 
 
 Did classic Carr* once converse hold 
 With Lucian in thy tranquil bowefs, 
 Until the lengthening shadows told 
 How far the western sun had rolled 
 Adown the fruitful hours ? 
 
 The Briton loved thy oaken shade ; 
 The Roman built his temple here ; 
 The Saxon shook his conquering blade ; 
 The desolating Dane surveyed 
 The piles he did not spare. 
 
 Upon thy banks the Norman reared 
 His abbey gray,f devotion's home ; 
 And those whom Luther's creed revered 
 Nestled within thy breast, nor feared 
 The Christian martyr's doom. 
 
 Thou answerest nought. Thy secrets keep 
 
 The centuries have given : 
 
 Still on to father ocean sweep 
 
 Thy chainless tides, and sing and weep 
 
 And purl and roar to Heaven ! 
 
 * See page 32. 
 
 t " The Abbey of Blanchland, or Alba Landa, was founded in 1 175 by 
 Walter de Bolbeck. It was forfeited to the crown by the attainder of 
 Thomas Forster, jun., Esq., 1715, and purchased by the Right Honourable 
 and Rev. Lord Crewe, Bishop of Durham, his uncle, who left it to 
 charitable uses. The west end and towers of the church remain. There 
 are some old gravecovers in the church. The gateway of the quadrangle 
 of the abbey, and of the abbey itself, are still remaining ; the towers on 
 each hand are converted into alehouses ; but there remain no relics of 
 the impressive church pomp of former times."
 
 Xost Ibunter; or, an 3ndfcent of 
 
 Xife in Jllinois. 
 
 E passed the gate ere the storm came on, 
 
 Which led to the dreary wild ; 
 I marked him well : he was all alone, 
 With a gun across his shoulder thrown, 
 And an aspect brave and mild. 
 
 " Stranger," I said, in a voice of fear, 
 
 (Breathing a timely warning), 
 " Thou must not 'tempt the prairie drear ; 
 The way is long, and night is here, 
 
 And thou might'st be lost ere morning." 
 
 And he paused and spake in gentle mood, . 
 
 For the brave are always kind : 
 " From youth, my boy, I have tempests wooed, 
 On the open plain, in the shrieking wood, 
 
 As it groaned 'neath the rushing wind."
 
 THE LOST HUNTER. 47 
 
 So onward he passed in his active might, 
 
 As a steed freed from the rein, 
 Over the crests of the snow-wreathes white, 
 Till he seemed but a speck in my aching sight, 
 
 On the far extending plain. 
 
 But, hark ! how the storm-king wails on high, 
 With his thousand voices moaning, 
 
 Pregnant with many a destiny ; 
 
 And the forest trees, as he passes by, 
 Beneath his rage are groaning. 
 
 And the snow is borne on the warring blast, 
 As a mist the land enshrouding ; 
 
 Oh ! where is the bold one who lately passed ? 
 
 Will he brave the storm, or be over-cast, 
 O'er his reckless folly brooding ? 
 
 By far Sangamon's tideless stream, 
 
 In a cottage lone and drear, 
 A woman sits by her log-fire's gleam, 
 
 And her brain is wrought with foreboding fear 
 As she hears the wind go whistling on, 
 And the oaks around 'neath its pressure groan,* 
 And the oxen low in the frozen shed, 
 And the restless grunt of the hog in his bed, 
 And the horse's neigh, and the dog's low growl, 
 As he hears the wolfs long echoing howl, 
 And the awful night-bird piping loud, 
 Like a spirit pent in .a sable cloud. 
 'Tis an evil omen : all presume 
 That some much-loved friend has found a tomb. 
 To her, all things wear sorrow's form ; 
 
 Despair is written on her brow, 
 And she turns to gaze through the blinding storm, 
 
 With an eye almost prophetic now ; 
 And from the depths of her welling woes, 
 Tli is impassioned song of sorrow flows :
 
 48 THE LOST HUNTER. 
 
 " Where does my loved one stray from me ? 
 
 He never stayed so long before ; 
 A day were an eternity 
 
 Should he no longer cross my door. 
 
 " My fondest hope my life my all, 
 Since first I gazed upon his face ; 
 
 If love for me has wrought his fall, 
 Why died I not in his embrace ? 
 
 " But, no ! he would not leave the grove 
 In such a wild tempestuous hour ; 
 
 Perchance some foe to mortal love 
 Has clasped him in his giant power. 
 
 " And yet, O God ! he never dwelt 
 A night beyond my tender care, 
 
 Since first we at the altar knelt, 
 Our souls for ever mingling there. 
 
 " He yet may come ; away despair ! 
 
 Why seek a home within my breast ? 
 Thou never sought'st a heart to cheer ; 
 
 Thou foe to hope, devouring rest. 
 
 *' But if he sleeps beneath the snow, 
 My woes shall only end in death ; 
 
 Then blow, relentless tempests, blow, 
 And chill for e'er my vital breath."
 
 THE LOST HUNTER. 49 
 
 'Tis Spring ; the zephyrs sweep across the plain, 
 And flowers of varied hues are breathing here, 
 
 And Love, and Light, and Beauty smile again, 
 In the enchantment of the youthful year. 
 
 The wild deer strays in grace and majesty, 
 " Brushing the morn and evening dews away," 
 
 Cropping the early swamp grass eagerly, 
 
 Or basking 'neath the enamouring god of Day. 
 
 And man, the base destroyer, seeks thy bed, 
 
 To slay thee through some cunning he has plann'd ; 
 
 Or sends thee panting with his fiery steed, 
 To die at length beneath his cruel hand. 
 
 In such a chase, when low his victim lay, 
 .A hunter had descended from his horse, 
 
 To drive the last breath from the prostrate clay, 
 In boasted triumph rather than remorse. 
 
 This done, he turned his eye abroad to learn 
 If any of his comrades wandered near ; 
 
 Some stranger object did his eye discern, 
 
 Which he approached with something like to fear. 
 
 Some whitened bones a skeleton a man 
 A gun some rags of him who passed the gate, 
 
 " O ! noble Tom," his sorrows then began, 
 " As I do live, the world shall know thy fate. 
 
 " And was it here, by awful foes surrounded, 
 The elements which froze thy vital tide, 
 
 And wolves which thou so often hast confounded, 
 Thou droopedst in agony and bravely died ?
 
 5 o THE LOST HUNTER. 
 
 " Thy very bones have suffered from fierce fangs, 
 Which tore the flesh in savage hunger here ; 
 
 O, what ! ere life had fled, would be thy pangs ; 
 Here rests the theme of many a ' generous tear.' 
 
 " Thou shalt not linger in the scorching sun, 
 Where eyes of reverence may never stray ; 
 
 Near thy loved cot, now tenantless and lone, 
 Where Sangamon rolls slowly on her way, 
 
 " Thou shalt repose in an eternal sleep, 
 
 Where fairer flowers than these shall deck thy bed, 
 And willows, gemmed with morning dew, shall weep 
 
 Their glittering tears above thy lowly head. 
 
 My story's done ; but where, O ! where is she 
 Who pour'd her sorrow's to the midnight skies 
 
 Where Sangamon glides slow and noiselessly 
 Below the banks where sturdy white oaks rise ? 
 
 Gone with the spirit she so much adored ; 
 
 Their bones are mingling in one quiet grave ; 
 This epitaph was to their memory pour'd : 
 
 " Here lie the relics of the True and Brave."
 
 
 
 J 
 
 5 J-* 
 
 r - 1 
 
 o
 
 iBbcbeetcr.* 
 
 ERE let me sit upon these grassy slopes, 
 Beneath the god of Day's enamouring beam, 
 Enchanted with the scene which round me opes, 
 Prolific text of many a cherished dream, 
 Whose blooming landscapes with chaste beauties teem : 
 The smiling field, the glen, the burn, the grove, 
 Blending harmoniously around thy stream, 
 Meandering Derwent, fit retreat for Love, 
 Where Nature's worshipper in joy unmixed may rove. 
 
 * Few places in the county possess a greater charm for the historian 
 than the village of Ebchester, whose early history is shrouded in 
 obscurity, and whose unique Church and Roman relics have long 
 employed the thoughts of reflecting and speculative antiquaries. 
 The Roman legions who made it their resting place, and from the 
 sloping banks watched the tactics of the hardy Briton concealed in 
 the opposite forests of Northumbria, the callous Dane, and defiant, 
 unconquerable Scot, all have left upon it the impress of their strength 
 and power. Pleasantly situated on the right bank of the Derwent. 
 and intersected by the road leading from Newcastle to Shotley 
 Bridge, at a distance of twelve miles from the former and two from 
 the latter, the village has undergone little change since Hutchinson's 
 time. It was then a small, irregular place, and the description holds 
 good at the present day. Notwithstanding the modern hotel, and 
 two or three pretentious grocery and drapery establishments, an air 
 of rustic simplicity still hangs over it. ' Scarcely two of the houses 
 are alike, one jutting upon and another receding from the street, and 
 most of them seemingly built from the readily available quarry 
 adjacent the Roman Station. Very little is known respecting the 
 early history of the Church, which stands within the area of the 
 Roman Camp, and is dedicated to St. Ebba. It is built of stones 
 from the Roman walls and edifices, and apparently dates from the 
 twelfth century. The engraving correctly depicts the Church as it 
 was before being restored, and presents a curious combination of 
 early and modern architecture. History of West Durham.
 
 54 EKCHESTEK. 
 
 My mind contemplative through mists of Time, 
 On Retrospection's airy pinions borne, 
 Beholds, where now those towering woods sublime, 
 Aspiring to the clouds, the hills adorn, 
 The heathen Briton who had yet to learn 
 A Roman's majesty or Saxon's will, 
 Roaming those haunts, in savage gloom forlorn, 
 Through dell and grove, or pausing by the rill, 
 In which he saw no God, but worshipped Idols still. 
 
 He hears the voices of the gale the woods, 
 The liquid bells, where murmuring brooks meander, 
 The tempest's shriek along the sable clouds, 
 The echoing cavern and the roaring thunder, 
 Sees lightnings flash the sky's transcendent grandeur, 
 Lists feathery choirs their melting music fling 
 Unto the winds, and forth he thus doth wander, 
 Snuffing the floweret's fragrance lovely thing, 
 Yet dreams not of their Source from whence all glories spring. 
 
 And in my gaze I see the Druid chief 
 Beneath the oak he venerates at prayer, 
 Or in rude temple pouring strange belief 
 To Deity more strange, or false god there ; 
 And mark the " wicker cage " around Despair, 
 The howling victims wreathed in torturing flame ; 
 The clouds are red with the unholy glare, 
 And cruel wretches, never known to shame, 
 Survey with fierce delight what Hell would fail to name. 
 
 Now turn we to our antiquated theme, 
 Ebchester : I have roamed from thee afar. 
 
 1 Here lordly Romans dwelt with power supreme, 
 In all the pomp and pageantry of war ; 
 Here frowned their rampart wall, a massy bar, 
 To British hosts impregnable, I ween ; 
 And where these tranquil habitations are, 
 Whose happy inmates smile in joys serene, 
 
 Unshocked by din of arms, nor caring what has been,
 
 EBCIU-.STI-:K. 55 
 
 The towering temple rose, where mirth and revelry 
 Basked in the rays of Triumph and of Power ; 
 The song, the jest, the tale of chivalry, 
 Beguiled, no doubt, full many a flying hour. 
 Here, Antoninus,* thou whjose earthly dower, 
 In Hadrian's gift, was Rome's imperial throne, 
 Was reared thy " Vindomora " now no more, 
 Like to thy virtuous self thy Empire gone ; 
 Yet Rome, thy glory, still smiles round us as a sun ! 
 
 The air and earth are pregnant with thy prime, 
 Immortal Roman ; and man looks on thee 
 As a Colossus, towering up through time, 
 Or a lone Alp, soaring majestic'ly, 
 Which grows more mighty as he longingly 
 Turns and returns, as if each glance he cast 
 Some greater wonder left his breast less free, 
 Till it becomes a thing so huge and vast, 
 That all the world beside seems utterly surpassed. 
 
 * The author has designedly preferred the character of Antoninus 
 Pius the Sixteenth, in order of the Roman Emperors from Julius 
 Caesar, to that of Antoninus, the author of an Itinerary (or military 
 road book), on whose authority, coupled with that of Richard of 
 Cirencester, modern writers believe the Station at Ebchester to be 
 the Vindomora of the Romans. In an excellent paper on Roman 
 Ebchester, contributed to the " History of West Durham" by the Rev. 
 Dr. Hooppell, Rector of Byers Green, the writer says : " There can 
 be no .doubt the Romans, in giving names to their military stations 
 in Britain, adopted the enchorial, that is the native, names of the 
 places. All they did was to affix, in the generality of cases, a Latin 
 termination to the word, so as to fit it to receive the various inflections 
 the nature of their language required, and, in some cases, to soften 
 the harshness, or remove the unpronounceability by their lips, of 
 the gutterals. Thus the signification of the name Vindomora, the 
 Roman name of Ebchester, must be sought in the Keltic, i.e., in the 
 British, language. Nor is it hard to discover. 'Vin' signifies, in 
 the British, ' Edge,' and occurs in numerous instances. Vinovium, 
 Vindobala, Vindogladia, Vindolana, are all found in Roman lists of 
 posts in Britain. ' Do' seems certainly to be the Latinised form of 
 ' Du' Black, and ' Mor' is the same word that we have in our 
 language still, written with a doubled 'o' Moor. Vindomoro is, 
 therefore, ' Black moor edge,' a name, probably, in British times, 
 remarkably descriptive of the position and vicinity of the spot now 
 known as Ebchester."
 
 56 EBCHESTER. 
 
 Tradition tells, and I repeat the story, 
 That 'neath this village, in some cave, was hid, 
 When Rome had boundless wealth and too had glory, 
 A chest of money, and upon its lid 
 A crow was perched, and some old man to rid 
 His brain (whose nightly dreams oppressed him sore) 
 Of doubt regarding what the Romans did, 
 Worked hard for weeks the treasure to explore, 
 But neither gold nor crow to light could e'er restore.* 
 
 Deem not, because the old man dug in vain, 
 That nought of Rome hath hither been exhumed ; 
 The bath, the altar,f and inscription plain 
 Of mortals, who below had been entombed 
 Eight hundred years, ere Norman foes presumed 
 To wave their sceptre o'er this sea-girt isle, 
 Have been extracted from this soil, long doomed 
 To lie like graves in dungeons, where no smile 
 Of summer sunbeam came to light and cheer the while. 
 
 About this hallow'd spot a charm seems hov'ring ; 
 The fragmentary ruins here we find, 
 Divested by some busy hand of cov'ring, 
 Are eloquent of man's immortal mind, 
 And are with Roman genius entwined; 
 As ivy clambers o'er the mouldering wall, 
 With vigour in its wreck-surviving rind, 
 So Thought outlives its flesh-encumbering hall, 
 And walks the earth with Time triumphant over all. 
 
 * Tradition says that a chest of Roman money is buried somewhere 
 in the Station, and that a crow is perched on its lid. About fifty 
 years ago, an old man, who profoundly believed the story, set to 
 work and sunk, in different parts of Ebchester, two shafts, where he 
 laboured with a will some weeks, in the hope of finding the treasure, 
 but success did not crown his efforts. He finally abandoned the 
 work, more through exhaustion than failing faith in the money being 
 buried somewhere within the precincts of the old Station. 
 
 + The Church and Churchyard abound in Roman sculptures, 
 which are fully described in the History of West Durham. Close to 
 the entrance to the Church, just outside the porch, on i{s western 
 side, is a noble altar. (See illustration on the next page). It was 
 found in the year 1876, at the last restoration of the Church, in the 
 foundations at the west end.
 
 TRoman Hltar fount) in 1876.
 
 EHC11 ESTER. 59 
 
 Whence emanates the petty pride of man ? 
 ( Ireat Caesar and Agricola are clay, 
 Brave Hadrian and Antoninus ran 
 A course of glory, but have passed away, 
 Their mem'ries o'er our hearts like sunbeams play. 
 Come hither, mortal, and survey this spot ; 
 Mark well the scene of power and grandeur's stay ; 
 What is it now ? Such soon shall be thy lot, 
 Save that thy very name, perchance, will be forgot. 
 
 Fair, gentle, chaste, and beauteous Ebba,* thou 
 (Long, long ago, twelve hundred changeful years) 
 Didst cause a Monastery to rise, where now 
 Yon sacred pile its sombre head uprears ; 
 Here, in seclusion, didst thou dwell, with fears 
 Lest worldly passions should corrupt thy breast, 
 Nursing thy virtue in this vale of tears 
 With Christian watchfulness which sought not rest 
 But in His bosom, who had made thine own more blest. 
 
 Perchance Paulinus, f he whose skilful tongue, 
 Converting kings, was eloquent of Truth, 
 Had sought thee, Ebba, first of Christians wrung 
 From royal pleasures and their sins forsooth, 
 And kept thee strong in Faith, though still in youth, 
 Beneath his vigilant and heaven-rayed eye, 
 Beholding virtues in their tender growth 
 Developing to fit thee for the sky, 
 But dreamt not of thy fate, thy future agony. 
 
 * St. Ebba, daughter of King Ethelfrid, who reigned over North- 
 umbria from 593 to 617, is said to have founded a Monastery here 
 in, or before, the year A.D. 660. It is also said that after the des- 
 truction of the Monastery, St. Ebba and her virgins disfigured 
 their faces to save themselves from the impious Danes. St. Ebba 
 was amongst the first Royal Christians. 
 
 t Paulinus, Archbishop of York, was an Italian by birth, and is 
 thought to have taken monastic vows in the Monastery of St. Andrew's, 
 in Rome, in 601. He was sent to England by Gregory the Great, as 
 an adjunct of the missionaries there Augustin and his companions. 
 Paulinus afterwards, on the marriageof King Edwin of Kent to Ethelburga, 
 accompanied the Christian Princess to the north when Edwin ascended 
 the Northumbrian throne. Edwin, under the preaching of Paulinus, 
 was induced to espouse the Christian faith, and thousands of Northumbrian 
 Britons as well.
 
 60 EBCHESTER. 
 
 Thy royal father's daughter had her sorrows 
 In this dark voyage of ever-varying strife ; 
 Thy cruel sire* but knew the joy that borrows 
 Existence from a foeman robbed of life ; 
 The slayer of the Briton's soul was rife 
 With hell's dark passions deepening their stain, 
 Till Death approached him with his certain knife, 
 As if to urge in justice pain for pain, 
 And laid him pulseless down, the slayer with the slain. 
 
 And did he fall unwept of mortal eyes ? 
 Methinks, fair Ebba, that some kindred soul 
 Poured forth its sorrows to the midnight skies, 
 The wailing griefs which it might ne'er control, 
 That mixed with rocky Derwent's echoing roll, 
 Till lost in air as boundless as its woe ; 
 And shall they find at length some distant goal, 
 Or live and sigh in all the winds that blow, 
 And visit every clime ? We know nought even so ! 
 
 Ebba, thy life 'neath this monastic roof 
 No doubt had something of a latent charm ; 
 Thou deemed'st its massy walls were tempest proof 
 To shield thyself and cherished ones from harm : 
 Thy dream was vain ; Northumbria's land was warm 
 With blazing temples, palaces and fanes, 
 Like to the Simoon or the thunder storm, 
 They came ! they came ! the hope-devouring Danes, 
 And wrapped thy home in fire, rewarding thus thy pains. 
 
 * The cruelties of Ethelfrid (who, we are informed, destroyed more 
 Britons than all the other Saxon kings), are well known to those who 
 are acquainted with our Anglo-Saxon history. Who has not read with 
 horror of his slaughter of 1,200 unresisting Britons at Bangor, the 
 destruction of the ancient monastery there its vast library, the collection 
 of ages, the repository of the most precious monuments of the ancient 
 Britons, &c. ? Ethelfrid fell on the banks of the Idel, in Nottinghamshire, 
 in battle against Redwald.
 
 ROCHESTER. 6 1 
 
 And there the pile thy dearest thought had cherished, 
 Lay smouldering o'er the spirit of thy bliss, 
 Thy tenderest hopes of earthly glory perished, 
 Expiring on the red flame's crackling hiss : 
 But ere, alas ! thy fortune came to this, 
 Thou fled'st in terror like a timid deer, 
 Oe'r vale and plain and craggy precipice, 
 Imploring heaven thy drooping soul to cheer, 
 And save thee from the Danes those impious lords of fear. 
 
 Then ancient Coldingham thy home became, 
 Where lived the classic Bede in after time, 
 The gifted Saxon of enduring fame, 
 The modest genius of lore sublime : 
 Here, Ebba, still the memory of crime 
 Pursued the Abbess of this holy place : 
 The heartless Dane, who spared not virtue's prime, 
 In dread of whom thou galled'st thy comely face, 
 Can't now defile thy dust, which never knew disgrace. 
 
 Strange ends has wanton Desolation* wrought ; 
 Behold where splendour girt by Power did dwell, 
 And mighty Rome the hardy Briton fought, 
 The lonely Hermit seeks his quiet cell 
 'Mid Vindomora's ruins, bound to quell 
 The world within him which his soul abhors : 
 A waste extends, the sheltering woodlands tell 
 Of safety an orison he pours, 
 And to the vaults of heaven Imagination soars. 
 
 He quaffs the sheeny rill like star-beams sparkling, 
 Whose placid waters are his only mirror ; 
 With Peace he wanders by the forest darkling, 
 For Solitude for him has got no terror ; 
 His breast is calm and pure, no worldly sorrow 
 Distracts the pilgrim of this sylvan scene ; 
 If life has nought of ecstasy, no horror 
 Death can have : he waits with brow serene 
 The stroke which kings approach with pale and trembling mien. 
 
 * Five or six centuries after the destruction of the Monastery, we 
 find hermits nestling in the ruins of Vindomora.
 
 62 EBCHESTER. 
 
 On yonder bank washed by this rippling river, 
 (Soft sympathy directs my tearful eye 
 To him whose fate e'en blighting Time shall never 
 Brush from the tablets of man's memory), 
 Brave RadclifTe !* part of thy possessions lie : 
 The hand that clothed the orphan, fed the poor, 
 And checked the sorrow of the widow's sigh, 
 Reclines in dust, and shall relieve no more, 
 While England's honoured sons thy hapless end deplore. 
 
 Thy ancient hall has crumbled stone by stone ; 
 Now but in fragments are its ruins found, 
 The mantling ivy's emerald tresses thrown, 
 Have wrapped those more than hallowed relics round 
 In amorous embrace, as if 'twere bound 
 To save them from the revels of decay : 
 Here silence reigns unbroken by a sound, 
 Save when some songbird from the trembling spray 
 Pours forth his tender notes in soul-enrapturing lay. 
 
 Lamented Radcliffe ! ill thy beauteous face, 
 Thy open hand where want could be supplied, 
 Thy form whose symmetry breathed angel grace, 
 Where all the virtues dwelt in glowing pride, 
 Were spared by those who reverenced thee, and vied 
 In their unrivalled love for thee and thine : 
 Though thou hast fought by foul Rebellion's side, 
 Though streaks of indiscretion blot thy line, 
 Thy " name smells sweet of Heaven" there may thy soul, 
 too, shine. 
 
 " Thy creed has been thy curse," some spirits sing, 
 At least so far as earthly prospects go : 
 Alas ! it is a strange and awful thing 
 That men's opinions should work such woe : 
 Our choice of ways to heaven makes many a foe 
 'Mong those denying charity a home, 
 Whose bosoms never wake the thoughts which glow, 
 But nurse, like narrow cells, the midnight gloom, 
 Where Love and Light are not, and Pity finds no room. 
 
 * Radcliffe. James, third Earl of Derwentwater, who owned land 
 on the left bank of the Derwent, whose misfortunes are too well known 
 to need further notice here.
 
 EBCHES'l'EK. 63 
 
 Then shall these passions pall our joys for ever, 
 And send us darkling on our devious road, 
 Like the mad torrents of a mighty river, 
 Whose vengeful waters have its banks o'erflowed ? 
 No ! let us hope : behold a change abroad. 
 The Truth shall triumph, Love shall yet be king, 
 And rid the earth of Hate, encumbering load, 
 That erst did mar and blight affection's spring, 
 And reign supreme o'er earth and bliss to mortals bring. 
 
 Here, where the skin-clad painted Briton roved, 
 The Roman triumphed, and the Saxon reigned, 
 The callous plundering Dane beheld unmoved 
 The bleeding heart his passion had profaned, 
 The Norman trod when Saxon strength had waned, 
 Peace, lovely Peace ! is monarch of the spot, 
 And Happiness, of none but fools disdained, 
 Pervades the air, the castle, and the cot, 
 And Virtue's lovely face is fair, without a blot. 
 
 This tranquil village basks in heaven's smile ; 
 On hills surrounding lordly mansions rise, 
 The brooklet purling to the flowers the while ; 
 The far celestial laverock's melodies 
 Rain on the ear like angel's symphonies : 
 The backbird's song and Derwent's dashing roar, 
 Mingling with mother Nature's thousand sighs, 
 Fall on the brain with power unfelt before, 
 To crush the meaner thoughts and bid the nobler soar. 
 
 O dove-eyed Peace ! how comely are thy ways, 
 Impregnate with the spirit of thy sire ; 
 Who knows thee best is worthiest of praise, 
 For ne'er within him burns unhallowed fire, 
 But harps attuned by Virtue's siren choir 
 Across his breast their soothing murmurs fling ; 
 O Peace ! long may, the minstrel wake his lyre 
 The merits of thy happy reign to sing, 
 But give the highest praise to Heaven's Eternal King.
 
 in flDemor^ of S>r, IRenton.* 
 
 DEATH ! how doubly cruel was thine arrow 
 That laid our generous friend for ever low, 
 To lie oblivious in a cavern narrow, 
 Where neither love, nor hope, nor light may glow, 
 
 Nor sunbeam stray, nor soft-winged zephyrs blow ; 
 
 But rest may come at length in calm repose. 
 
 The poor have lost a friend, and vice a foe, 
 
 And all a lofty spirit, which arose 
 Like to a star which sheds a radiance while it glows. 
 
 * John Renton, Esq., of Orchard House, Shotley Bridge, long 
 and popularly known as Dr. Renton, was born in Edinburgh on the 
 i2th February, 1812, and was educated at the High School and also 
 at the University of his native city. After finishing his curriculum, 
 he was engaged as assistant to Dr. Lowrey, of Corbridge, when he 
 began to manifest those sterling qualities, not the least of which was 
 an unbending moral rectitude, which so strongly characterised his 
 after life. While yet a young man, Mr. Renton began practising
 
 DR. RENTON. 65 
 
 He lived not for himself ; he never knew 
 A thought which would disgrace the noblest mind. 
 Intelligence was stamped upon his brow, 
 Where stern, yet tender, passions were enshrined ; 
 A spirit always brave and ever kind, 
 Which threw the magic of its spell o'er men, 
 An airy fetter out of virtues twined, 
 That drew them round him as he would, and when 
 They most of reverence felt he turned to earth again. 
 
 He sank to earth amid the sorrowing tears 
 Of those who knew him best, hence loved him most, 
 With honours gathered from the rolling years, 
 And virtues that e'en monarchs may not boast. 
 They shall not be on erring mortals lost ; 
 Mankind will nurse, as hope, his memory, 
 While on life's changing, billowy ocean tossed, 
 And breathe its glowing lessons to the free, 
 Till " work and persevere " the worthy motto be. 
 
 on his own account in the little village of Slaley, but his sagacious 
 judgment soon fixed upon Shotley Bridge as a locality better cal- 
 culated for the development of his plans of future effort, and subse- 
 quent events proved he was not mistaken. His practice gradually 
 increased, work seemed to be his natural element, and his dispensing 
 establishment at Slaley, which was carried on for some years after 
 his removal to Shotley, received the most unremitting attention. 
 Shortly after his establishment at Shotley Bridge, he had the good 
 fortune to be appointed medical attendant to the Silvertop family, 
 and so satisfied was Mr. Silvertop with the medical treatment he 
 received, that at his death he bequeathed Dr. Renton one hundred 
 guineas over and above the payment of his bill. Such a generous 
 appreciation as this of the professional talent of Dr. Renton tended 
 in no limited degree to establish him in popular estimation. About 
 1854, he was appointed medical superintendent to the Consett Iron 
 Company's workmen, which appointment he held till his death on 
 February i8th, 1870. In matters pertaining to the well-being of the 
 locality in which he was placed, Dr. Renton was ever foremost. He 
 was one of the chief promoters of the first agricultural society in the 
 district, and was its chairman during the period of its existence. 
 He was also one of the first to establish the Horticultural Society, 
 contributing largely for its support in its infancy, and justly proud
 
 66 DR. RENTON. 
 
 Thus in our bosoms shall he still live on, 
 Nor thought nor deed of his shall pass away ; 
 Mind walks the earth with Time, and he had one 
 Fraught with the lustre of refulgent day : 
 Our children's children may be heard to say 
 " His hand was open, as his heart was true, 
 " He sought heaven's gracious bounty to repay 
 " Through charity, for he was one of few 
 " Who live and work, that they at length some good may do." 
 
 of its growing proportions. Dr. Renton was likewise one of the 
 management committee for the establishment of the Gas Company, 
 and was for many years chairman of the board of directors ; indeed, 
 in everything connected with the prosperity of the district, he was a 
 prominent and painstaking supporter.
 
 Xouglv 
 
 SING no slave to Luxury and Pride ; 
 
 An humble Poet- Artist is my theme, 
 Whom Folly's thoughtless slaves do e'er deride, 
 
 Through lacking knowledge of the heavenly dream 
 Which sweeps his bosom as a tameless tide, 
 
 Awak'ning thoughts that as a torrent team, 
 As Inspiration drives his glowing pen, 
 Where Folly feels the lash, and writhes again. 
 
 * Tom Lough was born at Greenhead, three miles west of Shotley 
 Bridge, at the commencement of this century. His parents afterwards 
 removed to Muggleswick with their family, where Tom would get his 
 first education in reading, writing and arithmetic ; and learned from the 
 romantic scenery around him, " to look on Nature with a poet's eye," 
 to tune his violin to the voices of the songbirds, the sighs of the summer 
 gales, and the wails, the shrieks, and roars of the winter tempests. His 
 imitation of the voices of the latter season would, I have no doubt, be 
 the most perfect. It was here that the late learned George Silvertop, 
 Esq., of Minsteracres, found Tom and his brother John in their father's 
 cottage, plying their artistic talents. According to Haydon, the cele- 
 brated painter, when Mr. Silvertop entered the cottage he found the 
 ceilings and walls all drawn over, and models of human limbs and arms 
 in clay lying about in all directions. Pope's Homer and a volume of
 
 68 ' TOM LOUGH. 
 
 Robed in no colours gay of blushing hue, 
 Alas, his lot ! his lot of clothes are bad ; 
 
 Tattered and torn about his person view, 
 
 And then thou'lt think of Homer and grow sad, 
 
 Or I mistake the sympathy that's due 
 
 " The child of song" o'er sinful world's gone mad, 
 
 And then please draw from out thy purse a sum 
 
 To purchase Twist Tobacco, Tea, or Rum.* 
 
 * These verses were written, and printed on a sheet, with a view of 
 relieving their subject during a period of great privation. 
 
 Gibbon were found in the same apartment. The lordly owner of 
 Minsteracres, finding John the more balanced of the two, invited him 
 to go and see him. Lough did so, and his patron showed him the works 
 of Michael Angelo and Canova ; the former of which, according to his 
 own statement, took great hold of his mind. This kind attention on 
 the part of Mr. Silveftop, with other help more substantial, afterwards 
 bestowed, had undoubtedly a most powerful influence for good on John 
 Lough's successful career. Poor Tom often told me how jealous he was 
 when the Squire entered the cottage lest John should claim some of his 
 drawings, and remained in the apartment during the interview, occa- 
 sionally calling the visitor's attention to some of his drawings, which, 
 however, were not destined to make their author aught beyond a local 
 name, nor anything in the shape of a living more than a few scant coppers 
 to purchase the indespensable tobacco and tea, the latter of which was 
 more to him than nectar to the gods, and sometimes a glass of something 
 stronger. Alas, for comparison ! Here are two brothers, who started 
 life with apparently equal chances, both with strong vigorous constitu- 
 tions, and of similar education ; one died in London, after having made 
 his memory immortal as a sculptor of undeniable genius, in wealth and 
 affluence : the other, after roaming through the counties of Northumber- 
 land and Durham as an itinerant musician, poet, and artist, for more 
 than fifty years, begging from, praising and cursing mankind, sleeping 
 at night, in summer, in hayfields, sheds, caverns, or in deep dells listen- 
 ing to the voices of Nature, in winter by pit fires, in gas works, on the 
 floors of inns, and the commonest lodging houses, but never in bed like 
 an ordinary human being, died at Lanchester, and was buried in a 
 pauper's grave, partly at the expense of the parish which gave him birth, 
 and might have been rendered momorable by the genius which few will 
 deny that he possessed, had it been used aright. The early part of 
 Tom's career was spent near the head of the Derwent, as a blacksmith, 
 sharpening "jumpers," or drills, for the leadminers, and afterwards in 
 his father's blacksmith shop at Greenhead, in shoeing cattle with a sort 
 of " cleat," which was then in use to prevent those animal becoming 
 footsore in their journey from the north to southern markets ; but the 
 rhythmic ring of the anvil did not suffice for the softer sounds of ever 
 lovely Nature, nor the glare of the forge for the soothing lights of the 
 shadowy woodlands, or the golden glow of the setting sun. So he left
 
 TOAf LOUGH. 69 
 
 But ere thou leav'st the presence of the Bard 
 
 (For thou, I would, should'st know him thoroughly), 
 
 Just ask him, in a spirit of regard, 
 
 To draw his papers, and reveal to thee 
 
 His touch artistic, as a meet reward ' 
 For timely aid and generosity ; 
 
 And if in wond'rous joy thou'rt not repaid, 
 
 To grave Miss Fortune may I be betrayed. 
 
 by degrees this honourable means of making a living, and took to a life 
 of roaming and privation, which ended as above described. A friend, 
 who knew the Lough family well, told me that Tom commenced his 
 wandering life as early as the year 1826 or 1827. When the engines for 
 the Messrs. Annandale's paper mills were being laid down, the engineers 
 engaged in the work used to frequent the Bridge End Inn, Shotley 
 Bridge, in the evenings, where Lough often turned up to entertain them 
 with the Jew's harp, and fiddle, and by reciting his own and the poems 
 of other authors, and by airing his drawing talents. His forte was, 
 doubtless, the latter, and had he persevered, we might have had a dif- 
 ferent story to tell. His favourite subjects in drawing were the " Nincvite 
 Bull," " The Flying Ass," " Group of Bacchanalians," Byron's 
 " Mazeppa," and a group containing two human figures and several 
 savage-looking horses ; the latter of which I have in my possession, and 
 feel sure that were it engraved it would preserve the memory of its 
 authors from oblivion, for it is not only vigorously drawn, but is a 
 wonderful conception, and, with other productions of his, shows how 
 his mind, stored with the literature of Greece and Rome, teemed with 
 imagery. His favourite authors were Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, 
 Gibbon, Byron, and Burns ; the first of whom he had read earliest and 
 most earnestly, and in consequence his mind received the strongest of 
 its colours from the great Greek. The parts of Gibbon referring to 
 religion and politics he could recite almost word for word ; while the 
 portions of Byron's " Chilcle Harold " which revel in the arts of Greece 
 and Rome, and the great and glorious names of those empires, were to 
 him a never-ending source of pleasure, wonder, and admiration. His 
 performances on the violin were of the most comical character, and 
 produced effects, according to his own accounts, that have never been 
 equalled since Orpheus played his spouse from that region so much 
 dreaded by many mortals. Placing the fiddle between his knees when 
 in a sitting posture, he used the bow vigorously, and thence flowed 
 strains which, as fame informs us, caused, in a certain inn, in Weardale, 
 I think, panes to fly out of the windows, the pot lid to fly up the chimney, 
 and a child to leap from the cradle of its slumbers, and dance in a most 
 unaccountable manner. It was here, too, I believe, that he drew a fox 
 with a piece of charcoal on the hearthstone, which the terrier dogs with 
 the company attempted to seize, mistaking it for a living reality. Poor 
 Lough used to tell me those absurd stories with a solemnity that could 
 not be exceeded by the gravest Musselman. Lough's chief poems are 
 " Chatt's Hare," " Galloway Jack," and " Ramshaw Flood," all of 
 which show a fair amount of poetical talent, but lack rhythm. Among
 
 70 TOM LOUGH. 
 
 Behold from Nineveh's wide fields of art 
 Reflections of the mighty genius there ; 
 
 Enough to make a stone or Stoic start, 
 
 To trace the life-like forms so chaste and rare ; 
 
 Thou'lt almost deem the' actions of the heart 
 Thou can'st discern in bosom bold or fair ; 
 
 Or see the wing'd ass in a milky sky, 
 
 Rather unlike a giant eagle fly. 
 
 his peculiarities was an utter hatred to the colour red, an aversion to 
 looking-glasses, and a dislike to any room where there was a flood of 
 light and strong reflection. He also disliked to see a hole in the wall, 
 and would, if allowed, stuff it with paper, turn the looking-glass around, 
 and cover up any shining ornament which offended his eye. These 
 peculiarities of character, no doubt, sprang out of his very high tem- 
 perament, his long acquaintance with the soft and mellow lights of the 
 woodland, his natural home, which knew no fiercer reflection than the 
 "waters of the river, streamlet, or lake, placid or shimmering beneath a 
 summer's sun. Lough once told me a story, which I had also heard 
 from another source, of the great offence he gave to a blacksmith, near 
 Castleside, by drawing his portrait whilst shoeing a wicked donkey, one 
 of whose ears was placed in a vice to keep him quief during the operation. 
 It was exceedingly amusing to hear poor Lough recite " Ramshaw 
 Flood" and " Galloway Jack," the latter of which he thought a better 
 poem than " Tam-o'-Shanter," considering the materials out of which it 
 was composed. He would start slowly, and with great attention to 
 pronunciation and articulation, but would forget both as he became 
 impelled by the fire of the pieces. On and on he would go, with his 
 large wild eyes fixed on some inanimate object, astonishing his hearers 
 with matchless volubility, till he closed with a jumble of sounds, out of 
 which it was hard to extract a single word. The same wild eyes were 
 then turned inquiringly upon the audience, and if anyone ventured to pass 
 on the Bard condemnatory judgment, he at once became the object of 
 a volley of epithets that Daniel O'Connell might well have bee'n proud 
 of, for poor Tom revealed a most powerful vocabulary of abusive lan- 
 guage when in anger. In his poems there are many evidences of want 
 of command of language, but when his indignation was roused it flowed 
 from him like raindrops from a thundercloud. Lough, as I have shown, 
 had wonderful talents, in fact he was a genius in his way, but he was 
 not a balanced man. Had he fallen into some business more congenial 
 to his nature, and into mind influences of a higher type, there can be no 
 doubt that he would have made his " footprints on the sands of Time." 
 But as conjecture in this case is vain as hope without action, we will 
 leave poor Tom to his slumbers, and take warning from the results of 
 his failings ; nor wholly despise the memory of him who possessed much 
 in common with the greatest and noblest of minds admiration of the 
 highest artistic achievements of man, and a love of the peerless beauties 
 of Nature so intense that no human language, however powerful, could 
 express it.
 
 LOUGH. 71 
 
 See the " Mazeppa" bound, without remorse 
 (Like a foul weed given to the tempest's breath), 
 
 Unto the bosom of the furious horse, 
 
 Which bears him onward like a fiend of wrath. 
 
 The famished wolves assail his flying course ; 
 
 Behold the languid form : Thou'lt deem that Death 
 
 Is stealing o'er his features. From thine eye 
 
 A tear shall steal, thy breast shall heave a sigh. 
 
 Look, ere thou leav'st the subject, to the face 
 Of the wild bounding brute, and not in vain 
 
 Thy cunning eye shall various passions trace : 
 Fear, Desperation, Vengeance bound in pain 
 
 Which cannot be controlled. Then mark the grace 
 Breathed in the glorious symmetry, and then 
 
 Marvel that human brains, like Lough's, should be 
 
 The gov'nor of so strange a destiny. 
 
 Now rest thine eye a moment, and prepare 
 Thy soul for a sublimer vision, sent 
 
 Like Raphael's St. Cecilia, bright and fair 
 To build her medium's earthly monument : 
 
 Lo ! Hercules, the god of strength so rare, 
 Amid a group of savage horses pent, 
 
 Whose power to his were as the crawling worm 
 
 To the dread vi'lence of the Simoon Storm. 
 
 Like a Colossus see the mighty stand ; 
 
 The King's wild horses are his playthings now, 
 Helplessly writhing, one in either hand. 
 
 Mark the fierce brute in furious flight below, 
 And other figures Genius can command, 
 
 Leaning around, whose bosoms seem to glow 
 With admiration of the immortal god 
 Who rules the things about him with a nod.
 
 72 TOM LOUGH. 
 
 Next the huge bull, " lord of the lowing herd," 
 Savage in mood, yet beautiful as vast ; 
 
 Here Skill designed the figure it preferred : 
 Then look, and look again ere it hath passed 
 
 Into Oblivion, like a deed or word 
 
 Unwritten. Earth's the loser : shame to cast 
 
 Such works as this away, which should be rolled 
 
 With Art's best deeds, for lack a little gold. 
 
 See the big muscle, the elastic limb, 
 The full eye and the harmony of form, 
 
 The Samson strength pent up so tight and trim ; 
 Thou'lt almost deem his form, like thine, is warm, 
 
 And shrink as though thou felt too near to him ; 
 Then forward draw again, as by a charm, 
 
 And every moment see fresh beauties shine, 
 
 And wish the artist's glowing gift were thine. 
 
 In aspect varied see the frenzied troop 
 
 Of " Bacchanalians " free from gnawing Care ; 
 
 Some stand erect, some lean, and others stoop, 
 Or fling their limbs, and gesture mighty queer : 
 
 In short, they are a most ingenious group. 
 The Artist's eye but sees them to revere 
 
 The grasping skill which could at once design 
 
 So wild a picture, as grotesque as fine. 
 
 But ere thou takest a long and last farewell, 
 
 Perchance, of him who charms thine ear and eye, 
 
 Draw from his wondrous breast another spell 
 A most enchanting spell 'tis Poesy. 
 
 In floods of pathos, and in fun he'll tell 
 
 How "Ramshaw" felt the vengeance of the sky, 
 
 Of Snowball's rants, and "Chat's" eternal hare, 
 
 His own privations mark how poets fare :
 
 TOAf LOl\;iL 73 
 
 Alas ! the poet has no other choice 
 
 Than charm the world and suffer for his pains ; 
 The heavenly lark trills his melodious voice, 
 
 And cruel sportsmen scatter wide his brains ; 
 The thrush bids echoes wake and hearts rejoice, 
 
 The pleasure but a moment there remains ; 
 Next view this same heart cherishing a will, 
 Alas ! the thing the bosom loved to kill. 
 
 Thus the poor poet roams the world, where nought 
 Around he loves save Nature's comely brow ; 
 
 Apart in feeling, and apart in thought 
 
 From the cold-hearted and unfeeling crew, 
 
 Who are with savage passions ever fraught, 
 
 And wait their coming meed of vengeance due ; 
 
 Yet he who suffers for fair Virtue's cause, 
 
 Shall live for ever in her glorious laws. 
 
 So, Lough, though thou shalt pass away from earth, 
 As Burns and Bloomfield did, thou shalt not die. 
 
 Genius with Death contracts a second birth 
 The birthright of an Immortality : 
 
 Man asks himself what Fame like this is worth, 
 When dust returns to dust, from feeling free, 
 
 But seldom finds a fit and proper answer, 
 
 For darkling lies the Future never man saw. 
 
 Cursed be the hand that wields on Genius' head 
 
 The rod of Persecution, and deprives 
 The gifted sufferer of a crust of bread, 
 
 Ta'en from the abundance upon which he thrives, 
 Who wrongs the wretch while living, but when dead, 
 
 And Talent leaves its mark, and Memory gives 
 A rapture to the name, piles o'er his dust 
 The monument to him he could not spare a crust
 
 74 TOM LOUGH. 
 
 Enough ! my humble lay is all but ended 
 Of him whose life would pile a curious story 
 
 Of Love, Hate, Hope, Despair, and Madness blended, 
 As storms and tempests with the sunbeam's glory ; 
 
 Who drank from Nature as through woods he wended, 
 The softer hues, but hates thy colour, Tory ; 
 
 And, reader, should'st thou meet him, if a Red, 
 
 He'd wish thy colour changed, or thou wert_dead !
 
 H ! if in thy bosom, a moment be stirred 
 
 A thought, the sweet offspring of pity for me, 
 
 How weak the expression of glance, smile, or word, 
 
 To breathe the delight of my spirit would be ! 
 
 I look not to Mammon for happier days 
 
 Than those that were spent in the magic of youth ; 
 
 I seek not for blessings, in high-sounding praise, 
 
 From those who would dare nought for Honour and Truth. 
 
 For riches may fly when the sun of Success 
 
 Seems beaming in radiance and glory the while ; 
 
 And praises are fragile as bosoms they bless, 
 The rainbow best emblems the light of a smile. 
 
 I look to the spirit, though trembling like thine, 
 Lest Sin's sable wing waft a shade o'er thy soul, 
 
 Which looks to the Truth as its object divine, 
 
 Like the needle that quivers, yet points to the pole.
 
 <>b! tbe IRobin Singe Sweet. 
 
 H ! the Robin sings sweet on the green ash tree, 
 
 Where the old Well used to flow, 
 But nothing he knows of the former glee 
 
 Of the days so long ago : 
 Too youthful is he to sing or tell 
 Of the scenes around that sparkling Well. 
 
 On the morning bright, or gloaming gray, 
 How many have gathered here, 
 
 To laugh the merry hours away, 
 Or to meet the one most dear ? 
 
 And the hills around with echoes rung, 
 
 As impassioned songs of love were sung. 
 
 Old Well ! in thy waters pure and bright, 
 
 How many a maiden fair 
 Has viewed, in thy mirror's glancing light, 
 
 Her form and flowing hair, 
 Ere her vessel dipped, and the ripples flowed 
 O'er the dancing eyes and the face which flowed ?
 
 THE ROBIN SINGS SWEET. 77 
 
 And older ones have hither come 
 
 With aspect grave, I ween, 
 Which showed that Care had found a home 
 
 Where serener looks had been ; 
 For the form had gone which cheered the breast, 
 And left it Sorrow and Griefs unrest. 
 
 The scene, how changed ! since those vanished days 
 
 The waters gone, the maids have fled, 
 And the Summer comes with scorching rays : 
 
 'Tis but to shine on thy parching bed, 
 Where once a mirror of beauty shone, 
 And the spot is sad, and drear, and lone !
 
 Mlage Ibiring. 
 
 H IRortb ot England picture. 
 
 |0 Sing it as it should be sung, The Hiring, 
 Would cost the poet very many labours, 
 For 'tis a subject odd to tune one's lyre on : 
 
 The wild grimaces, curious gestures, capers, 
 Which Folly stands with open mouth admiring, 
 
 Now shaking hands politely with neighbours, 
 The country lass we find in garments gay, 
 Industry has provided for this day. 
 
 Her rosy cheek proclaims Health's blushing reign, 
 Her sunny aspect breathes tranquillity, 
 
 A simple modesty which cannot feign 
 To Nature true ; the azure of her eye 
 
 Of heaven's hue ; her lips like sunbeams twain, 
 Bright as the gayest tulip's, crimson lie 
 
 Before a row of pearls as dazzling white 
 
 As e'er was snow-wreath 'neath the strongest light.
 
 THE HIRING. 79 
 
 He whom her smile has blest is by her side, 
 Forgetting masters, horses, wages, ploughs, 
 
 The emerald fields he's pressed in wandering wide, 
 The grazing oxen, and the harmless ewes ; 
 
 His theme is Mary when she'll be his bride ! 
 To hush the fears which in his breast carouse, 
 
 Concerning the grave proverb " Many a slip 
 
 (You know its truth) occurs 'twixt cup and lip." 
 
 In his misgivings I have had experience, 
 
 But this is not the place for a recital. 
 Perhaps 'twill be .your lot to hear me hence, 
 
 Though such like stories, maybe, wont delight all, 
 Nor might they be, indeed, the true criterions 
 
 Of a superior hope ; but now, despite all, 
 " Like Bunyan's plodding Pilgrim, I'll progress," 
 With fear my varied text will please you less. 
 
 Then comes the jolly farmer, whose complexion, 
 Fanned by the free airs, wears a healthy glow ; 
 
 The maids are placed before him for inspection, 
 "Like four-and-twenty fiddlers in a row !" 
 
 I don't admire the custom on reflection, 
 For free-born English girls 'tis rather low ; 
 
 But it has grown to England with the Tories, 
 
 Though brings not with its age as many glories. 
 
 He (the farmer) eyes with care each blooming lass, 
 Or lad, just as his need directs, of course ; 
 
 Some questions put, you know, about the " brass," 
 They ask to plough or sow, to milk or nurse, 
 
 Few cav'lings as to sums or service pass, 
 Closes the bargain, lest he might do worse, 
 
 And seals it with a glass of port or sherry, 
 
 O'er which they grow, no doubt, a little merry.
 
 8o THE HIRING. 
 
 If e'er you gazed upon this varied throng, 
 
 You've seen some things, I'm sure, to wake your laughter 
 The ballad-monger pouring forth his song, 
 
 The screech-owl's voice had been a great deal softer ; 
 The fiddle's groans and squeals blending among 
 
 A thousand other sounds which come unsought for, 
 To bless or curse our little cozy village, 
 And break the silence of this very still age. 
 
 A little anxious are the lads and maids 
 Until they've got their vital business over ; 
 
 This done at length, all free they make their raids 
 On apples, gingerbread, and nuts ; moreover 
 
 Beer, rum, and whisky, or aught that aid 
 Pleasure, including wild beasts under cover, 
 
 Monkeys, elephants, performing bears, 
 
 Which play the vengeance with their numerous cares ! 
 
 The Showman, in full-feathered eloquence, 
 (Success inspires him) he exerts his powers ; 
 
 " To Natural History he makes no pretence," 
 Yet on this subject dwells for many hours : 
 
 " This tiger is you'll see it at a glance, 
 The most remarkablest in this land of ours, 
 
 To which from the Vest Hingen Hiles 'e came, 
 
 The place called Bengal, you will know the name. 
 
 " This 'ere's a coon, a native of America ; 
 
 The negroes 'unt them by the pale moon light 
 With jovial singing, pitched upon a merry key, 
 
 When triumph smiles and wakes their wild delight. 
 That there barboon has climed the trees in Africa, 
 
 And this 'ere cove's a panther which cries by night; 
 While yonder curious customer, the hape, 
 Was bred, brought up, and captured near the Cape.
 
 THE HIKING. 81 
 
 " That soft 'aired gentleman, why, 'e's a possum, 
 Sometimes pretends 'e's dead as any nail, 
 
 And truth I tell, Sir, you might take and toss 'im 
 Over a 'ouse top by his bushy tail ; 
 
 If 'e 'ad senses you would think 'e'd loss 'em, 
 But soon 'e turns up, 'arty, strong, and 'ail ; 
 
 He, the brave hypocrite, as you could show, 
 
 Would rather die than run from any foe." 
 
 " A strange beast is the 'possum, still more strange 
 
 Was one I had not very long ago ; 
 There's not a lady 'ere more prone to change 
 
 Her dress than 'e 'is colour, now aglow 
 With red, now blue, now green would range, 
 
 Like waves athwart 'is skin ; 'tis even so : 
 'Es called the camelion, and he lives on hair 
 A cheap food, stranger, hisn't it, that "ere?" 
 
 " He lives on hair," quoths Betsy, " why that's grand ; 
 
 What kind of hair, Sir, does the animal eat?" 
 " My dear, you 'ardly seem to hunderstand : 
 
 'Tis hatmospheric hair it hisn't meat ! 
 Though you and hi live on it as we stand, 
 
 Without it, Miss, we couldn't keep our feet. 
 I wonder what would take 'em from us ever ? 
 I never eat no hatmospheric hair, no never ! 
 
 " That helephantine beauty as you see, 
 
 Tm with the small heyes in their sockets sunk, 
 
 'E is hendowed with great sagacity, 
 
 Though looks as sage and serious as a monk." 
 
 " I say, Mr. Showman, is that he 
 
 I saw the other day packing his trunk ?" 
 
 " O yes, Sir ! this is in my list of marvels ; 
 
 'F, hahv.iys packs 'is hown trunk when 'e travels!"
 
 82 THE HIKING. 
 
 " That Polar bear, so beautiful and white, 
 Was captured by McClintock's hexpedition 
 
 To the North Pole, (where frosts hare said to bite), 
 In search of Franklin, and for hexhibition 
 
 Sold 'im to me for your hexpress delight ; 
 To make you 'appy is my sole hambition, 
 
 Behold 'is Majesty before we sever, 
 
 Aint he a beauty and a joy for ever? 
 
 " And now, my friends, the hexibition's hover ; 
 
 I 'opes you're satisfied with what you've seen. 
 Pray tell the people, who outside may 'over, 
 
 Of these, my curiosities, I mean ; 
 My wild beasts, 'armless as the turtle-dove, or 
 
 Paragon of hinnocence serene. 
 Good night ! Wishing you hall well married, and 
 Fortune, 'ealth, 'appiness at your command!" 
 
 Now linked in couples, plodding home they go, 
 Discussing all the pleasures of the day, 
 
 The dance, the dress, the marvels of the show, 
 Sighing " another Hiring's passed away," 
 
 And wondering if they'll like their place or no, 
 Reaching their home with dress in sad array. 
 
 And since we've traced them to their parting place, 
 
 We'll turn our head to " screen the dear embrace."
 
 3 Gbinfc of Ghee. 
 
 n tbe flDemon? of a Deao jf rienfc. 
 
 HEN lonely, sad, and Mem'ry flings 
 
 Her darkling tempests o'er my mind, 
 As some huge bird whose mighty wings 
 
 In motion leave a storm behind ; 
 When strolling 'neath the glorious moon 
 
 Whose soft light floods the earth and sea, 
 And silence under midnight's noon 
 With beauty dwells, I think of thee. 
 
 When on some beauteous face I look, 
 
 Where Modesty and Virtue shine, 
 And read, as in a lettered book, 
 
 Eternal Wisdom's gift divine, 
 And muse on orbs where soul-beams stray, 
 
 Or lights of other worlds I see, 
 I turn forgetful of their ray 
 
 And liquid glance, and think of thee. 
 
 When contemplating Truth and Worth, 
 
 The Courage which inspires the brave, 
 In what the noblest joys have birth, 
 
 Through pointing o'er the gloomy grave, 
 The source which gives the soul its power, 
 
 The glowing heart its charity, 
 When gazing on thy favourite flower 
 
 I cannot choose but think of thee.
 
 84 / THINK OF THEE. 
 
 When blighted hopes become my theme, 
 
 And Sorrow tells my fevered brain 
 How Life and Joy are all a dream, 
 
 And Pleasure's smile is frail and vain ; 
 When Love, which lives through Death came down, 
 
 Speaks to my breast no longer free, 
 Where spirit-stirring voices tune 
 
 And sweetly blend, I think of thee. 
 
 Where God His gathered forms has laid 
 
 In grassy tombs with flowers adorned, 
 And Sorrow seeks the solemn shade, 
 
 And oft in sable garb has mourned ; 
 When blighted in its fairest bloom 
 
 By Death the lily pale I see, 
 An offering for an early tomb 
 
 Ere summer fade, I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee when Fancy soars 
 
 To that high central home of love ; 
 If Virtue seek those hallowed shores, 
 
 In sceptred glory there thou'lt rove ; 
 How sweet the hope the dream how dear, 
 
 When Time hath set my spirit free, 
 To leave remorse and anguish here 
 
 And mix eternal joy with thee.
 
 Ottoman's Beauty. 
 
 IS not the smile on Beauty's face, 
 Nor tints that brighten there, 
 Nor glancing eyes of darting rays, 
 Nor lavish sunny hair ; 
 
 'Tis not the symmetry of form, 
 
 Enchanting to the eye, 
 The swan-like neck, the rounded arm, 
 
 The breast where gods might sigh 
 
 To dwell and pass a languid hour ; 
 
 Nor is it costly dress 
 That constitute the highest power 
 
 Of woman's loveliness.
 
 86 W0MANS BEAUTY. 
 
 It is the sweet, soft, sounds which flow 
 In converse, of chaste thought, 
 
 The breast that shares another's woe, 
 The humbleness of heart ; 
 
 The hand that's lifted but to bless, 
 The tongue whose accents soothe, 
 
 Lips that but know Affection's kiss, 
 And Purity and Truth ; 
 
 The eye that scans not faults to throw 
 
 Into a vulgar ear, 
 But true to Pity's touch will pour 
 
 Full many a briny tear ; 
 
 The open brow that speaks of calm, 
 The winning, frank address, 
 
 That constitute the highest form 
 Of woman's loveliness.
 
 fforget^me^flot.* 
 
 HOU dream of life, thou hope in death, 
 When dread Oblivion wraps the clay, 
 Which erst had nursed the vital breath, 
 
 And quaffed and blessed the living ray ; 
 For thee, the poet's soul sublime, 
 
 Pours rapture through his skilful plot, 
 Extolling virtue, gilding crime, 
 
 Thou radiant star ! Forget-me-not ! 
 
 The father stretched on languor's couch, 
 
 Who knows that by to-morrow's sun 
 He shall be chilled by Death's cold touch, 
 
 Time past, Eternity begun ; 
 The mother in her last farewell 
 
 Of loved ones who had blessed her lot, 
 Feel in their bosom's parting swell, 
 
 Thy language, fair forget-me-not ! 
 
 * This small herbaceous plant, the Marsh Scorpion-grass ( ' Myosotis 
 falustns) is well-known to lovers of flowers as the emblem of affection 
 and fidelity. The author deals more with what the word, or compound 
 of words, forget-me-not, suggests, than this delicate and charming little 
 flower itself, as will easily be discovered by the intelligent reader.
 
 88 FORGE T-ME-XO T. 
 
 The sailor dares the booming main, 
 
 The tempest's shriek, the raging waves j 
 The warrior braves the gory plain 
 
 Where thousands find untimely graves ; 
 Explorers pierce to realms unknown, 
 
 And smile in Danger's face, I wot ; 
 Ambition seeks a golden throne, 
 
 Through dreaming thee, forget-me-not ! 
 
 When Honour bleeds 'neath Slander's tongue, 
 
 By creeping things infesting earth, 
 The passions for a moment strung, 
 
 To thoughts of vengeance do give birth ; 
 But Calm comes down and Anger flies, 
 
 And Worth, though it be in a cot, 
 Upon the glowing truth relies 
 
 " Mankind and Heaven, forget-me-not !" 
 
 When Love's enchantments thrill the soul, 
 
 And lover's mingle heart in heart ; 
 The noiseless moments as they roll 
 
 Too quickly tell that they must part ; 
 What adoration fills their eyes 
 
 (Soft passion ! shall it be forgot ?) 
 Now Rapture speaking in their sighs 
 
 Says to each breast, " forget-me-not !" 
 
 Religion soars the Heaven's height 
 
 Through dens of crime, disease, and strife, 
 With yonder beamy torch of light, 
 
 Lit at thy fire, Eternal life ; 
 And as the bearer fainting dies, 
 
 His Soul, which knows no earthly blot, 
 Says through the language-gifted eyes, 
 
 " O gracious God ! Forget-me-not !"
 
 me a Soncj. 
 
 SING me a song," said a hoary Knight, 
 
 To a maiden soft and fair, 
 " That will fill my soul with a keen delight 
 
 And rid my breast of care ; 
 
 But let its rhyme be of the olden time, 
 Of a merit rich and rare. 
 
 " Thou art, alas ! the only child 
 
 My God hath left to me ; 
 Then sing me a song, let the air be wild, 
 
 And the strain as full and free 
 As the zephyr's sweep o'er the sounding deep, 
 
 Or the songs of Syrens be. 
 
 " My daughter, thou hast thy mother's voice, 
 
 And her motions every one ; 
 But she became her Father's choice, 
 
 And dwells beyond the sun. 
 Now slow rolls Time on his march sublime, 
 
 Since that angel form has gone." 
 
 O ! music had in sorrow's hour, 
 
 On the soul of the gray-haired chief, 
 
 A thrilling and immortal power, 
 Nor always brought relief ; 
 
 For it lilts or mourns as the bosom turns 
 To the spirits of Joy or Grief.
 
 90 SING M A SONG. 
 
 Then an ancient harp the maiden took, 
 Whose chords for years had slept 
 
 'Gainst an antique wall, on a carved oak hook, 
 Where the spiders and moonbeams crept ; 
 
 That magician hand could sounds command 
 And by turns it rejoiced and wept. 
 
 It poured through that old majestic hall 
 
 A medley of soft sounds, 
 Like the weird voice of the waterfall, 
 
 Which from rock to rock rebounds ; 
 And it wakened thought with feeling fraught, 
 
 That stung like the adder's wound. 
 
 It told the tale of former years, 
 
 And the glories of her sire, 
 . His martial deeds in Honour's wars, 
 
 The love of his first desire ; 
 And the echoes rang as the maiden sang 
 
 With more than her wonted fire. 
 
 The strain had wept itself to rest, 
 And the maiden's cheeks were wet 
 
 As she turned to gaze on her father's face, 
 Who in deathly silence sat ; 
 
 For his face was pale as the mountain hail 
 Which a winter moon has lit. 
 
 She took his hand, but, O God ! the chill 
 
 That o'er her bosom sped ; 
 " Had my simple song the power to kill ? 
 
 My sire ! my sire is dead !" 
 She lifted the lid that his eyeball hid, 
 
 But, alas ! the light had fled.
 
 Ibopeless. 
 
 MARK her stand by a glittering stream, 
 
 (In the hush of a Summer eve), 
 Which shimmers in Sol's refulgent beam, 
 
 Ere he takes of our earth his leave, 
 And^the crimson clouds of the western sky 
 Have caught the tinge of his burnished eye. 
 
 Through the swaying boughs the breezes sweep, 
 
 And they kiss the radiant tide, 
 Which seems to rise from slumbers deep, 
 
 (As from sleep a beauteous bride, 
 All glowing from dreams of the forms she's won), 
 To bid farewell to the dying sun. 
 
 And songs of love from the warbler's throat, 
 (Are poured to the balmy gale), 
 
 Which from crag to crag in echoes float, 
 And a thousand joys reveal ; 
 
 And the troutlet's leap from his watery bed 
 
 The circling ripples above him shed.
 
 92 HOPELESS. 
 
 But 'tis not on the shimmering wave to gaze 
 That her footsteps hither rove ; 
 
 No charms for her has Sol's fair rays, 
 And the calm she may not love ; 
 
 Nor' can the hues of the blushing west 
 
 Bring to her heart its wonted rest. 
 
 Nor whispering zephyrs can soothe her soul, 
 Nor laverock's trill, nor linnet's song, 
 
 Nor soft-voiced echoes as they roll 
 From hill to hill on the breeze along, 
 
 Nor the circling waves where the troutlets roam, 
 
 Can drive her griefs from their cherished home. 
 
 With steadfast eye on the waters bright 
 She looks, but through torrid tears, 
 
 Nor on, nor within them, no laughing light 
 In her burning orbs appears ; 
 
 For her darkling thoughts are in awful force, 
 
 And her breast is a hell where writhes remorse. 
 
 Now crowd the passions of all her past, 
 And torture her fevered brain, 
 
 Till like the seas, 'neath a rushing blast, 
 Her bosom heaves with pain ; 
 
 Now a mother's love is blended here 
 
 With a knawing sin and a wild despair. 
 
 Now the cherished hours of " love's young dream" 
 
 In the light of her vision shine, 
 And a moment dazzle as they beam, 
 
 And with Hope's enchantments twine, 
 But pallid turn in reflection's eye 
 And beneath the Truth decline and die.
 
 HOPELESS. 93 
 
 A fluttering noise behind me near, 
 
 I turn for a moment now : 
 But hark ! what noise is that I hear ? 
 
 What ruffles the water's brow ? 
 A bubbling groan sweeps o'er my heart, 
 And thrills of horror through me dart. 
 
 The waves again are calm ; beneath 
 
 A youthful form is laid, 
 Which early sought the sleep of Death, 
 
 By Sorrow's ills betrayed ; 
 The first dark step the nursing wrong 
 'Tis but a line of the old, old song.
 
 Spring. 
 
 jjAILY them comest o'er mountain and plain, 
 Lake, burn, and river, and wide booming main, 
 Scattering wild flowers like gems on the green, 
 Giving a rapture to every scene ; 
 
 Filling with melody every grove, 
 
 Breathing through Beauty Hope, Pleasure, and Love : 
 
 From youth's cheek the radiant roses must sever, 
 
 But thou in thy glory returnest for ever ! 
 
 Thou breath'st, and the storm-king is hushed to repose, 
 
 The air rings with song, and the flowers disclose, 
 
 The earth dons its em'rald, the heavens their blue, 
 
 And man's aspirations are nobler now ; 
 
 His eyes softly fall on the beauties of earth, 
 
 And thoughts of their Author like joys spring to birth ; 
 
 These flash on his dark soul as night-lightnings quiver, 
 
 The gloom still remains : Spring ! thou brighten'st for ever ! 
 
 Fair Spring ! thou recallest the morn of life 
 Ere the calm of my bosom had perished by strife, 
 Or the world in its hollowness dawned on my soul, 
 Which Innocence held in her silken control ; 
 And wak'st with thy presence remorse and its pang, 
 As with a dark tempest my bosom were wrung. 
 Oh ! thus youth must fall into Time's silent river, 
 But Spring ! thou'rt eternal thou comest for ever !
 
 SPKJNG. 95 
 
 Thou com'st like a maid in the bloom of her charms, 
 Flinging around her enchantments and balms, 
 Robed in soft emerald, glowing with rays 
 Till animate nature awakes to her praise ; 
 And the accents of pathos like spirits go forth, 
 Flooding the world with her beauty and worth ; 
 Her bloom shall decline, spite of Virtue's endeavour, 
 But Spring ! thou return'st, and art lovely for ever ! 
 
 Afar in a region no mortal hath seen, 
 
 Save with faith-gifted eyes ever calm and serene, 
 
 Where the tempests of Hate and the follies of Pride, 
 
 War, Famine, and Vengeance may never abide ; 
 
 There the soul hath, her Spring, and no Autumn shall know, 
 
 All pure in her triumph and glory shall glow ; 
 
 No blossom will fade, nought affections can sever, 
 
 But, wedded to Love, she shall flourish for ever !
 
 H.&X. 
 
 Cannot but linger wherever thou art, 
 Thou gem of my fancy, thou queen of my heart ; 
 Whatever the passions my bosom entwine, 
 In the sunlight of Joy, or in Sorrow I'm thine ! 
 Ere Fortune had hallowed my lot with thy smile, 
 A lone restless pilgrim I roved o'er our Isle ; 
 Nor all the enchantments its glories could show, 
 Could breathe to my spirit what thou can'st bestow. 
 
 It is not that wit in its flashes bursts forth 
 
 From thy lips that I gather the pride of thy worth, 
 
 It is not the tinge of that lip, or thy cheek, 
 
 Which to Love-ravished swains such a passion can speak,- 
 
 It is not thy locks, which are beauteous in hue, 
 
 Or the snow of thy neck, or thy fair beaming brow ; 
 
 'Tis the glances of Love, and thy Virtues alone 
 
 So entrancing, that make me for ever thine own. 
 
 The mountains pour rapture sublime on the eye, 
 As majestic they tower through the azure on high ; 
 The flowers of the valley have charms for my soul, 
 The streamlets breathe music and joy as they roll, 
 The forests in Grandeur's solemnity nod, 
 And speak to my spirit, thro' Nature, of God, 
 Whose mighty creations give pleasure and rest, 
 But God giving me thee linked me e'er with the blest.
 
 Gbere Olacfcetb Sometbtng Still" 
 
 HOUGH Winter, with his gusty snow, 
 
 Hath gone from mount and lea, 
 And the living rays of Spring bestow 
 
 A robe on every tree, 
 The flowers unfold 
 Their leaves of gold, 
 
 Adorning dale and hill, 
 Though Light and Love 
 Invest the grove, 
 
 " There lacketh something still." 
 
 Though lav'rocks lave the landscape fair 
 
 With living lays of love, 
 And thrush and blackbird (heavenly pair !) 
 
 Pour rapture through the grove, 
 Though soothing shade, 
 In every glade, 
 
 Whence rolls the rippling rill, 
 Absorbs the light, 
 And breathes delight, 
 
 " There lacketh something still."
 
 THERE LACKETH SOMETHING STILL. 
 
 Though azure is the radiant sky, 
 
 And warm our mother earth, 
 Where many a gem of beauty's dye 
 
 Awakes to wonted birth, 
 Though greener grows 
 The fern which blows 
 
 By yonder sombre Mill, 
 And everything 
 To beauty spring, 
 
 "There lacketh something still." 
 
 Though maiden's love my bosom bless, 
 
 And drive away my care, 
 The rapture of her glowing kiss 
 
 Can steal me from despair, 
 Though Fortune's smile 
 My soul beguile, 
 
 My breast with pleasures thrill, 
 Though Summer comes 
 With sweet perfumes, 
 
 " There lacketh something still." 
 
 It is the want of Faith which brings 
 
 Our sad satiety. 
 The breasts of peasants and of kings 
 
 Have been a prey to thee ; 
 And whatsoe'er 
 The joys we share, 
 
 Are pleasures Earth has given, 
 And fade away, 
 As flowers decay, 
 
 " There's nothing true but Heaven."
 
 Spirit of Beauty 
 
 ! SPIRIT of Beauty, 
 
 How oft have I seen 
 The glance of thine eye 
 
 O'er the flower-spangled green, 
 In the dew-drop which beams 
 On the brow of the rose, 
 In the clouds of the dawn, 
 And the evening's close ; 
 All Nature's impregnate, 
 Fair Spirit, with thee, 
 And dear is the glow 
 Of thy presence to me ! 
 
 When the mild-breathing Spring 
 
 Throws her mantle of green, 
 And gives to the streamlet 
 
 Its shimmering sheen, 
 And wakes the wild warbler 
 
 His love-lays to pour, 
 In symphonies sweet, 
 
 Through the shadowy bower, 
 Tis then I behold thee 
 
 In all that I see, 
 For dear is the glow 
 
 Of thy presence to me !
 
 SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Where Virtue and Purity dwell, 
 
 Thou art there, 
 In the maiden's blue eye 
 
 And her soft sunny hair ; 
 Where Charity mild 
 
 Takes her seat in the heart, 
 And rules, like a monarch, 
 
 With magical art, 
 Inspiring the deed, 
 
 From all Selfishness free ; 
 How dear is the glow 
 
 Of thy presence to me ! 
 
 Thou Star in the soul 
 
 Of the Poet, how sweet 
 His communings with thee 
 
 In the lonely retreat ! 
 Who treasures, deep-shrined 
 
 In his innermost part, 
 The language thou breath'st, 
 
 Until married to Thought, 
 When it flows to thy praises, 
 
 Like rain on the lea ; 
 Then dear is the glow 
 
 Of thy presence to me ! 
 
 Thy home, when Perfection 
 
 Has crowned thee as Queen, 
 Is the soul of the Just, 
 
 Far in Heaven's serene ; 
 Which Faith, with her prophet-like 
 
 Eye, shows us here, 
 Where nothing can mar thee 
 
 Of Sorrow or Fear, 
 And Sin may not enter, 
 
 But all shall be Free ; 
 How dear then the glow 
 
 Of thy presence will be !
 
 Xine0 Httoreseefc to flDr. H. Iprior on bi0 
 
 Brifcal 
 
 AY Glory await on thy young, gentle bride, 
 
 In whose full flush of beauty thou tak'st to thy 
 
 breast : 
 
 Such bliss Alexandra alone has supplied 
 To our own noble Prince of this Isle of the blest 
 
 You are worthy each other. While England reclines 
 On her lineage the brightest the world ever gave ! 
 
 Thy country, Old Denmark, untarnished still shines 
 With the Saxon and Roman the best of the brave ! 
 
 Oh ! make her a home in yon far Royal town, 
 All radiant with gladness, to equal her birth ; 
 
 Dispel not one ray of her joy with a frown, 
 
 Let THY English maid crown the pride of thy worth.
 
 LhVES ON MR. PXIOJfS BXIDAL DA Y. 
 
 When Gaiety's glories are mingling around thee, 
 And other bright eyes pour their magic on thine, 
 
 Remember the eyes whose effulgence spell-bound thee, 
 Twining rays into fetters of virtues divine. 
 
 And oh ! let us charge thee, when Time's busy finger 
 Has chased from those lineaments charms that abound, 
 
 To cherish her still, as when turning to linger, 
 
 And strengthen in Love for some charm-hallowed ground.
 
 (TDerrp, 
 
 IS merry, 'tis merry, when Winter flies, 
 And Spring's first gale through the woodland hies, 
 And the first fair flowers from their prison wake, 
 Their odours abroad o'er the land to shake ; 
 
 And the gush of song from the warbler's throat, 
 
 Like spirits of love on the soft airs float, 
 
 And Aspiration seizes then 
 
 The softening hearts of wayward men ! 
 
 'Tis joyous, 'tis joyous, when Summer comes, 
 With her foliage dark and her thousand blooms; 
 And the lovely meadows their balms retain, 
 And cereals wave on the fertile plain ; 
 And the liquid tune, by the streamlet played, 
 Is floating in echoes from glade to glade ; 
 And Luxuriance reigns o'er the season's pride, 
 With hallowing Beauty for his bride. 
 
 'Tis solemn, 'tis solemn, to wander by 
 The mountain stream, 'neath an Autumn sky, 
 When the emerald folds of Summer's dress 
 Have changed, but to hues of loveliness, 
 Whose glorious tints breathe to the soul 
 The thrilling truths of a mortal's goal ; 
 And Reflection gives to the wand'rer's breast 
 The promise the hope of eternal rest.
 
 104 'TIS MERRY. 
 
 'Tis gloomy, 'tis gloomy, when Winter frowns 
 
 O'er mountain, plain, and hazel downs ; 
 
 When the whistling winds through the woodlands fly, 
 
 And dark clouds obscure the stormy sky ; 
 
 When faint and weary the beggars roam, 
 
 Without a hope, and without a home ; 
 
 And the poor lone widow and orphan share 
 
 The sorrow that springs from a cupboard bare. 
 
 O, mortal of thought ! is it all in vain 
 
 That the seasons change, and the throbbing brain 
 
 Records the fact that Decay must come, 
 
 To quench the light and destroy the bloom, 
 
 And sweep from Beauty's galaxy 
 
 The fairest maid with the radiant eye ? 
 
 And the strong and the wise to his laws succumb, 
 
 To sleep in silence within the tomb ?
 
 IBapoleon 333. 
 
 JORLORN Napoleon ! in thy breast 
 
 What passions revel now ! 
 At length does thy ambition rest, 
 As a wounded eagle in her nest, 
 Pent on some crag's bleak brow, 
 From which she gazes o'er the plain 
 Her pinions ne'er may stretch again. 
 
 Torn from the land thy greatness gave 
 
 Another fadeless wreath, 
 O ! would that thou had'st sought the grave 
 Where moulder now thy vanquished brave, 
 
 Their honour shared in death ! 
 Then sympathy had wept the throne 
 Divested of Napoleon. 
 
 But shame's exchanged for pomp and state, 
 
 A prison for a crown ; 
 The land thou thought's! to desolate 
 Has stood the tempest of thy hate, 
 
 And dashed thine eagles down ; 
 And France, who bore her head so high, 
 Nurses revenge impotently.
 
 io6 NAPOLEON III. 
 
 Thy splendour's past : in solemn calm 
 
 Thou'lt thrill to dream the hour 
 When vengeance, in each peerless arm, 
 Assailed thy foemen as the storm 
 
 Resistless in its power : 
 Now Austria's pale host shrinking yields 
 On fair Italia's blood-bought fields. 
 
 Then turn to Russia's sanguine walls ; 
 
 Does Glory greet thine eye ? 
 With Albion gaze where Victory calls, 
 But nought thou'lt see in ruined halls 
 
 Foreshadowing Destiny, 
 More than may breathe Ambition's fate,- 
 Stern lesson which thou'st learnt too late. 
 
 Too late thou'st learnt that men are things 
 
 In guilt and guile arrayed, 
 Who kiss the feet of meanest kings 
 Whilst power unto their footsteps clings. 
 
 Twice damned who thou betrayed; 
 If busy conscience does not kill, 
 Proud France may have her vengeance still. 
 
 Shall England's gratitude repose, 
 
 Nor wake to weep thy fall, 
 And view the triumph of thy foes 
 With nought of Pity's rending throes, 
 
 When truth and friendship call 
 Back to the soul those deeds of fame 
 On which our mingling blood has claim ? 
 
 Let those who mock thy power o'erthrown 
 
 Remember thou hast been 
 The Monarch on as proud a Throne 
 As e'er was to an Empire known, 
 
 And ruled as well, I ween : 
 Then feel no feeble brain could stem 
 The tide to such a diadem.
 
 NAPOLEON ///. 107 
 
 There are who weep thy spouse and thee, 
 
 And mourn your glory gone ; 
 She's worth thine immortality 
 If thou wert crowned with victory, 
 
 And still possessed thy throne. 
 Thy friends are false, but she has proved 
 'Twas not thy power, but thee, she loved. 
 
 Then lean thee on her faithful breast, 
 
 And hush Ambition's voice ; 
 Sweeter shall be thy pillowed rest 
 Than when the beams of splendour kissed 
 
 The objects of thy choice, 
 And know thyself, whate'er betide, 
 The husband of a glorious bride !
 
 SUnes on "{bearing a Sft^larfc Sing in 
 februarp. 
 
 |IKE a joy which has burst from its bonds of control, 
 To ravish the heart and to gladden the soul, 
 Like the first beam of hope through the gloom of 
 
 despair, 
 
 Or a smile o'er the face on the exit of care, 
 Like a sunbeam which peeps through the bars of a cell, 
 On the bosoms of those who in sorrow may dwell, 
 Like the first tear of love o'er the maiden's bright eye, 
 On the fond heart of him for whose sake she would die, 
 Like the voice of an angel which, earthward being driven, 
 Breathes to mortals the bliss and the magic of heaven, 
 Like the first glance of spring, when the storm-king has fled, 
 Giving rapture through beauty to woodland and mead, 
 Like a hope springing out from the woes of the past, 
 To tell the sad heart of a blessing at last, 
 Like all that is joyous, like all that is bright, 
 Thy song, heav'nly lark, thrills our souls with delight ! 
 A lesson thou teachest a patience revealest, 
 And through the dark tempests of winter thou feelest 
 There is something of gladness and pleasure to come : 
 The blue sky above thee beneath, the fair bloom 
 Of the pasture and meadow, the woodland and glade, 
 By the hand of our Maker in splendour arrayed. 
 So, mortal, though winters and trials may come, 
 O'er their bier sunny spring pours a light and perfume ; 
 And when life's tears and sorrows are past, we are given 
 A promise of glory for ever in Heaven !
 
 tbapptnees. 
 
 " Man never is but always to be blest." Pope. 
 
 IRTUE'S twin sister, lovely spirit thou ! 
 
 By every mortal wooed, by few obtained, 
 Fair as the lily laved with morning dew ; 
 
 When Youth and all its charms are yet retained, 
 Thou art the aim and end of life ! And how 
 The struggle lingers, and the eye is strained 
 To catch one glimpse, or rest the longing gaze 
 Upon thy hallowed form, to ponder all thy ways ! 
 
 Yes ! thou like maiden coy, with eyes of blue, 
 Since hoary Time began his march sublime, 
 
 So man has sought thee as he seeks thee now ! 
 The Poet builds to thee the lofty rhyme, 
 
 The Sage with calm reflection on his brow, 
 Divines, Philosophers of every clime, 
 
 Have told the world thy dwelling place, yet none, 
 
 Or few, have ever clasped thy chaste and tempting zone.
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 Yea ! man has sought thee in the Dance, the Play, 
 The Chase, the Field, where Battle's thunders roar, 
 
 And deems thou art in Victory's loud hurra ; 
 
 But may not find thee there, though high he soar 
 
 On Triumph's wings, nor in the lofty lay 
 
 The Poet twines around his name and shore; 
 
 Nor where inglorious Patriots bleed and die, 
 
 For thou art not where Pity wipes her tearful eye. 
 
 And others seek thee on the breezy mountain, 
 
 Where zephyrs bathe the brow and calm the heart ; 
 
 Or quaff the mystic music of the fountain, 
 Whose lullabies a thousand joys impart ; 
 
 Or roam the twilight dell, their pleasures countin' 
 In thought too deep for words, and deem thou art 
 
 A moment to be found with Nature there, 
 
 But flee as worldly dreams their wonted power declare. 
 
 Homer, Shakespeare, Milton saw afar 
 
 Thy form through Glory on Parnassus' height ; 
 
 Napoleon saw thee on the Conqueror's car, 
 Riding with Triumph 'midst the stormy fight ; 
 
 Newton beheld thee in each radiant star, 
 Through Immortality's transcendent light, 
 
 In Heavenly visions, but at distance still, 
 
 As Poets see thee far upon the Muses' hill ! 
 
 The love-lorn maid, in Hymen's silken knot, 
 Espied thee shining loveliest as thou wert ; 
 
 But Time rolled on, and there she found thee not, 
 Except in Dreams, and Hope forsook her heart, 
 
 And fled the precincts of her humble cot 
 
 With him whom Death had snatched with cruel art ; 
 
 Pale Melancholy seized her trembling breast, 
 
 And laid her down to sleep with him she loved the best.
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 O, Happiness ! thou art not earthly born, 
 But art the spirit and th^ l : ght of Heaven ; 
 
 Though transcient rays from thy bright face adorn 
 At times our dwell ; ngs, as a foretaste given 
 
 Of that eternal Paradise, where morn 
 For ever ling'ring shines on those forgiven, 
 
 Who wash'd their robes in the bless'd stream which flowed 
 
 On Calvary's sacred Mount from the Incarnate God !
 
 H prater. 
 
 GOD, whose all-supporting skill 
 
 The weary wanderer guides aright, 
 Who yields obedient to Thy will, 
 
 And prays for Faith's clear-piercing sight, 
 Give me the patience, calm serene, 
 
 To thwart the fiery Tempter's power, 
 When Hatred's shafts are flying keen, 
 To stand unmoved the trying hour. 
 
 Teach me, my Father, to subdue 
 
 The bursting passions as they roll, 
 Like wild and raging tempests, through 
 
 My agonized and yielding soul. 
 Give me, O Heavenly One ! to know 
 
 That Thou my only Friend canst be, 
 And Satan my eternal Foe, 
 
 Whatever form he wears in me. 
 
 The Jealousy, the Envious thought, 
 
 Ambition's pitiable pride, 
 And Anger, Wisdom never sought, 
 
 But fain for e'er would seek to hide 
 The burning passion to be Great, 
 
 Forgetful of my fragile form, 
 The nursing of an inward Hate 
 
 'Gainst those who've sought my earthly harm.
 
 ./ PRAYEK. 113 
 
 Teach me to soar from earthly things 
 
 To purer air and fairer clime, 
 On Love and Hope's aspiring wings, 
 
 And know alone Thy love sublime. 
 Give me a foretaste of that Home 
 
 Which yet appears as mortal dreams, 
 That I from Thee no more may roam, 
 
 But drink my fill at Heavenly streams. 
 
 And leave below the ruder realm, 
 
 The meaner thought, the tainting sin, 
 Where furious storms no more o'erwhelm 
 
 The calm my bosom holds within ; 
 Where I may hear the distant thud 
 
 Of warring Ocean's boom beneath, 
 Behold the dusky cloudlets scud 
 
 Before the tameless Tempest's breath. 
 
 As soars the eagle through the clouds 
 
 When lightnings flash and thunders roar, 
 And whirlwinds tear the groaning woods, 
 
 And crash the waves along the shore, 
 So would my purer spirit rise 
 
 Through all o'er all to calms afar, 
 And view from yonder tranquil skies 
 
 The wrathful elements at war !
 
 , flfcar\>. 
 
 ]AY, Mary, why that gloom 
 
 That soul of settled sadness ? 
 Has gay Mirth fled her home, 
 
 Joined by her sister Gladness ? 
 And left thee in despair, 
 
 With none to love and bless thee, 
 And chase from features fair 
 
 The thoughts which so distress thee ? 
 
 I know he has not been 
 
 So much of late about thee, 
 And oft I've marked thy mien 
 
 Was changed, and thy bright beauty 
 Was fading ray by ray, 
 
 Till thou wert worn with. sorrow, 
 And cheerless seemed thy day, 
 
 Nor hope breathed better morrow. 
 
 The streams, whose spirits fling 
 
 Their soft mysterious voices 
 O'er groves where wild birds sing, 
 
 And every heart rejoices, 
 Another's gaze may woo, 
 
 Another's breast make cheery : 
 There's nought in Nature now 
 
 Of love and light for Mary.
 
 .SV/K, J/.MT. 
 
 The flowers have ceased their smiles, 
 
 The towering hills their grandeur ; 
 No more the lark beguiles 
 
 Thy willing feet to wander ; 
 The moon has lost her charms, 
 
 The stars their peerless brightness, 
 The meads their soothing balms, 
 
 Thy gentle heart its lightness. 
 
 Thine eyes, where love and light 
 
 Had made their kindred dwelling, 
 In azure glory bright 
 
 Of slighted love are telling ; 
 And he who sought thy heart, 
 
 And won it through his feigning 
 A love which was but art, 
 
 Mocks thee with cold disdaining. 
 
 He reads thy soul's sad lore, 
 
 But heeds not torn love's sighing, 
 Nor heals the wound he tore, 
 
 And laughs to see thee dying ; 
 Exulting in thy woes, 
 
 Remorselessly revealing 
 A fiendish heart, which glows 
 
 With nought of human feeling. 
 
 Then throw him from thy breast, 
 
 As a leaf by the tempest driven, 
 For they say he makes a jest 
 
 Of those who speak of heaven. 
 And, since he's false to thee, 
 
 Thy virtue should refuse him, 
 And it would leave thee free 
 
 To dash him from thv bosom.
 
 u6 SAY, MARY. 
 
 Then when thy vital thread 
 
 Is snapped by Death's cold finger, 
 Above thy mouldering head 
 
 Soft Sympathy shall linger ; 
 And Virtue's friends shall come 
 
 Where honoured worth reposes, 
 And strew thy silent tomb 
 
 With daisies meek and roses. 
 
 How different is his lot, 
 
 Whom Constancy has slighted t 
 No maiden to the spot 
 
 By Truth shall be invited ; 
 For who would weep the breast, 
 
 Though low and lonely lying, 
 That blighted woman's rest, 
 
 And mocked when she was dying ?
 
 to tbe 
 
 ING to the earth, O heavenly bird ! 
 
 Sing to a thousand 'raptured hearts ; 
 Such pathos never mortal heard, 
 Thy song imparts. 
 
 Sing, nor in vain, thy trembling strain 
 Flows wildly through the azure dome, 
 
 And fills with joy the flowery plain 
 Thy fragrant home. 
 
 Oft have I strained a boyish eye 
 
 When loit'ring by the shimmering stream, 
 To see thee climb the inviting sky 
 
 In morning's beam ; 
 
 Or when night's herald, sober eve, 
 With crystal dews stole o'er the plain, 
 
 Of burnished day thou took'st thy leave 
 With seeming pain. 
 
 Still dost thou lighten o'er my breast, 
 And streak the gloom that lingers there, 
 
 As lightning flashes o'er the west, 
 By midnight drear.
 
 n8 STANZAS TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 And I behold thee wandering still, 
 A speck beside a snowy cloud, 
 
 And feel my soul with rapture thrill, 
 Strong, sweet, and loud. 
 
 In thee mankind a lore may learn, 
 Unmingled with that sophistry 
 
 With which the human mind will burn 
 To gild the lie. 
 
 Thou tellest how weak are earthly creeds, 
 Where subtle minds display their powers 
 
 There's more that man obdurate needs 
 In lovely flowers. 
 
 They speak without the power of speech, 
 And breathe through Beauty's sunny face 
 
 An eloquence the soul to reach, 
 Without grimace. 
 
 So, sweetest bird, the lesson taught, 
 Though lowly born, thou canst aspire 
 
 To realms which, like the earth, thou'st fraught 
 With Love's soft fire.
 
 O thee, sweet unassuming flower, 
 Tis given beyond the Poet's power 
 
 To thrill the Briton's heart, 
 To bid within his bosom rise 
 A thousand patriot ecstacies, 
 With tenderest passions fraught ! 
 
 To call his soul to some fair dell, 
 Where first thou on his fancy fell ; 
 
 Or drew his willing eyes, 
 Whilst lingering by some brooklet's braes, 
 Where fell the lav'rock's melting lays, 
 
 Like angels' symphonies. 
 
 Or to the place that saw his birth, 
 Where thou begemmed the emerald earth, 
 
 And first his footsteps roved ; 
 And Nature, in her fancy dress, 
 Revealed to him her power to bless, 
 
 And make herself beloved.
 
 120 STANZAS TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With rapture still thy charm's control 
 I'll sing as painted on my soul, 
 
 From Childhood's earliest hour ; 
 When wandering by the twisting burn, 
 O ! there e'en yet my mind will turn, 
 
 And thrill with Memory's power. 
 
 So turned mine eyes from other shores, 
 Where towers the pine, the cat'ract roars, 
 
 And mighty lakes expand 
 Like burnished realms of dazzling sheen, 
 'Rose in my breast each native scene, 
 
 O much-lov'd native land ! 
 
 I mused on hours whose happy reign 
 Knew nought of sorrow or of pain, 
 
 When, Daisy, thou wert given 
 A lesson (wide in influence, too) 
 To teach, when thy meek eye and brow 
 
 Were firmly fixed on Heaven. 
 
 But when the tempest howls on high, 
 And Vengeance shakes the sounding sky, 
 
 Thou cover'st up thy head ; 
 And whilst the ruthless torrents pour, 
 Thou meekly bear'st the dreary hour 
 
 Stretched on thy lowly bed. 
 
 But fixed as purpose not in vain, 
 Thou lift'st thy cinctured brow again, 
 
 When Sunshine lights the sky, 
 Brighter than thou appeard'st before, 
 Again thou look'st to yonder shore 
 
 With firm unwavering eye.
 
 STANZAS TO THE DAISY. 
 
 121 
 
 So, mortal, when the storms of life 
 Wage o'er thy head their wonted strife, 
 
 Nor shelter thou art given, 
 Bear meekly with the trying hour ; 
 And when the tempests lose their power, 
 
 Through Sunshine look to Heaven !
 
 Xines to tbc IDiolet. 
 
 F Beauty's hues were sought alone, 
 
 Such as the rainbow's tints disclose, 
 Or those in gayest tulips shone, 
 Or blush in every virgin rose, 
 Or such as shine o'er suns just set, 
 In thee they 're found not, Violet. 
 
 But seek the worth that Virtue knows, 
 The Modesty which lingers here, 
 
 The fragrance of the dew-gemmed rose, 
 The charms of that blue eye, whose tear 
 
 Tells of Love's star, which ne'er shall set, 
 In thee they 're found, sweet Violet.
 
 Cbatterton. 
 
 FT in my dreams of ruined pride, 
 
 By Fortune blighted ere its bloom, 
 Where Genius poured her lava tide, 
 And lured her owner to the tomb, 
 
 O ! Chatterton, of thee I've thought, 
 And wept that such a glorious soul, 
 
 With hues of heavenly splendour fraught, 
 Should find on earth so dark a goal. 
 
 Hard Fortune ! thou who sangst so sweet, 
 Where golden Wealth revealed her store, 
 
 And ne'er a kindred spirit met 
 To quaff thine all-immortal lore, 
 
 Should'st die by that same brain which gave 
 Its " Resignation " to mankind, 
 
 And plunge in darkness to a grave, 
 
 Yet leave such streams of light behind ;
 
 1 24 CIIA TTER TON. 
 
 Light ! beauteous as the blushing rays 
 Which hover o'er the gilded west, 
 
 When Sol withdraws his dazzling blaze, 
 And sinks, as poets sing, to rest. 
 
 The soulless things ! they knew thee not 
 (Else thou had'st lived to know thy fame) 
 
 Who broke thy heart ; they'll be forgot, 
 Or live but in the voice of shame ; 
 
 Whilst thou on starry thought shalt soar 
 The heavens' height illumine earth ; 
 
 And men with pride shall claim the shore 
 Which ne'er deserved, but gave thee birth. 
 
 And sons of other climes shall read 
 Thy glowing page as Time rolls on, 
 
 With pity for the Genius dead, 
 And curse the foes of Chatterton !
 
 3n fIDemoriam. 
 
 . Isabella burner, 2>ieD 17tb jfcbruarE, IS8U 
 
 HOU art missed in the pew, there's a vacant chair, 
 For, alas ! thou sit'st no longer there, 
 And tears dim many a burning eye, 
 Once radiant with the light of joy ; 
 
 And sorrow dwells in many a heart, 
 
 Where love and hope had played a part 
 
 'Mong the varying passions which give to life 
 
 A zest to season the battle's strife. 
 
 There's a voice that is hushed, 
 
 And a heart which is still, 
 Where pathos gushed 
 
 Like a flowing rill ; 
 There's a breast that heaves not, 
 
 A pulse at rest, 
 A spirit which grieves not 
 
 At woe's request ; 
 And a hand reposed, 
 
 By Death enthralled, 
 Which ne'er was closed 
 
 When Pity called. 
 There's a veil that is drawn 
 
 O'er a speaking eye, 
 Which awaits the dawn 
 
 Of a brighter sky ; 
 A prayer unsaid, 
 
 Each day and night, 
 A Bible unread, 
 
 And a Christian light 
 Fled from a sphere 
 
 Of anxious care, 
 And toil and tear, 
 
 To a clime more fair.
 
 126 AY MEMORIAM. 
 
 For thou had'st put thy trust in Him, 
 
 The Lord of Hosts the King of Heaven, 
 Before whose face all lights are dim ; 
 
 Or as distant rays by a full orb given, 
 Which tremble in the dew-drop fair, 
 
 Or shimmer on the streamlet's face, 
 And beam in Nature's beauties rare, 
 
 And glow on the brow of the precipice : 
 So thou hast quaffed the streaming rays 
 
 Of mercy from their Father flowing, 
 Which lit thee through earth's darkest ways, 
 
 And kept a Christian bosom glowing 
 (Celestial lights within thee burning, 
 
 Whilst looking upwards to their Giver, 
 Like stars, the vaults of heaven adorning, 
 
 Deep-mirrored in the crystal river) 
 Reflected they reflect again, 
 
 And were not given to thee in vain. 
 
 And though thy form's no longer near 
 
 The region of thy wonted home, 
 Oh ! still thou art remembered dear 
 
 By friends thou'st left below to roam : 
 And some would fain not linger here, 
 
 But share the coldness of thy tomb, 
 Could they thy spirit's raptures know, 
 
 Which from the God of raptures flow ! 
 
 Thou art missed in the pew, there's a vacant chair, 
 
 For, alas ! thou sit'st no longer there, 
 
 And tears dim many a mourning eye 
 
 Once radiant with the light of joy. 
 
 And though earth's the poorer while ages roll, 
 
 Heaven is the richer by one pure soul ; 
 
 And our loss below is a gain above, 
 
 In the central home of Eternal Love !
 
 Xines on the 2)eatb of a lDer\> Bear 
 jfrienb. 
 
 <5eo. . "fflijon, DieO December I7tb, 1871. 
 
 ND shall thy bosom turn to clay, 
 
 And not one breast its pangs record? 
 No ! by the light of Virtue's ray, 
 Thou shalt not pass from earth away 
 Unhonoured, undeplored ! 
 
 (My lyre, though sad thy strain must be, 
 Come throw thy murmurs o'er the gloom, 
 
 Pour out thy burthen full and free : 
 
 With Pity touch his memory 
 Who moulders in the tomb). 
 
 The mystic calm that wraps thee now 
 Is sweeter than our tears and woes, 
 
 We weep, and sorrow clouds our brow. 
 
 Alas ! our pangs are vain, for thou 
 Know'st nothing save repose ! 
 
 Within our breasts thou shalt not die, 
 
 For when we muse on truth and worth, 
 Thou shalt be first to meet the eye 
 That looks through cloudless friendship's sky- 
 Thy greatest treasure, earth.
 
 128 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A PKJEND. 
 
 Thou shalt not die ! Immortal Grief 
 
 Shall call thee from the hallowed dust ; 
 Nor" give through time the wished relief, 
 E'en for a minute (space so brief) 
 To heal the hearts which burst. 
 
 Enough ! since vain all sorrows prove, 
 In radiant Hope we'll seek relief, 
 Look to the central home of Love, 
 Where Purity is wont to rove, 
 And nought is known of Grief. 
 
 The light we quaff at every gaze 
 
 Shall banish anguish from our souls,- 
 Illumine with its heavenly rays 
 The depths of Sorrow's dwelling place, 
 And seal the tear that rolls. 
 
 And when some vision of thy bliss, 
 
 Like spirit-music sweeps our breast, 
 We'll turn to yon bright realm from this, 
 And drink thy joys, as moonbeams kiss 
 The wavelet hushed to rest !
 
 IReflectione. 
 
 JHE year is nearly worn out, John, 
 A wasted time to many an one, 
 A dreary void in chances given 
 For shunning Hell and gaining Heaven. 
 Another link to the sinner's chain, 
 Some ten or a dozen may yet remain 
 To be forged and worn by the thoughtless slave, 
 As he rattles along to an early grave. 
 The path is beaten with foot-prints o'er, 
 For millions, alas ! have passed before 
 To the ocean that rolls without a shore. 
 
 The wise of all the ages past 
 Have a warning voice on the breezes cast, 
 In the solemn truths of immortal lore 
 Which point to the ocean without a shore : 
 But what is the lore of the wise to you, 
 My weary friend with the haggard brow ? 
 You have lived your time in passion and pain, 
 And the joys, O ! the joys, do they yet remain 
 Like the scattered flowers by the reapers spared, 
 In the parching stubble or emerald sward, 
 To be gathered and garnered in time to come, 
 \Vhen your better angel has ceased to roam, 
 And made your nobler heart her home.
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 You tell me Bereavement has left a smart 
 
 Which rankles and gnaws in your troubled heart, 
 
 That Sorrow shall dwell for ever there 
 
 The boon companion of Despair, 
 
 That you are weary, and fain would rest 
 
 By the ashes of her you lov'd the best, 
 
 And trust for a Future beyond the grave 
 
 To the turn of Chance or a favouring wave, 
 
 That your life, a dreary and wasted hour, 
 
 Is flitting away 'mid the clouds that lower, 
 
 That God, though in anger, your case shall weigh- 
 
 Your trials temptations by night and day, 
 
 And brush your crimes from His page away. 
 
 O, desolate scene ! those wasted hours 
 Behind you cast like withered flowers ! 
 And you are trav'ling a reeling swamp, 
 With " Will-o'-the-Wisp " for your only lamp, 
 With his flitful twinkle and feeble gleam, 
 Like the fire-fly's dance o'er an inky stream, 
 Fit emblems of dying hopes, which fade 
 As frost-nip't flowers in an autumn glade, 
 Like a vision which told of a happier time, 
 When the heart, the heart was free from crime, 
 And Virtue rose in the soul sublime ! 
 
 O ! dreary "wand'rer of mazes lost," 
 
 Compassless mariner tempest tossed, 
 
 A turbulent ocean heaving round, 
 
 Each tow'ring wave with a foam-wreath crowned ! 
 
 There is One can still this raging sea, 
 
 Who hush'd the billows of Galilee, 
 
 And is waiting with open arms to save 
 
 Your helpless form from the hungry wave ; 
 
 Then fly and lay your soul of grief 
 
 On His pitying breast and find relief : 
 
 Ask Him in faith for the glorious prize, 
 
 The life which lives when the body dies, 
 
 Beyond the mountains beyond the skies !
 
 Stra\>e& from tbc Ibaunts.* 
 
 T.RAYED from the haunts of the neighbouring 
 
 poor, 
 
 A child was at play on the sea-washed shore, 
 Joyous and merry, where few intrude, 
 Wrapped in her seeming solitude ; 
 Charmed by the weird voice of the waves, 
 Listening the echoes within the caves ; 
 
 * Mrs. Lucas, of Sunderland, in an excellent and chaste address on 
 Gospel Temperance, delivered in the Town Hall, Shotley Bridge, in 
 September, 1882, described, in her beautiful manner, an incident which 
 occurred one bright morning in the month of June, when, at an early 
 hour, she sauntered forth by the sea-shore, musing on the great question 
 which had taken such a hold upon her gentle and generous nature. 
 Far away along the shore, some distance from any human dwelling, 
 she came upon a little girl at play, moulding the sand into various fan- 
 tastic shapes, barefoot and hatless, her sunny hair fluttering in the balmy 
 summer breezes. To the right of her stretched the massive, towering 
 rocks, which had breasted the billows for ages : to the left, the mighty 
 ocean. The thought which awed her spirit on the bright morning of 
 that memorable day was when these rocks are crumbled into dust, and 
 the ocean has ceased its throbbing for 'ever, the soul of this little child 
 will be living somewhere in God's great world. It is needless to say 
 that this touching and beautiful incident formed the text for the abou- 
 poem.
 
 132 STRAYED FROM THE HAUNTS. 
 
 Watching the sea-birds' circling flight 
 O'er the dancing waves in the summer light ; 
 Or some gallant ship on the ocean by, 
 Walking the waters in majesty 
 Living, dear child, in the morn of life, 
 A rapturous hour before the strife 
 Break like a tempest, ere noon is high, 
 To veil the glory that lights her sky. 
 
 A lady, strolling the beach, beholds 
 The laughing child, as her scheme unfolds, 
 Shaping the sand to her fancy there, 
 Building her castles in the air, 
 And read, with eyes that Love had taught, 
 The lesson with which the scene was fraught ; 
 And seeing the truth was realized, 
 Thus to her soul she soliloquised : 
 " Child at play, in the early morn, 
 Fragile and fair as the hues of dawn ; 
 Pure as the balm of the summer rose, , 
 Giving its life to each breeze that blows ; 
 Yet when the mountains to air have passed, 
 And the sea 's consumed .in the fiery blast, 
 When earth's foundations dissolve and fall, 
 And Chaos and Ruin are over all, 
 When sun and moon and stars have fled 
 Their spheres of light, and are with the dead, 
 O ! fragile child, before me at play, 
 Thy soul shall succumb not to dread decay, 
 But live beyond the bounds of Time, 
 'Mid brighter worlds, in a fairer clime, 
 In light by God's own presence given, 
 And all the majesty of Heaven, 
 Or where the unrepenting dwell, 
 In the constant pain of a torturing Hell. 
 
 " I go my way, and, as I go, 
 May deem thy soul has many a foe ; 
 And pray our God thy steps may guide 
 In Virtue's flowery paths of pride, 
 Religion's higher walks ascending,
 
 STRAYED FROM THE HAUNTS. 133 
 
 Her grace and love with duty blending ; 
 
 ' '1 hat when the reaping time is come, 
 
 And Angels shout the harvest home,' 
 
 1'hou may'st be found when the sheaves unfold 
 
 Their treasures, far richer than gems or gold. 
 
 And as the spangled dews adorn 
 
 The rose-heaves in refulgent morn, 
 
 So may thy deeds to Virtue sealed, 
 
 Their fragrance sweet and radiance yield, 
 
 Throwing their tender light afar, 
 
 Like glances from the morning star ; 
 
 For all the wealth in the world's control 
 
 Is not worth the price of thy deathless soul."
 
 passion's power. 
 
 He who the Passion's Power hath proved, 
 Felt its alternate joy and pain, 
 
 He who hath well and wildly loved, 
 Will love again." 
 
 ERHAPS the youth whose ardent flame, 
 Dropp'd this warm verse as heaven the dew, 
 
 Linked to some soft enraptur'ng name, 
 Experience knew. 
 
 Perchance the form he most adored, 
 (Which for his own he fondly sighed), 
 
 Ere all its sweetness was explored, 
 Had droop'd and died ; 
 
 And left the memory of its joy 
 Untouched, unsullied by despair, 
 
 Mingled of sorrow with the boy, 
 To flourish there. 
 
 That memory,- too, he fondly cherished, 
 And fearful lest the passion fade, 
 
 He woo'd and won, ere it had perished, 
 Some other maid. 
 
 But had he loved some faithless fair, 
 Who laughed at all his bosom bore, 
 
 His heart had languished in despair, 
 And loved no more.
 
 3n flDemonam. 
 
 3obn m. /ffimir, DieO in flMetermaritsberg, Soutb afrfca, 
 ctober 30tb, ISS2. 
 
 |EARS flow, the heart is pained for thee, 
 
 For Sorrow sits in silence there ; 
 Pale Pity bears her company, 
 
 And shares the moment with Despair, 
 For thou in Faith and Love wert fair 
 As planets to the Shepherd's gaze : 
 Death tells that thou wert ever dear, 
 And wakes the voice of honest praise. 
 
 How weak alike are Tears and Song, 
 
 How vain the philosophic thought 
 To quench the grief warm, gushing, strong, 
 
 That thrills Bereavement's tender heart ! 
 For thou wert not from us apart, 
 
 Though distant far 'neath other skies, 
 But being of our being fraught, 
 
 With all our loves and sympathies. 
 
 And Mem'ry shall her charms retain 
 
 On converse past her powers attest ; 
 As in some corner of the brain 
 
 With dear delusive visions blessed, 
 Where oft the mental eye may rest, 
 
 And live departed moments o'er, 
 So shall Reflection's eye invest 
 
 Thy name with pleasures known before.
 
 136 Iff MEMOR1AM. 
 
 Sleep on within thy quiet tomb, 
 
 Where, nurslings of another sky, 
 Fair flowers, unknown to me, may bloom 
 
 To lure and charm th' enchanted eye, 
 And bright rills sing their lullaby, . 
 
 And birds their lays to lis/ning ears ; 
 But thine in silence steeped shall lie 
 
 Unconscious of the rolling years. 
 
 Thou thought'dst to sleep in English earth, 
 
 For thou wert born and nurtured here, 
 Where men who knew and prized thy worth 
 
 Could pause, and drop the gen'rous tear ; 
 And genial May might scatter there 
 
 The daisy with its cinctured brow, 
 Flower ever to thy bosom dear, 
 
 Which may not bloom above thee now. 
 
 Nor may thy favourite skylark pour 
 
 Celestial music o'er the sod, 
 Whence from the clay thy spirit pure 
 
 Passed eagle-like to meet her God : 
 To see created joys abroad, 
 
 And know the glories Heaven can give, 
 And tread where Christ Himself hath trod, 
 
 There through Eternity to live. 
 
 Away, then, with our Tears and Woe, 
 
 Tis but a change that we call death ; 
 Nor bid the wells of Sorrow flow, 
 
 Which live but where the clay has breath ; 
 Thou art not dead to eyes of Faith, 
 
 But dwell'st upon a fairer shore ; 
 " We'll meet," Hope's vital promise saith, 
 
 To mingle there for evermore.
 
 3n flDemoriam. 
 
 flfcarh mall, DfeD October 8tb, tS7t. 
 
 jjIKE the last ray of Hope that embellished thy 
 
 pillow, 
 And, flitting here, flattered the friends of thy 
 
 heart, 
 Like the sunbeam that brightens the brow of the billow, 
 
 Ere tempests their death-dealing vengeance impart, 
 Thou, my friend, hast departed : nor sunshine to-morrow 
 
 Shall traverse the gloom which encircles the soul 
 Of those who may dream, in their silence and sorrow, 
 Thy virtues, which point to a glorious goal. 
 
 Not in vain hast thou lived, nor in vain hast thou perished, 
 
 For kindness and goodness exist not in vain : 
 'Tis these that will make thee eternally cherished, 
 
 And speak to our bosoms again and again. 
 As the spirits of Dreamland preside o'er our slumbers, 
 
 And call up the joys and the woes of the past, 
 So thy voice, though no more, shall awaken the numbers 
 
 And echo its tones when I listened it last. 
 
 Yet Pity thy name shall environ with sadness, 
 
 Which Time may reduce, but can never destroy ; 
 While Memory will call back the light of thy gladness, 
 
 The warm gushing passion which ravished the boy. 
 Farewell ! though there's nothing so selfish as Sorrow, 
 
 And sweet the repose of thy spirit may be, 
 We'll envy thee not, but reflectingly borrow 
 
 The beam of thy bliss, and enjoy it with thee !
 
 on tbe jJranaxSerman 
 
 'M gloomy wi' the thought o't, Jean, 
 
 I'm wae for a' the dead, 
 For mony a battle-field I've seen, 
 
 Where hissed the awfu' lead ; 
 But never ken'd a war like this 
 For nickin' life's frail thread. 
 
 I hae stood for my native land, Jean, 
 Where poured the iron hail, 
 
 And hae heard on every hand, Jean, 
 My comrades dying wail, 
 
 And hae wept the cost o' victory, 
 Wi' cheeks sae cauld and pale. 
 
 Though o' British valour proud, Jean, 
 And vain o' my Scottish birth, 
 
 For there never were men as good, Jean, 
 To battle e'er went forth, 
 
 Yet I look on war as a curse frae God 
 To punish this wicked earth. 
 
 (For our minister oft has said, Jean, 
 That the curse and wrath o' God 
 
 Are administered through the aid, Jean, 
 O' sinners who wield His rod ; 
 
 And mark, the medium o' his ire 
 He never makes the good.)
 
 THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR. 139 
 
 Such passion is pride o' heart, Jean, 
 And promises nought but strife, 
 
 It is aimed like the murderer's dart, Jean, 
 At the fountain o' mony a life: 
 
 In its dried-up channels o' anguish die 
 The succourless child and wife. 
 
 The widow and orphan's sorrow, Jean, 
 Is so vast to my frenzied brain, 
 
 And grows wi' each dawning morrow, Jean, 
 The gory piles o' slain, 
 
 Till they seem to mock at our sympathy 
 As a worthless thing and vain. 
 
 It seems as though the earth and sky 
 
 Were reeling a' wi' hate, 
 And Vengeance, wi' his crimson eye, 
 
 Was monarch over fate, 
 And viewed the carnage mountains 
 
 Wi' fiendish joy elate. 
 
 And darker gather the clouds, Jean, 
 Ower what was sunny France ; 
 
 Like the sough o' the winter woods, Jean, 
 The conquering hosts advance ; 
 
 And the world awaits the shock as though 
 'Twere smittem wi' a trance. 
 
 Yet nane raise the arm o' defence, Jean, 
 
 To stay the fatal hand 
 That hangs like a pestilence, Jean, 
 
 Above the noble band, 
 Wha can calmly face the pangs o' death 
 
 But shame can no withstand.
 
 140 THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR. 
 
 Has England her prestige lost, Jean ? 
 
 Do her mighty minds of yore, 
 (O' which men are wont to boast, Jean) 
 
 No longer rule her shore ? 
 Is her clarion voice for ever dead 
 
 Shall it speak to the world no more? 
 
 The nations are waiting her word, Jean, 
 And would harken her counsel still, 
 
 Foi Rapine, that gory lord, Jean, 
 O' slaughter has had his fill : 
 
 Then O ! would England speak aloud 
 And the armies would cease to kill. 
 
 For I'm gloomy wi' the thought o't, Jean, 
 
 I'm wae for a' the dead, 
 For mony a battle field I've seen, 
 
 Where hissed the awfu' lead, 
 But never ken'd a war like this 
 
 For nickin' life's frail thread.
 
 on tfoe Bcatb of a 
 
 SWEET be thy slumbers, and hallowed thy 
 
 rest, 
 Where the wings of thy spirit hath borne 
 
 thee, 
 Where lifeb-lighting tempests may ne'er touch thy 
 
 breast, 
 Nor soil the pure robes which adorn thee. 
 
 Thou art gone, like the pleiad that 'erst decked the 
 sky, 
 
 From the clasp of the arms which have bound thee, 
 But the faith and the hope that we'll see thee on high, 
 
 Throw their soul-soothing influence around thee. 
 
 Like the rose which this morning embellished the 
 thorn, 
 
 The flower of thy cheek was in blossom, 
 Till Death's chilling frost had relentlessly torn 
 
 And damped all the fires of thy bosom. 
 
 And now thou art laid in the deep silent grave, 
 Where those love-bright and eloquent eyes, 
 
 Like stars shall arise to illumine thy cave, 
 Or light up thy path to the skies.
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 There unfettered and free as a sunbeam thou'lt rove, 
 Where no shadow of sorrow can stray, 
 
 'Neath the soft beaming glance of the Father of Love, 
 And the splendour of limitless day. 
 
 Then weep not, bereaved one, Oh ! weep not, 'tis vain 
 All the heartrending throes of thy breast ; 
 
 Thy child is exulting from sorrow and pain, 
 " 'Twould be sinful to weep for the blest."
 
 H Brifcai 
 
 HAPPY, happy, may you be, 
 Dear Lady o' our bonnie vale ; 
 
 And happy, happy, too, be he 
 
 Wha tauld you love's enchanting tale ! 
 
 Though he has stown our fragrant flower, 
 Which grew by Derwent's sunny braes, 
 
 To shed perfume in Scottish bower, 
 And happiness breathe ower his days. 
 
 The widows miss your liberal hand, 
 The orphans want your kindly smile ; 
 
 But far in your romantic land, 
 You aye shall ithers cares beguile. 
 
 Yes, many bless your open hand, 
 
 And ower you're leaving shed the tear 
 
 The tender tear you'll aye command 
 Frae eyes that hold fair Virtue dear. 
 
 The vi'let, in its early birth, 
 
 Smiles sweet through its delightful blue; 
 So shines the pride o' modest worth, 
 
 Which finds a cherished home in you. 
 
 * "The marriage of the Rev. W. Wood, of Campsie, Stirlingshire, 
 with Miss Annie Gilespie, eldest daughter of James Annandale, Esq., 
 of Shotley Grove, was celebrated amid great rejoicings, at Shotley 
 Bridge, last week." Newspaper paragraph, May, 1872.
 
 144 -A BRIDAL WISH. 
 
 Oft hae I passed you by the way, 
 An hundred times at least, I vow; 
 
 You little kent the thought I'd hae, 
 When aiblins I fogot to bow. 
 
 I thought (but something almost says 
 
 " You should na breathe what you desire") 
 
 That in the aspect o' your face 
 I trace the spirit o' your sire. 
 
 Your honoured sire ! (I speak it plain, 
 For truth has aye the strongest part) 
 
 Too noble to be proud or vain, 
 
 And rich in his great generous heart. 
 
 It is enough o' worldly praise 
 
 To say you're his, and emulate 
 His bounteous hand and kindly ways 
 
 To those who're born to poor estate. 
 
 So, Lady, may the winged hours 
 
 Waft blessings ower your worthy breast ; 
 
 And happiness with you and yours 
 
 Reign in your home a welcome guest. 
 
 Then merry, merry, may you be, 
 Afar from this our bonnie vale ; 
 
 And merry, merry, too, be he 
 
 Wha tauld you love's enchanting tale.
 
 
 fHOUGH summer has fled, and rude winter 
 
 is here, 
 
 Away with the gloom of dejection, 
 'Tis folly to murmur and shed the salt tear, 
 Though thy past has no charms for reflection. 
 If the thorns of thy path have outnumbered the rose, 
 
 And joy has been quenched by thy sorrow, 
 Awaken thy hopes from their depth of repose, 
 And bliss may enchant thee to-morrow. 
 
 Though lonely thy lot, since the soul of thy love 
 
 Hath ceased to be troubled for ever, 
 Her spirit doth rove in the realms above 
 
 No more from the blessed to sever ; 
 And there is a joyance, felicity rare, 
 
 With legends of happy before her, 
 She's awaiting thee now, so away with despair, 
 
 Thou immortal mayst join her to-morrow. 
 
 If dark disappointment steal over thy breast, 
 
 And Fortune rewards not thy labour, 
 While Honesty's crushed in thy bosom distressed, 
 
 And wealth crown the hope of thy neighbour, 
 Frown not on the blessings another may have, 
 
 But brush from thy brow every furrow : 
 Base envy belongs not to hearts 'that are brave, 
 
 Be hopeful, and triumph to-morrow !
 
 146 TO-MOKROll'. 
 
 The brave and the good have a battle to fight, 
 
 For sin howls his curses around us, 
 And though short is the triumph of Wrong over 
 Right, 
 
 The odds are inclined to confound us ; 
 But who dies in a battle for Freedom, I wot, 
 
 His memory ne'er wants an adorer, 
 His past and his present, they are not forgot, 
 
 And victory shall crown him to-morrow ! 
 
 'Tis not the possession of silver or gold 
 
 That makes us the better or. wiser ; 
 No mortal's so wretched as him who grows old 
 
 In worshipping Mammon the miser : 
 He lives for himself, but he trembles to die, 
 
 For death to his breast bears a horror ; 
 He dare not ask God for a mansion on high, 
 
 For he'd trusted Him not for to-morrow ! 
 
 Contentment be thine, then, nor envy nor hate 
 
 Allow to unsettle or grieve thee ; 
 To bear, it is said, is to conquer our Fate 
 
 Philosophic and true this, believe me. 
 If poverty render too scanty thy board, 
 
 And strength pale a little before her, 
 Know anguish oft gnaweth at Luxury's Lord, 
 
 And thou shalt be painless to-morrow ! 
 
 Though tyrants assail thee, fools laugh at thy lot, 
 
 True worth hath a pride worth possessing, 
 And despot and fool shall alike be forgot, 
 
 While thy name shall be breathed in a blessing. 
 I speak not in scorn of the wealthy and high, 
 
 Some are noble in joy as in sorrow ; 
 And if clouds of to-day dim the light of their sky, 
 
 May it shine in full splendour to-morrow !
 
 147 
 
 I know (as thou know'st) those of honour and worth, 
 
 Whose talents and virtues adorn them, 
 And though Fortune and Nature have smiled on their 
 birth, 
 
 The poor on their exit shall mourn them. 
 To emulate such be the aim of thy soul, 
 
 A tithe of their wisdom to borrow, 
 Shall lead to the glory that shines in their goal, 
 
 And it may be forthcoming to-morrow ! 
 
 To spend the last portion where pity may call, 
 
 To soothe in the moments of sadness, 
 To raise from the earth if thou canst those who fall, 
 
 And tell them that virtue is gladness : 
 To succour the orphan the widow to cheer, 
 
 When bereavement a gloom has cast o'er, 
 Might be deemed by the selfish a folly, I fear, 
 
 But Fortune may shun the'm to-morrow ! 
 
 The children of Virtue have little to fear, 
 
 Secure in the calm of their bosom : 
 The flowers of such soil to humanity dear, 
 
 Shall give joy to the world in their blossom. 
 God save thee from Vice, whose enchantments for 
 youth 
 
 Lead thousands, I ween, to adore her ; 
 So be pure, firm and noble, embracing the truth, 
 
 And look forward with faith for to-morrow !
 
 H prologue,' 
 
 RIENDS, patrons of our cause, when we shall 
 
 tune 
 
 Our gushing voices to recite or sing, 
 Let's trust, like warblers of the grove in June, 
 Whose trembling pipes their soothing pathos fling, 
 Lend us your ears, we shall return them soon 
 
 Uninjured, save their drums may jar and ring, 
 And if we please you and excite your laughter, 
 We shall have gained the object we are after. 
 
 There are who think to laugh is very wrong, 
 And walk the earth with faces grave and blue, 
 
 Drawn out by mimic sadness, till as long 
 As any washing-day you ever knew ; 
 
 Who treat a mirthful wight with language strong 
 As Durham mustard, and as biting too, 
 
 And look upon our Dickens', Lovers', Sternes', 
 
 As wicked men, who should be hung by turns. 
 
 For why ? Because they've urged the world, no doubt, 
 Grow merry and rejoice 'neath loads of Care, 
 
 And made the wheels of life pursue their route, 
 Which might have clogged with sorrow and despair. 
 
 Yet there was centred in their souls, not mute, 
 The spirit of religion pure and fair ; 
 
 The wretched seldom asked their aid in vain, 
 
 For fun can melt beneath a tale of pain. 
 
 * The above prologue was delivered at CastleHe, in 1870, at an 
 entertainment in aid of the fund for repairing the Day School there.
 
 A PROLOGUE. 149 
 
 Deem not because the words of lightness fly 
 From joy-o'erburthened lips to ravished ears, 
 
 That seriousness awakes no fear-born sigh, 
 Or that such heart no sacred theme reveres. 
 
 Tis said " the springs of rosy laughter lie " 
 In " close connection with the well of tears." 
 
 Just now we'll take the laughter, and await 
 
 The well of tears, which never comes too late.
 
 HDusic* 
 
 MIGHT have sung how Jubal, Lamech's son, 
 The tuneful art in earliest times begun, 
 Ere yet the awful deluge made the world 
 A watery sepulchre, to ruin hurled : 
 How in the anvil's rhythmic ring he found, 
 'Tis said, inspiring music's magic sound, 
 From whence the sweet-tongued lyre created came 
 To cheer his soul immortalize his name. 
 
 Or how the leisure-loving shepherd heard 
 
 The whistling grasses by the tempest stirred ; 
 
 And eke he gathered from the wild bird's song, 
 
 The imitative thought, and, ere 'twas long, 
 
 Gave to the world his pipe, which, played wirh skill, 
 
 Tells of Arcadian groves and pleasure still. 
 
 Or how, when Pharoah's legions found a grave 
 Beneath the surging of the ocean wave, 
 Smitten of God, beneath His frown they sleep, 
 Fair Miriam's voice, swift-winged, flew o'er the deep, 
 Blended with timbrel tones, which ever tell 
 How Israel triumphed, and how Egypt fell. 
 
 Or how, when Salem in her glory rose, 
 Without a rival 'mong her powerful foes, 
 When all the hills and plains our Saviour trod 
 Were bathed in fragrance 'neath the smile of God, 
 The tuneful David's harp poured forth his soul, 
 And, like his psalms, which down the ages roll, 
 Sweeping and thrilling through the nerves of men, 
 Sought to subdue the heart, nor sought in vain : 
 In David Hebrew song its zenith found, 
 Which stands, like heaven's decrees, eternal and pro- 
 found. 
 
 These stanzas, in which the origin of music is traced, were recited 
 by the author on the occasion of a musical festival at Shotley Bridge.
 
 .urs/c. 151 
 
 I might have sung, but Time will stay for no man, 
 On music of the Egyptian, Greek, and Roman ; 
 How Orpheus from that aw r ful region, where 
 The wicked writhe in darkness and despair, 
 Brought back his spouse by music's matchless power, 
 The lute his instrument and fame his dower. 
 
 But when I've sung, as verily I might, 
 
 If Time were flying not on pinions light, 
 
 Of Rolla's fire, and Paginini's art, 
 
 Which teamed such rapture o'er the trembling heart 
 
 Of Handel, Mendelssohn, and Mozart's right, 
 
 To invest the pealing organ with delight, 
 
 And send their names on Fame's proud wings afar, 
 
 To light the sphere of music like a star. 
 
 When all the instruments by man designed, 
 Are present with their varied strains, my mind, 
 Were it to choose, I'm pretty sure its choice 
 Would fall upon the liquid human voice : 
 So deep its pathos, and so sweet its tone, 
 A heaven-born instrument it stands alone, 
 And here we have't in plenty to dispense 
 The sweetest sounds, and shall at once commence.
 
 Sitting Hlone. 
 
 JITTING alone where erst I sat, 
 
 By my native stream in boyhood's years, 
 Dreaming on changes since first we met, 
 Telling the tides of my toils and tears, 
 Since life was a Joy and Hope was young, 
 And my heart to other themes was strung. 
 
 Sitting and musing with feelings strange 
 On those dear companions of my youth, 
 
 O ! here is sorrow, for sorrow's in change, 
 
 They promised me Constance to love and truth : 
 
 Now where are they who have with me roved 
 
 By the meadows fair and the paths we loved ? 
 
 Chasing the birdling, gathering flowers, 
 Wantonly wading the crystal stream, 
 
 Flinging its waters, whose misty showers 
 
 Framed rainbow tints in the sun's fair beam, 
 
 Shouting where Echo returned the sound 
 
 With his mellow voice, to our joy profound.
 
 SIT'l'IXC, ALONE. 153 
 
 Watching the lav'rock's winnowing flight 
 
 Till he seemed but a speck in the calm blue sky, 
 
 While soft as the air of a summer night 
 Fell the voices of raining melody 
 
 On the ravished heart, like a deep-fraught spell, 
 
 Where the tones of its gladness shall ever dwell. 
 
 How dear our youthful memories grow 
 As the years with noiseless pace roll on ! 
 
 They burst from their shrine away below, 
 And glitter like streams in the morning sun, 
 
 Looking through human doubt and fear, 
 
 As the burning stars through the dark clouds peer. 
 
 O ! ever thus shall my early joys, 
 
 Youth's friends, scenes, passions fill my breast, 
 Till Time, whose numbing touch destroys, 
 
 And sets the pulse of life to rest, 
 And ushers the dawn of another sky 
 To canopy immortality ! 
 
 Sitting and musing with feelings strange, 
 Mingled with gladness in sorrow lost, 
 
 Because in the glance my spirit's range 
 I miss the forms I had loved the most, 
 
 Which lie 'neath the turf by dasies spread, 
 
 Unmoved by the lark's song overhead. 
 
 Sitting alone by the spreading thorn, 
 
 Crowned with blossom in June's first days, 
 
 W^here the thrush through the early hours of morn 
 Pours forth his 'rapturing songs of praise, 
 
 Which echoing die in the distance dim, 
 
 Like the fainting strains of a holy hymn.
 
 154 SITTING ALVXE. 
 
 My native stream, though far I've roved 
 In lands beyond the ocean's wave, 
 
 Mid scenes and forms my bosom loved, 
 Dear as the light the fair, the brave, 
 
 Where the breezes ring with Freedom's voice 
 
 And men in Liberty rejoice, 
 
 I love thee still shall ever love 
 
 The tender memories of my youth, 
 
 Thy hawthorn shades and willow grove, 
 The friendships formed in changeless truth 
 
 Shall fade not, though by Fate's decree 
 
 I wander far from home and thee !
 
 IRevflle's Cross,
 
 Ballafc on tbe Battle of 
 
 Cross.* 
 
 N conscious strength, with haughty tread, 
 
 King David's army comes, 
 For Scotland's sons for honour's crown 
 
 Have left their native homes, 
 And proudly toss their sable plumes : 
 
 Their brilliant armour gleams, 
 And, like the light from summer's sun, 
 A flood of radiance teems. 
 
 * A mile to the west of the City of Durham, are the remains of an 
 old cross, called Neville's Cross, erected by Ralph Lord Neville, to 
 commemorate a remarkable battle fought here on the I7th of October, 
 1346, in the reign of Edward III, between the English and Scotch 
 armies, called the Battle of Red Hills, or, as it has been subsequently 
 termed from the above erection, the Battle of Neville's Cross. In that 
 year, whilst Edward III was prosecuting his victorious career in France, 
 David the Second, King of Scotland, having collected a powerful army 
 of 30,000 men, invaded England by the western marches, showing tokens 
 of a bloody mind in the outset by putting the garrison of Liddell Tower 
 to the sword, 'and, with strange inhumanity, causing the noble knight, 
 Walter Selby, the governor of it, to be beheaded on the spot. After 
 burning the Abbey of Lanercost, the Scots pursued their usual route 
 through Cumberland and Tynedale. They sacked the Priory of Hex- 
 ham, and afterwards entered the county of Durham without meeting 
 serious opposition. Measures were concerted for opposing the invaders, 
 and a body of troops, numbering 16,000 men, was assembled with the 
 greatest expedition. On the i6th, the day preceding the battle, David 
 lay at Beaurepaire, or Bearpark, while the English army was encamped 
 in Auckland Park. At nine o'clock the following morning, the armies 
 being in sight of each other, the Scottish trumpets sounded the advance. 
 The Scots were divided into three divisions : the first was led by the High
 
 158 BATTLE OF NE /'///. /T.T 
 
 Far Liddell's Tower has felt their rage, 
 
 And yielded to its spell ; 
 Here gallant Selby's soul of fire 
 Was quenched with all its burning ire, 
 
 And heaved its parting swell. 
 Where Lanercost's gray Abbey reared 
 
 Its sombre form on high, 
 The ashes yet with rapine warm 
 
 Of ruined grandeur lie. 
 See on the Cumbrian hills afar, 
 
 They urge their eager way ; 
 Now Hexham's Priory they sack, 
 
 But spare the buildings gray. 
 
 Steward of Scotland and the Earl of March ; the Earl of Murray and 
 Lord Douglas commanded the second ; and the third, consisting of 
 choice troops, in which was incorporated the flower of the Scottish 
 nobility and gentry, sustained by the French auxiliaries, was commanded 
 by the King in person. The English distributed their forces into four 
 bodies : Lord Henry Percy, victor of Hallidon Hill, supported by the 
 Earl of Angus, the Bishop of Durham, and several northern notles, led 
 the first ; the second was led by the Archbishop of York, accompanied 
 by the Bishop of Carlisle, and the Lords Neville and Hastings ; the 
 Bishop of Lincoln, Lord Mowbray, and Sir Thomas Robeby led the 
 third division ; and at the head of the fourth was Edward Baliol, 
 supported by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Roos, and the 
 Sheriff of Northumberland. Historians agree that the ground whereon 
 this battle was fought was ill-chosen, being hilly and intersected by field 
 enclosures, which considerably retarded the movements of large bodies 
 of men. However, the Scots came on, and by dint of sword and battle- 
 axe they hurled the first English column back. But Baliol, rushing in 
 with a body of horse, threw the Scotch battalion into confusion, and 
 gave the English time to rally and regain their ground. The Earl of 
 Murray fell at this juncture, and Sir Wm. Douglas was taken prisoner ; 
 and the division seeing their leaders fall, fell into disorder, and took to 
 flight. But the fate of the day was not decided, for the other two 
 divisions of the Scots stood their ground, and for three hours naught was 
 heard save the clash of arms, the breaking of spears, the muffled twinge 
 of the bow as the archers played their deadly cloth-yards, those famous 
 six-feet bows, which won for England imperishable glory on many a 
 bloody field in Scotland and France, the thunder of the charging 
 squadrons, the hoarse shouts of the combatants, mingled with the cries 
 of the wounded, and the groans of the dying. David himself fought 
 with the courage which hope lends to despair. He was, however, 
 disarmed, and led from the scene of carnage. On the fall of the royal 
 banner, the Scots gave way, and made good their retreat, but not till 
 15,000 of their comrades slept their last sleep on the field. The Cross 
 erected to commemorate the English victory remained standing until 
 1589, it which year it is said to have been defaced and broken down.
 
 BATTLE OF NF.l'Il.LE'S CROSS. 159 
 
 Still on they come o'er mount and glen, 
 
 Relentless as the storm, 
 Till Derwent's sheltered banks are gained 
 
 Of many a sylvan charm. 
 A night they linger on the spot 
 
 Where once the Roman roved, 
 And dream, no doubt, the hallowed shades 
 
 The Saxon virgin loved. 
 But restless as the fallow deer 
 
 When hunters track his lair, 
 Behold them now by Beaurepaire, 
 Where roll thy waves pellucid Wear, 
 
 And England's bravest dare. 
 
 In pomp and pageantry of war 
 
 The King indulges now, 
 But conquest speaketh in his eye, 
 
 And curls his warrior brow. 
 Now round him Desolation stalks, 
 
 As led by fiendish powers, 
 And Durham in thy precincts now 
 
 A dread destruction lowers : 
 The blazing cot, the bridge, the tree, 
 
 Send up their flames on high, 
 And wanton like the lightning's wing 
 
 In midnight's radiant sky. 
 
 Davies, however, in his " Rights and Monuments," fully describes it. 
 A drawing of the Cross was made and engraved for Hutchinson's 
 History of the County Palatine, printed in 1787, which agrees with 
 Davies' description, and may, we think, in the general features, be 
 accepted as a fair representation of the original erection. For the loan 
 of this beautiful little block we are indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Geo. 
 Walker, author and publisher of the Guide to Durham, whose father, 
 at the beginning of this century, lent it to Surtees to embellish his 
 magnificent History of Durham. It is believed that the block was cut 
 by Thomas Bewick, at least, the elder Mr. Walker used to say so, and 
 he possessed a large number of the famous engraver's woodcuts. The 
 only portion of the Cross now remaining is the octagonal stone, or boss, 
 referred to by Davies as supporting the Cross. The pillar let into it is 
 no part of the originil erection, having evidently been pi iced there in 
 modern times. At the latter part of 1883, Mr. Dodds, of Rokeby Villa, 
 solicited subscriptions for repiiring the Cross, and the public responding 
 liberally, the mound on which it stands has been repaired, and the boss 
 has been placed on a stone base, a strong iron palisade, let into a neat 
 low wall, protecting the whole.
 
 160 BATTLE OF NEVILLE'S CROSS. 
 
 But where are Albion's hardy sons 
 
 That erst no foe could tame, 
 Who conquered or conquering have left 
 
 An honoured deathless name ? 
 Have Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane, 
 
 And Norman blent their fire, 
 To yield their blood-bought laurels now, 
 
 And craven-like expire ? 
 Where is that more than mortal pride 
 
 In patriot souls which bled 
 On Hastings' sanguine field, or piled 
 
 There mountains of the dead ? 
 
 Fear not, my muse ; in yonder Park* 
 
 Some sturdy warriors lie ; 
 Still burns the fire of chivalry 
 
 In Percy's eagle eye, 
 The hero soul which Victory bore 
 
 Through Hallidon's fierce fight, 
 Where foemen fell, as summer rain 
 Descends upon a dusty plain, 
 
 And sank in endless night : 
 The offspring of a noble race, 
 
 Who strode by Rolla's side,f 
 By prowess on to victory led, 
 Or side by side with honour laid, 
 
 And crowned with glory died ! 
 In Neville's arm is deadly strength 
 
 The flashing sword to wield, 
 And Copeland J to a northern foe 
 
 Was never taught to yield : 
 
 * The English Army, on the i6th, "the day preceding the battle," 
 was encamped in Auckland Park. 
 
 + We are informed by a talented biographer Robt. Harrison, Esq., 
 that the Perries were descended from chieftains who aided Rolla to 
 conquer Normandy. The Barons of Percy were nobles of repute, for 
 nearly two centuries previous to the conquest of England. 
 
 % John Copeland, or John de Copeland, a Northumbrian Esquire, 
 who immortalised himself in this battle by capturing the King, though not 
 before David, with his laced gauntlet, knocked two of his assailant's 
 teeth out. There are descendants of this valorous Esquire now living in 
 the vicinity of Shotley Bridge.
 
 BATTLE OF NEVILLE'S CROSS. 161 
 
 Rokeby, Baliol's hearts, I ween, 
 Ne'er throbbed with aught of fear, 
 
 But England's Crown, their native land, 
 And Freedom, hold they dear. 
 
 The morn of an eventful day 
 
 At length has fairly dawned, 
 And front to front, in glancing pride, 
 
 The hostile armies stand. 
 The Prior and devoted train* 
 
 Kneel in yon hallowed bower, 
 Thy holy corporax cloth on high, 
 St. Cuthbert, greets the azure sky, 
 
 A solemn prayer they pour ; 
 The hearts on yon Cathedral Tower, 
 
 Sweet, fervent strains distil, 
 Which, as the liquid speech of woe, 
 Fall on the glittering stream below, 
 
 And float from hill to hill 
 Like spirits from some hidden world 
 
 Of pain, and love, and prayer, 
 They wail, rejoice, and summon aid, 
 In lull and swell by the breezes made, 
 
 They glide on the pregnant air. 
 
 But hark ! he trumpet sounds the charge, 
 
 The daunttless Scots advance, 
 O'er .haughty brows the banners wave, 
 
 The restless chargers prance. 
 The English archers pour a cloud 
 
 Of arrows through the sky, 
 And many a noble form is laid 
 
 In gore to writhe and die. 
 
 * On the spot where " Neville's Cross "was erected in commemoration 
 of this victory, previous to, and during the progress of the battle, and 
 within sight of both armies, " the prior with his attendants knelt 
 around the holy corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert, which, in obedience 
 to a miraculous vision, was elevated on the point of a spear, whilst the 
 remaining brethren of the convent poured forth their hymns from the 
 highest tower of the Cathedral."
 
 162 BATTLE OP NEVILLE'S CROSS. 
 
 See, like a meteor, through the heavens, 
 
 Intrepid Graham* is borne ; 
 The archers from his vengeful sword 
 
 In nerveless horror turn : 
 Bravely alone he wins his way 
 
 A god no more had done 
 Till he in the unequal fight 
 Falls like an eagle struck in flight, 
 
 When soaring to the sun. 
 Now wounded, feeble from the fray, 
 
 He seeks his ranks again, 
 With ebbing life and aspect pale, 
 
 Mingled of wrath and pain. 
 Now Scotland's Steward cleaves his way 
 
 With battle-axe and blade 
 The archers waver at the stroke 
 Immortal Percy's ranks are broke 
 
 Disordered not dismayed. 
 Courage ! BalioFs horsemen come, 
 
 With vengeance in their train : 
 Oh Scotia ! vain's thy valour here 
 
 They sweep thee from the plain ! 
 
 With that unconquerable will, 
 
 Which death may tame alone, 
 Impetuous David struggles still 
 With Neville on yon crimsoned hill, 
 Where life is gushing like a rill, 
 
 And dying warriors groan. 
 Again brave Baliol seeks the foe, 
 
 Resistless as a wave, 
 The royal guard this luckless hour 
 Recoil before the conquering power, 
 
 Or die as die the brave ! 
 
 * John Graham, after being refused by the King an hundred lances to 
 break the archers, " actuated by courage and indignation, threw himself 
 alone upon the archers, and dispersed them on every side, and fought" 
 until his horse was struck by a broad arrow, and himself wounded and 
 bleeding, was scarcely able to regain the ranks of his countrymen with 
 life."
 
 BATTLE OF NEVILLE'S CROSS. 163 
 
 Brave Murray and his hapless few, 
 
 Where Death and Havock reign, 
 By countless foes environed fight, 
 
 But ne'er shall fight again. 
 " England and Victory " shake the field, 
 
 And Scotland drinks the sound, 
 But 'mid confusion, panic, flight, 
 And voices of despair, delight, 
 
 The mingling words are drowned. 
 
 But Caledonia in the shock 
 
 Has not forgot her King,* 
 The best of Albyn's sons, endowed 
 With courage high and spirits proud 
 (As light may fringe the darkest cloud) 
 
 Around him form a ring ! 
 But bootless all : the halo bright 
 Is but a ray of transient light. 
 
 See daring Copeland spring, 
 Like preying tiger fiercely eyed, 
 And dash the glittering swords aside, 
 
 And seize the struggling king ! 
 Now Royal rage is worse than vain, 
 The monarch is a captive ta'en. 
 
 Silence again her reign assumes, 
 
 Save on the stilly air 
 Falls, like a voice from out the grave, 
 
 Some wounded soldier's prayer. 
 The monks have ceased their hymning strain, 
 
 The blushing Wear rolls on, 
 The heart's blood of ten thousand glides 
 All passionless within his tides, 
 
 The battle's lost and won ! 
 
 * " Has not forgot her King," alluding to the gallant band of Scotch 
 nobles, who formed themselves around their King, and fought so well, 
 but vainly, to save him from being taken captive by the English.
 
 Xines on tbe Deatb of tbe Hutbor'6 
 flDotber, flDarcb, 1873, 
 
 WAS sad to part in our earthly home, 
 And lay thee to sleep in the grassy tomb ; 
 To see the radiance fade and die, 
 And darkness steal o'er thy loving eye ; 
 To think that Silence his seal had set 
 On thy heart and pale lip quivering yet ; 
 To know that thy voice, so soft and sweet, 
 Which taught me infant prayers t' repeat, 
 For e'er was hushed to an earthly ear, 
 And only heard in a higher sphere. 
 
 O ! sweet be thy joy on that hallowed shore, 
 Where thy soul finds peace for evermore 
 In elysian fields, where spirits dwell, 
 Bound in the power of a mighty spell 
 Thrown from the eye of Eternal Love, 
 Which kindles to splendour the realms above.
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 165 
 
 O ! here, as free as a summer bird, 
 
 Thou'lt sing the songs that earth never heard, 
 
 Save dying ears when the angels came 
 
 The fair and loved of heaven to claim, 
 
 To bear them on wings of Love away 
 
 Through the star-gemmed blue to celestial day.
 
 ! Cell flDe mot 
 
 TELL me not of pleasures past, 
 Tis but an idle dream, 
 
 A ray from joyous memories cast 
 On life's dark rolling stream. 
 
 For when 'tis gone a denser gloom 
 Creeps o'er the troubled heart, 
 
 As shadows darkle o'er the tomb, 
 And sorrow's self impart. 
 
 Like waveless ocean, dark and deep, 
 
 Let parted moments be, 
 Where tamed and tired tempests sleep, 
 
 From wreck and riot free. 
 
 And show me, as with Faith's clear eye, 
 
 Where future glories shine, 
 And Virtue's immortality 
 
 With Joy and Triumph twine.
 
 Xines Written on a Wsit.to Ibamsterleg, November, 1883. 
 
 |OW pleasant on this genial Autumn day, 
 (Though blooming flowers strew not my 
 
 winding way, 
 
 And every gentle breath of western breeze 
 Shakes the sear'd foliage from majestic trees, 
 Though the bright rill is singing in mine ear 
 A mournful requiem over Summer's bier, 
 Though birds are mute, and mother Nature now 
 Is shining not upon the rose's brow), 
 To rove these solemn shades, in thought profound, 
 Where every spot I tread is hallowed ground. 
 
 Yet sweeter still, methinks, 'neath Springtime's sky, 
 
 To linger here would be to poet's eye, 
 
 When Nature throws her ever comely dress 
 
 Upon the grove, the field, the precipice, 
 
 And larks on rapture's wings ascend on high, 
 
 Pouring celestial drops of melody ; 
 
 And the sweet thrush and blackbird cheer the day, 
 
 Or sing the quiet hours of eve away ; 
 
 And every linnet's simple song is dear 
 
 As sighing zeyhyrs to the list'ning ear ; 
 
 When starry flowers appear so bright they give 
 
 The soul a radiant hope, and bid it live. 
 
 * Hamsterley, on the Dcrwent, the residence of the Misses Surtees.
 
 168 HAMSTERLEY. 
 
 But dearer still than even these to me, 
 
 Yea, e'en the streamlet's liquid lullaby, 
 
 To stand in serious mood and muse awhile, 
 
 In pleasure lost, on this romantic pile,* 
 
 And hear, as thoughtful Surtees oft was wont, 
 
 The dashing waterfall of rocky Pont ; 
 
 Or view the tow'ring Pontopike afar, 
 
 'Neath Summer's kindly beam, or Winter's war ; 
 
 Or nearer gaze, with rapture-kindling eye, 
 
 Upon these fairer scenes of beauty by, 
 
 Where Nature's lavished smile and Art have given 
 
 A paradise to earth a dream of Heaven. 
 
 Here classic Swinburne'st skilful hand is seen, 
 
 For yet his touches linger on the scene, 
 
 To charm the mind of taste, and lure the eye, 
 
 And breathe the author's immortality. 
 
 No wonder, then, that he whose feet have trod 
 
 These loved and dear retreats, ere yet to God 
 
 His spirit winged her everlasting flight, 
 
 Should wish again to visit parent earth, 
 And roam these cherished bowers^ of love and light, 
 
 Which gave his soul enchantment in their birth. 
 
 * Handley Cross Bridge, a beautiful battlemented structure, built by 
 the late Mr. R. S. Surtees, from which can be distinctly heard the 
 dashing of the bold and rocky waterfall of the Pont, and seen the 
 northern slopes of the towering Pontop Pike ; and in the immediate 
 vicinity, scenery of the most exquisite character. 
 
 t Mr. Henry Swinburne, author of "Travels in Spain," and "Letters 
 from the Courts of Paris and Naples," a former owner of Hamsterley, 
 whose grounds, in his hands, "soon became remarkable for being the 
 most picturesque and well laid out of any in that part of the county; as 
 they combined the classic precision of the Italian style, with the more 
 wild and sylvan boldness of the English park scenery. " 
 
 % Mr. Swinburne, who was passionately attached to the secluded 
 beauties of Hamsterley, concludes a letter written in Trinidad, where 
 he had accepted office, and shortly afterwards died, in 1803, with the 
 mournful words " Nothing interests me now : nothing but thoughts of 
 distant home occupy my mind. I shall soon be like what we read of 
 the Indians and Africans, that think when they die they shall be trans- 
 planted back to their native groves. I wish I could think so,"
 
 Cross
 
 HAMSTERLEY. 
 
 Another Surtees"* eke has left his share 
 Of taste and beauty on these landscapes fair : 
 Not Surtees,t he whose genius caught its hues 
 Or striking colours from the Laughing Muse ; 
 Yet true was he to Nature as to Art, 
 And many a wond'rous welcome lesson taught, 
 And deeply 'graved them on the human heart. 
 And though the verdant, beauteous grove may fade, 
 The birch decay, and vanish from the glade, 
 And though the oaks, whose leafy honours wave 
 (Their shadows trembling in their glassy grave), 
 Should die beneath the crumbling touch of Time, 
 
 Or ruined fall beneath the tempest's breath, 
 Still shall he flourish, as in youthful prime, 
 
 With deep-browed Swinburne, and know nought 
 of death. 
 
 * Mr. Anthony Surtees, successor to Mr. Swinburne at Hamsterley, 
 was a great sportsman, and a scientific and extensive planter, whose love 
 of woodland scenery was intense, and his admiration of his predecessor's 
 taste in the department of ornamental planting unbounded. His friend 
 and relative, the late celebrated historian of the county, paid him no 
 unmerited compliment in saying that Hamsterley had improved in his 
 hands. 
 
 t Robert Smith Surtees, second son of Anthony Surtees, succeeded 
 to the patrimonial estates in 1838. Having been born and bred within 
 hearing of Mr. Ralph Lambton and his famous foxhounds, he commenced 
 his career with some account of their doings, as well as of other kennels, 
 in the old Sporting Magazine. In the year 1831, he published " The 
 Horseman's Manual," being a treatise on soundness, the law of warranty, 
 and generally on the laws relating to horses. This work was written 
 whilst the author was at Lincoln's Inn Fields, and in it are revealed his 
 tastes as a sportsman, and his education as a lawyer. It is the more 
 interesting because of its dedication to a gentleman whose name is a 
 household word in the north the late Ralph John Lambton, Esq., of 
 Merton House, Durham. Between these two gentlemen a most intimate 
 acquaintance existed during their lifetimes, not only as kindred sportsmen, 
 but as personal friends. A portrait, painted by Mr. Francis Grant, was 
 publicly presented to Mr. Lambton in 1837, and the sketch from which 
 it was made was given to Mr. Surtees, who was mainly instrumental in 
 the picture being painted. This sketch, which is a striking likeness of 
 the gallant old foxhunter, occupies a prominent place above the carved 
 stone mantlepiece in the dining room at Hamsterley. Very shortly after 
 the publication of his treatise on the horse, Mr. Surtees, in conjunction 
 with Mr. Rudolph Akerman, started ^the " New Sporting Magazine,"
 
 I 7 2 HAMSTERLEY. 
 
 But let me further rove, in pleasing dream, 
 
 The mazes of this pure and limpid stream, 
 
 For here are treasures still to be explored, 
 
 And latent beauties yet to be adored, 
 
 Gardens where blushing roses erst did bloom, 
 
 And left the ling'ring breath of their perfume. 
 
 Behold Mazzunti's* walk, in soothing shade, 
 
 As 'twere for timid lovers' courtship made : 
 
 Here Swinburne often came, and left a spell 
 
 Of ghost-like presence by a lucid well, 
 
 Where oft, perchance, he quaffed the sparkling wave 
 
 Dear Nature's nectar, or did hither lave 
 
 His fevered brow, ere yet he raised his eye 
 
 To catch the lustre of the sunny sky ; 
 
 Or feed his polished mind on features near, 
 
 So dear to him, for his sake also dear 
 
 To many others, in whose minds shall dwell 
 
 His hallowed memory and crystal well. 
 
 Still further let me trace this shadowy vale, 
 
 Whose woody depths scarce know the northern gale, 
 
 which he edited until 1836. "Nothing," says the writer of a memoir of 
 Mr. Surtees which appears in his work, "Jorrocks' Jaunts and Jollities," 
 " could well exceed the success of this work. Nimrod almost imme- 
 diately joined it, while Mr. Surtees himself touched on a vein of rich 
 humour, of which, in such a field, there had hitherto been no suspicion. 
 But Mr. Surtees was something more than a satirist or a humourist he 
 was a sportsman, and hence the force and effect he was enabled to give 
 to his sketches the foundation of truth upon which he laid his quaint, 
 fanciful structures." Mr. Surtees' time was, as may be well imagined, 
 fully occupied upon his literary labours, or in attending to the duties 
 that devolved upon him as a country gentleman, and a magistrate for 
 the counties of Durham and Northumberland. He took the deepest 
 interest in agriculture, and frequently presided at the annual meetings 
 of the members of the old Derwent and Shotley Bridge Agricultural 
 Society, his speeches on these occasions being redolent with wit and 
 humour. Abridged from the History of West Durham. 
 
 * " Mazzunti's Walk," so called by Mr. Swinburne, stretching from 
 the east side of the Hall, skirting a dean, to a well, over which Mr. 
 Swinburne had placed a Latin inscription, of which he gives us, in one 
 of his books, an English translation, which discloses the refined taste 
 and poetic inspiration of the author.

 
 HAMSTERLEY. 173 
 
 And tread the pathway where a lady* roved, 
 A fair retreat her bosom ever loved : 
 A shade from noon-day heat, a shelter when 
 The ruthless storm-king howled across the plain. 
 No longer here her willing feet may rove : 
 On higher shores, the gift of heavenly love, 
 Her spirit dwelleth, where eternal rest 
 And rapture linger ever with the blest. 
 Sweet is her memory still : the needy poor 
 
 Had cause to ever bless her bounteous hand, 
 And weep the heart that can relieve no more, 
 
 Whilst wand'ring friendless thro' their native land. 
 
 Lo ! the fair mansion, let me look on thee, 
 
 Thou home of Thought and Hospitality ! 
 
 And with the rev'rence due the minds of yore, 
 
 Which pour rich tributes o'er the land no more, 
 
 Recall their lettered pages, and employ 
 
 My humble mind on thoughts which gave them joy ; 
 
 Range o'er their fields of Fancy, and awake 
 
 Their own creations for their authors' sake : 
 
 Admire, at least, what Genius has given 
 
 (The painter's art, a glowing gift from heaven), 
 
 And every inspiration they impart 
 
 Treasure within my poor, but grateful heart ! 
 
 * To the west of the mansion, a secluded footpath, taking the course 
 of a small brook, leads the visitor for a considerable distance through 
 most exquisite woodland scenery. This walk was made for Mrs. Surtees, 
 who loved to wander here and spend a quiet hour admiring the beauties 
 of Nature. Mrs. Surtees, who was much and deservedly beloved, par- 
 ticularly by the poor around her, to whom she was ever thoughtful and 
 kind, died in 1879.
 
 ^Temperance poems.
 
 Xittlc Bow of Blue. 
 
 JO ! maiden, listen while I tell 
 
 A story of a bow, 
 But not of such an one, I ween, 
 
 As you are wont to know ; 
 Though, sooth to say, it yet may prove 
 
 As honest and as true, 
 As any in the land have done, 
 This little bow of blue. 
 
 And, youngster, with the radiant eye, 
 
 Proud brow, erect, and fair, 
 I'll tell you how you may escape 
 
 The cank'ring tooth of Care ; 
 And some braw lassie's azure orbs 
 
 (Love's lightning flashing through) 
 May see, and prize the wearer of 
 
 The little bow of blue. 
 
 When Winter's storms blow loud and high, 
 
 The skies are foul with rain, 
 Or hailstones patter on your door, 
 
 And smite the window pane, 
 And not a fissure in the clouds 
 
 To show the heaven's hue, 
 I'll tell you where you e'er may find 
 
 A tiny strip of blue.
 
 178 THE LITTLE BOW OF BLUE. 
 
 O ! blue, thou hast a magic sound, 
 
 Whate'er thy shade may be ; 
 Thou rob'st the skies in loveliness, 
 
 And tint'st the tossing sea. 
 The harebell by the daisied mead, 
 
 Is beautiful to view ; 
 But most we dote upon thee 
 
 In the pretty bow of blue. 
 
 Yes ! bow of chaste cerulean, 
 
 There's something in thy name, 
 Breathing on Virtue's smouldering fire, 
 
 Which kindles it to flame : 
 That flame flows round the hardest heart, 
 
 And softens it like dew, 
 To take impressions fresh from God, 
 
 O glorious bow of blue ! 
 
 Thou hast a meaning deeply set, 
 
 And tell'st of future joys, 
 Of Pleasure's glow on earth below, 
 
 Re-union in the skies. 
 'Tis sweet to dream of meeting those 
 
 We loved, though lost to view, 
 Who may have won their victory 
 
 By the hallowed bow of blue. 
 
 Now, friends, if Sorrow's shadows fall 
 
 Across your brow and floor, 
 And Dissipation's hand has barr'd 
 
 The blessings from your door, 
 I'll show you how to ope the gate 
 
 To happiness anew, 
 By taking from a Christian hand 
 
 A precious bow of blue.
 
 TOM JONES. 179 
 
 The scribes are at the table, 
 
 To take down all your names, 
 And tell you, through their looks of love, 
 
 That Christ His own reclaims ; 
 And ladies fair with gentle hands 
 
 To minister to you, 
 And give you, with their blessing, 
 
 The happy bow of blue. 
 
 Trust not until to-morrow 
 
 To-morrow may not come, 
 And Death may intercept you, 
 
 Ere you reach your wonted home. 
 So come and take the Pledge at once, 
 
 A treasure tried and true, 
 And you'll bless the happy time you donned 
 
 The bonnie bow of blue. 
 
 ZTom Jones. 
 
 OU may talk about the joy, 
 And the bliss without alloy, 
 All the Bacchanalian fancies, 
 And his wit Tom Jones ; 
 Of the jolly-going song, 
 And chorus loud and long, 
 When merry folks among, 
 As you like Tom Jones. 
 
 You may drown your grief-worn soul 
 Within the sparkling bowl, 
 Nor reflect upon the goal 
 
 As you're wont Tom Jones ; 
 And point some rosy face 
 As a model of his race, 
 And attribute Beauty's grace 
 To the drink Tom Jones.
 
 i8o TOM JONES. 
 
 You may mark some haggard form, 
 As a prey to the reform 
 Touching alcoholic liquors 
 
 Doing harm Tom Jones ; 
 And laugh at honest men, 
 Who do the best they can 
 To urge some temperance plan 
 
 For your good Tom Jones. 
 
 You may revel, you may rant, 
 And charge us all with cant ; 
 Such stuff we do not want 
 
 From your lips Tom Jones. 
 'Tis the thought of better souls 
 Than Alcohol enthrals, 
 Which the brave and noble sigh for 
 
 And possess Tom Jones. 
 
 But your joy to grief will turn, 
 And, alas ! such bliss you'll mourn, 
 And all your glowing fancies 
 
 Turn to woe Tom Jones. 
 And the revel and the song 
 To sorrow change ere long, 
 As all things really wrong 
 
 Ever must Tom Jones. 
 
 Though the sorrow of the soul 
 You may drown within the bowl, 
 When you look upon the goal 
 
 In calmer thought Tom Jones, 
 And the rosy face decayed 
 In the mould is lowly laid, 
 Your folly you'll upbraid, 
 
 I've no doubt Tom Jones.
 
 TOM /ONES. 181 
 
 And the form on which your eyes 
 Did fall but to despise, 
 May still have got the action 
 
 To do good Tom Jones. 
 And the honest men may still 
 Be labouring with a will, 
 To check the poisoned rill 
 Which has slain as many millions 
 
 As old Time Tom Jones. 
 
 For the cant well, let that go : 
 
 We admit we are not slow 
 
 To strike with language stirring 
 
 On the point Tom Jones; 
 And bare Corruption's heart, 
 As the brave and honest ought, 
 Though we're bullied for the part 
 
 Which we act Tom Jones. 
 
 There are moments in our souls, 
 When the voice of Conscience calls, 
 Like a troubled ocean rolling, 
 
 And we feel Tom Jones, 
 That the basest passions fly, 
 When we dream that we must die, 
 And the lingering virtues sigh 
 
 O'er the past Tom Jones. 
 
 So remember all thy grief, 
 And the oft-sighed-for relief, 
 'Twere sweet, however brief, 
 
 To thy heart Tom Jones, 
 From hell's consuming flame, 
 The thirst we need not name, 
 That brought thee to the shame 
 
 Which thou know'st Tom Jones.
 
 1 82 M.VANGELINE. 
 
 May thy brain (perhaps it shall) 
 Throw off the tyrant's thrall, 
 And the wormwood and the gall 
 
 Of remorse Tom Jones. 
 Then thy mind may speak the thought 
 Of calmness as it ought, 
 For a cause by virtue taught, 
 
 Which shall live Tom Jones. 
 
 Evangeline. 
 
 VANGELINE \ 
 
 How pale, how sad thou art ! 
 Thine eyes have lost their laughing light, 
 
 And sorrow palls thy heart ! 
 No more the sunny smiles of joy 
 
 Do lighten o'er thy face ; 
 Thy form no longer throws around 
 
 The magic of its grace. 
 Thy cheek, where beauty beamed, I ween, 
 
 Hath lost its roseate hue, 
 And all that made thee beauty's queen 
 Hath fled for evermore. 
 
 Evangeiine ! Evangeiine ! 
 
 Reflection well may mourn 
 Our happy youth and innocence 
 
 Which never can return. 
 The flowers we loved have lost their charms, 
 
 And love is almost fled, 
 For what to mortal eye is fair 
 
 When virtue's self is dead ? 
 It makes me weep the change to dream, 
 
 For memory drives me wild ; 
 The surging waves of passion's stream 
 
 Have all my soul defiled.
 
 EVANGELINE. 183 
 
 Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 
 
 Thy silence rends my breast ; 
 Thou dost not murmur, though thou hast 
 
 No hope of earthly rest. 
 Alas ! I never felt till now 
 
 Th' impenetrable gloom 
 Which sin hath cast around me, 
 
 Like the shadows of the tomb. 
 Thou dost not murmur, though thou know'st 
 
 Thy earthly bark is driven, 
 A tempest tost and shattered wreck, 
 
 From love, and hope, and heaven. 
 
 Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 
 
 O ! wilt thou yet forgive 
 " The plighted husband of thy youth ?" 
 
 And bid my soul revive 
 The dream of bliss thou erst inspired 
 
 In days so long ago, 
 Which, like a marsh-lamp through the gloom, 
 
 Is fading faint and low 
 Within my breast, whose sable shades 
 
 Have quenched the light it knew, 
 When virtue smiled ere sorrow frowned, 
 
 And I to thee was true. 
 
 Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 
 
 The children of our love 
 Have died ere yet their childhood fled, 
 
 And rove in realms above : 
 They were not fed and clothed as ought 
 
 A Christian child to be, 
 And this one thought my soul enthrals 
 
 And will not set me free. 
 O ! that some Lethe's wave would rise 
 
 And sweep it from my breast, 
 And my sad heart be passionless, 
 
 Or know its former rest !
 
 184 SIT DOWN A WEE. 
 
 Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 
 
 If grief hath hallowing power, 
 Repentance lead the soul to heaven, 
 
 I'm saved this very hour. 
 So throw the sorrow from thee, love, 
 
 There's hope beyond the grave, 
 The God who spared me through my crime 
 
 Hath yet the power to save : 
 And I thine evening's calm will light 
 
 With love which yet doth burn 
 A burnished sky o'er the setting sun 
 
 Tells of refulgent morn. 
 
 Sit Down a 
 
 |IT down a wee sit down, guid wife ; 
 
 What ca's the tear-drap to your ee ? 
 O ! weel I ken o' inward strife, 
 
 That tears thy tender breast for me. 
 I've seen itlang, I've suffered sair, 
 
 And shed a thousand blindin' tears ; 
 But I'm resolved to sin na mair, 
 
 And bury a' those rolling years, 
 Jf mem'ry wi' her hauntin' mirror 
 Does na reflect our former sorrow. 
 
 Sit down, and put your hand in mine ; 
 
 Our better days are a' to come. 
 Jeanie, when first my saul was thine, 
 
 I dreamed o' nought but love and home : 
 I thought that sin could hae na power, 
 
 Nor care wi' ought o' Jeanie dwell, 
 But vain the vision o' that hour, 
 
 My crimes hae made an earthly hell, 
 And hell itself could na reveal 
 A horror worse than that I feel !
 
 SIT DOWN A WEE. 185 
 
 And though 'tis twenty years sinsyne, 
 
 I yet can see in thy sweet face 
 The glowing virtues half divine, 
 
 And feel the magic o' thy grace ; 
 The thought o't warms my haggard clay, 
 
 As spring-time's sun fa's on the earth, 
 The beamy splendour o' whose ray 
 
 Ca's mony a flowery gem to birth ; 
 But I will mak' my story brief, 
 'T may waukin hope or heighten grief. 
 
 My pleasure was a' love could gie, 
 
 When first I wandered by thy side ; 
 I had a' warlds could gie to me 
 
 My tender Jean my bonnie bride, 
 But comrades woo'd me frae thy breast, 
 
 To bouse till mornin' lit the sky ; 
 Fu' weel I ken'd 'twad break thy rest, 
 
 And fill wi' scaudin' tear thy eye : 
 I suffered aft and sair, I ween, 
 To murder thus my darling Jean. 
 
 Yet on I went my devious road, 
 
 By passion's powerfu' vengeance driven, 
 
 Like streams whase banks are overflowed, 
 When thunder rains fa' down frae heaven. 
 
 The bairnies cam' the gifts o' grace, 
 
 ' Wha should hae wiled me frae my sin, 
 
 But na the charms o' ilk sweet face, 
 My saul frae darkling crime could win, 
 
 And Jeanie, I beheld the while 
 
 Thy fading cheek and waning smile. 
 
 I saw the fire that lit thine eyes 
 
 Grow dim beneath the weight o' woe, 
 
 And heard impassioned grief-born sighs 
 Express thy bosom's rending throe. 
 
 I marked thee turn thine eager gaze, 
 Wi' aspect hopeless and forlorn,
 
 186 GOUGIfS PERORATION ON WATER. 
 
 To catch 'yond sorrow's gloomy haze 
 A wee bit glimpse o' smiling morn, 
 Then turn wi' anguish in thine ee 
 To look upon disgrace and me. 
 
 And years hae come and years hae gane, 
 
 Cauld death has snatched our eldest born, 
 And ta'en her weary aching brain 
 
 For ever frae the light o' morn ; 
 And Tammie, too, is by her side, 
 
 Nor will our Willie lang be here. 
 O God ! that I in youth had died, 
 
 Then thou, my grief-worn Jeanie dear, 
 Na aught o' waefu' want had ken'd 
 Enough the hearts o' rocks to rend. 
 
 Some blessings we hae left us yet ; 
 
 In our wee Mary's sheeny eye 
 The remnants o' our hopes are met, 
 
 Which breathes some still remaining joy. 
 If God awhile my health will spare, 
 
 And thou my dwelling to adorn, 
 His ways shall be my greatest care, 
 
 And kneeling humbly night and morn, 
 His praise shall fill my gratfu' breast, 
 Till death has closed mine eyes in rest. 
 
 peroration on Mater IDersffieo. 
 
 HIS is the liquor our Father brews 
 For His children here which their strength 
 
 renews, 
 
 Not o'er smoky fires in the simmering still 
 Whose choking, poisonous, gases fill 
 The air around with their sickening scent, 
 With odours of rank corruption blent, 
 Does our Heavenly Father in Heaven prepare
 
 COUGH'S PERORATION ON WATER 187 
 
 This essence of life, this water rare, 
 
 But in the green glade and grassy dell> 
 
 Where the red deer roves 'neath Freedom's spell, 
 
 And the children smile in their .wonted play 
 
 When they seek the shade from the summer's ray, 
 
 There God brews it ; and down, low down 
 
 In the valley's depths where the fountain flings 
 To the balmy gale its liquid tune 
 And the tinkling rill as in gladness sings ; 
 And on the mountain's towering height 
 
 Where the golden granite shines afar 
 Beneath the sun's refulgent light, 
 
 Where the storm-clouds brood and hold their war, 
 Where the thunders crash tremendously, 
 And away far out on the wide, wild sea, 
 Where the hurricane howls its music drear, 
 And the big waves roar the chorus here, 
 
 Sweeping the march of Our Heavenly King. 
 There He brews it this soul of life 
 This water pure of health so rife, 
 
 And everywhere 'tis a beauteous thing : 
 In the dewdrops fair as they gleaming lie 
 On their velvet couch in the violet's eye, 
 Singing so sweet in the summer rain, 
 
 As it bends the flower on its fragile stem, 
 And its odours spring to life again, 
 Shining afar in the icy gem, 
 Till the trees to living jewels run, 
 Spreading a veil o'er the setting sun, 
 Or a white gauze the midnight moon to pall, 
 Sporting in every waterfall ; 
 In the glacier's bosom sleeping, 
 In the lashing hail shower dancing, 
 
 Folding its bright snow curtains round 
 The wintry world in the sunbeam glancing, 
 
 Weaving the rainbow's hues profound, ' 
 That seraph's zone of the lovely sky, 
 
 Whose warp's the gleaming raindrop of earth, 
 Whose woofs the sunbeam from on high 
 
 All chequer'd o'er, from their mystic birth,
 
 i88 THE REFORMED DRUNKARD'S ADDRESS. 
 
 With celestial flowers, by refraction given. 
 
 Still always 'tis a beauteous thing, 
 
 This water blest, this boon of Heaven : 
 
 No poison bubbles fro.m its spring, 
 
 Nor madness, nor murder, from out its foam 
 
 Arise like fiends from their hellish home. 
 
 Its liquid glass no blood can stain, 
 
 Nor widows nor starving orphans rave, 
 Nor weep hot tears in its depths in vain ; 
 
 No drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave 
 In deep despair shall his curses howl : 
 
 Would you exchange it ? speak out, my friend, 
 For the demon's drink cursed Alcohol ! 
 
 j|Y sweet, my patient Wilhomine ! 
 What anguish have thy blue eyes seen, 
 What pent-up sorrow filled thy breast, 
 When terror took the place of rest ! 
 How oft those orbs, bedewed with tears, 
 Have looked for dawning light through fears ! 
 You bore my slow decay of love, 
 While asking aid from realms above, 
 To snatch me from the sin, whose powers 
 Blight virtue's fairest, loveliest flowers ; 
 And tells of man's undying crime, 
 That haunts him still through every clime, 
 And rankles in his children's veins, 
 Who seldom know the sire who gave 
 The earthly hell, expressed in pains, 
 Which bear them to an early grave. 
 The gifts of gracious Heaven were ours, 
 Whose angel forms I ne'er caressed, 
 For I was swayed by darker powers 
 Than those which seek a nobler breast : 
 They lived in want and misery,
 
 THE REFORMED DRUNKARD'S ADDRESS. 189 
 
 They died, and you with grief were wild, 
 
 Alas ! it was not so with me 
 
 No sacred thought my soul beguiled ; 
 
 I false to nature, feeling too, 
 
 But you to both and heaven were true. 
 
 And we are childless, Wilhomine ! 
 
 For Death hath ta'en them one by one ; 
 
 They moulder in the churchyard green, 
 
 And we are left to dwell alone. 
 
 Oh! when the past I dream and you, 
 
 My folly, madness, bid me start ; 
 
 Remorse's tempest sweeps me through, 
 
 And preys upon my stricken heart. 
 
 Could scalding tears of bitter grief 
 
 To crime's afflictions bring relief, 
 
 Then might I hope for peace of mind, 
 
 To mix among and love my kind, 
 
 And make amends for influence spent 
 
 In driving others from content. 
 
 But there is something night and day 
 
 Which makes my calm of soul its prey, 
 
 And places suffering progeny, 
 
 And you, whom once I loved so well, 
 
 Before mine eyes, that I may see 
 
 What constitutes my proper hell ; 
 
 For all, I've learnt, who harbour crime, 
 
 Shall have their earthly pleasure marred. 
 
 The truth's expressed by sage sublime : 
 
 Fair virtue is her own reward. 
 
 Fit sorrow mine fit anguish this, 
 
 But you are blameless, and I feel 
 
 (While heaven's afflicting rod I kiss) 
 
 A purpose in me like the steel, 
 
 Which bends but will not break, so strong 
 
 My soul hath waxed to face the wrong. 
 
 I pledge thee in this subtle grief 
 
 Which asks, nor claims, nor seeks relief, 
 
 Remembering God beholds the vow, 
 
 Whose spirit surely fills me now, 
 
 That I the poison cup will spurn,
 
 190 THE REFORMED DRUNKARD'S ADDRESS. 
 
 Nor treat its votaries hence with scorn ; 
 For who that finds the shores of peace, 
 From danger's tossing ocean free, 
 Would not at once desire release 
 To erring brothers still at sea ? 
 Tho' 'tis God's will that those who err 
 Must suffer conscience's keenest woe, 
 Remorse will seize the murderer, 
 Though human law the lash forego. 
 It is not scorn and hate they need 
 Who quaff the dregs of misery's bowl ; 
 They reap in suffering for the deed, 
 And hasten to an awful goal, 
 Except unearthly hands to save 
 Are stretched to check the rolling wave 
 Of passion ere it 'whelm below, 
 Who else to trembling madness go. 
 It is thy smile, philanthrophy, 
 Inspired by Christian charity, 
 v To soften, soothe, make chaste the heart 
 Go forth and do thy holy part. 
 Shame on the thoughtless government 
 That sees the land with darkness pent, 
 A licensed fountain flowing free 
 To quench the fire of liberty ; 
 Which plants a fiend in many a heart, 
 And preys upon the nobler mind, 
 The soul of virtue, love, or aught 
 That throws a blessing o'er mankind, 
 But lack the courage to upbraid, 
 And truckle to the demon's trade, 
 And tremble lest, in evil hour, 
 The slaves of wrong should snatch their power ; 
 But there is waking in the land 
 Than this an impulse more sublime, 
 And armed right may yet command, 
 And baffle hosts that foster crime. 
 Then let me suffer all that's known 
 To those who dare to follow light, 
 Which flashes from the eternal throne
 
 ALCOHOL. 191 
 
 Like meteor's radiant fire by night, 
 
 And be a unit of the throng 
 
 Of those who bravely face the wrong ; 
 
 And if our army conquered be, 
 
 Who strike to quench a nation's woe, 
 
 Our death were immortality 
 
 Remorse the victor should o'erthrow ! 
 
 /iDonarcb aicobol. 
 
 ASKED of the Monarch, called Alcohol, 
 If ever he blessed a single soul ; 
 And, alas ! he cast an answer down, 
 With a demon glance, and a sable' frown, 
 Which bade my throbbing heart declare 
 A spirit infernal had spoken there, 
 For the burning speech that his lips did breathe 
 Was fraught with the pangs of woe and death. 
 I will give you all, with reflection's aid, 
 The burden of what the monarch said: 
 
 I roam the earth, and I sail the sea, * 
 I flit as on wings of the viewless wind, 
 I reign supreme where'er I be, 
 And fetter the powers of the gifted mind; 
 I tell my votaries that rosy wine 
 Will give them a joy that is half divine, 
 That pleasure's imparted to all who quaff 
 Expressed in the ring of their merry laugh. 
 I meet with a maiden of flowing hair, 
 With a breast as pure as a maid's may be, 
 And as free as the wand 'ring desert air, 
 And joyous as mountain melody ; 
 Through society I cast her a spell 
 Which serves, I ween, my purpose well, 
 To custom a slave, she fears no blame, 
 And I lead her on through sin to shame.
 
 192 ALCOHOL. 
 
 I behold the youth with his proud bright eye, 
 
 And cherry lips that have breathed no lie ; 
 
 I touch him with my magic power, 
 
 And his freedom dies from that very hour. 
 
 Now he follows me on where'er I call, 
 
 To the cottage board or the festive hall, 
 
 Where my praise he sings, and my slave shall be, 
 
 And I know to the grave he shall follow me. 
 
 To the peaceful cot, where the woodlands blow, 
 The home of love and truth I go, 
 Where virtue shines in her humble sphere, 
 . And all is fair and lovely here ; 
 I look on the quiet with envious eye, 
 And resolve that its fairest blooms shall die ; 
 I woo the husband to join my train 
 At the village inn, just o'er the plain, 
 Where I, the soul of their social pride, 
 The slayer of Care, shall e'er preside ; 
 Though I know my wizard wiles may fail, 
 I try again, and at length prevail : 
 And I wot, whoe'er my votary be, 
 To the silent grave he shall follow me. 
 When years have fled, I take a roam, 
 And visit again that cotter's home : 
 The scene is changed ! for Pity tells, 
 With tearful eye, where Sorrow dwells. 
 The father has gone to his last long sleep, 
 The widow and children in sorrow weep ; 
 And I laugh as I say, with fiendish pride, 
 " Ah ! thus have virtue and quiet died!" 
 
 I visit the pompous lordling's hall, 
 
 And scatter discord over all ; 
 
 From a weak, fond mother, her eldest born 
 
 Like a tempest-ravished flower is torn. 
 
 But the triumph's mine, for I deal the blow 
 
 That lays their pampered loved-one low ; 
 
 And laugh again o'er my victory, 
 
 For I knew to the grave he would follow me.
 
 ALCOHOL. 193 
 
 I traverse the squalid haunts of men, 
 
 To muse on those who wear my chain ; 
 
 And hear with delight the starving child, 
 
 With piteous cries and accents wild, 
 
 Begging a morsel of bread, that rest 
 
 May visit again his weary breast ; 
 
 But the sire cares naught for his wails and cries, 
 
 Or whether he lives, or whether he dies ; 
 
 For 'tis long ago since he joined my roll, 
 
 And is on his way to a drunkard's goal, 
 
 For 'tis true, whoe'er my votary be, 
 
 To the grave to the grave he shall follow me. 
 
 To the fairest spots of earth I go, 
 And change them to scenes of sin and woe ; 
 Though the Indian strode in his majesty, 
 As free as the birds of the mountains are, 
 I fettered his steps, and dimmed his eye, 
 And lessened his vigour in toil and war; 
 And now he is true to his cup and chain, 
 As any slave of my lowly train. 
 
 Thus on and on through the earth I fly, 
 
 Imparting a canker that will not die ; 
 
 Till numbers on numbers have legions grown, 
 
 And army on army I count my own : 
 
 And statesmen tremble, but may not dare 
 
 To wage a'gainst me an open war ; 
 
 For they know my slaves no pains shall spare 
 
 Their hopes of victory to blight and mar, 
 
 For if once they quaff of my spirit free, 
 
 I know to the grave they shall follow me. 
 
 The monarch who rules his kingdom well 
 May boast the power of his magic spell. 
 The Emperor, too, on his throne of pride, 
 In splendour may roam his dominions wide. 
 He may mutter alone to his despot soul, 
 That his power extends from pole to pole ; 
 The Sultan, the King, and the Shah may tell,
 
 194 STRIKE. 
 
 That their subjects flatter and serve them well : 
 
 Their sway has its limits, but mine has none, 
 
 For I rule the cot, the hall, the throne, 
 
 The kingdom, the empire, and all I've ruled, 
 
 The wisest, the wittiest, the bravest fooled. 
 
 I'll rule the new, as I ruled the old, 
 
 Assyria, Greece, Carthage, and Rome the bold ; 
 
 I saw them rise to their glory's bloom, 
 
 I saw them decay and sink to the tomb ; 
 
 And other lands I rule, called free, 
 
 Shall share in such a destiny. 
 
 Am not I the Monarch of Monarchs, then ? 
 
 The victor of victors, enslaver of men ? 
 
 The subjects of others escape their sway, 
 
 And steal to other lands away ; 
 
 But whoever 1 whoever ! my votaries be, 
 
 To the grave to the grave they shall follow me ! 
 
 Strffee. 
 
 TRIKE ! sufferer from the Poison Cup, 
 
 Remorse's pang, exhaustless Woe, 
 Strike ! and thy God will help thee up, 
 And bid thy soul with pleasure glow. 
 Strike for the shore where light doth shine, 
 
 (To save thy soul from ruin's wave), 
 The spark is from the fire divine 
 
 That haunts all mortals to the grave. 
 
 Strike ! maiden, while thy charms have power 
 
 Against the drink-fiend of our land, 
 And give thy beauty virtue's dower 
 
 To him who quaffs not with thy hand. 
 Strike ! and the victory shall be thine, 
 
 With hallowed rights' eternal fire, 
 For better hadst thou lonely pine 
 
 Than dwell with one of low desire.
 
 STRIKE. 195 
 
 Strike ! mother for the right to keep 
 
 Thy hearth from all pollution free, 
 That burning tears thou mayst not weep 
 
 O'er sin and starving progeny ; 
 Strike that the altar of thy breast, 
 
 Home sacred to thine inmost heart, 
 May never know that sad unrest 
 
 With which a drunkard's dwelling's fraught. 
 
 Strike ! youngster with the radiant eye 
 
 Undimmed by dissipation's hand, 
 Strike ! that the shrine of Liberty 
 
 May flourish in thy native land : 
 Strike with the will that nerves the brave, 
 
 The axe of truth thy weapon be, 
 And wrong shall find an early grave, 
 
 And right shall shine for thine and thee. 
 
 Strike ! manhood for your country's sake, 
 
 Your fathers' dust, their memories, 
 That you may with the just awake 
 
 To " bloom immortal in the skies :" 
 Strike ! at the source of England's crime, 
 
 Her moral's bane, her upas tree, 
 That man may find a fairer clime 
 
 Wherein to flourish and be free !
 
 STANZAS TO QUEEN VICTORIA ... ... i 
 
 SHOTLEY BRIDGE ... ... ... 7 
 
 HALLGARTH ... ... ... ... 23 
 
 To THE FAIRY FIELDS OF LIGHT ... ... 31 
 
 STANZAS ON SHELLEY'S POEMS ... ... 35 
 
 LINES TO THE DERWENT ... ... 40 
 
 THE LOST HUNTER ... ... ... 46 
 
 EBCHESTER ... ... ... ... 54 
 
 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF DR. RENTON ... 64 
 
 TOM LOUGH ... ... ... ... 67 
 
 SONG ... ... ... ... 75 
 
 O! THE ROBIN SINGS SWEET ... ... 76 
 
 THE VILLAGE HIRING ... ... ... 78 
 
 I THINK OF THEE ... ... ... 83 
 
 WOMAN'S BEAUTY ... ... ... 85 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT ... ... ... 87 
 
 O! SING ME A SONG ... ... ... 89 
 
 HOPELESS ... ... ... ... 91 
 
 SPRING ... ... ... ... 94 
 
 To A.E.L. ... ... ... ... 96 
 
 THERE LACKETH SOMETHING STILL... ... 97 
 
 SPIRIT OF BEAUTY ... ... ... 99 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. PRIOR ON HIS BRIDAL DAY 101 
 
 Tis MERRY ... x ... ... ... 103 
 
 NAPOLEON III ... ... ... 105 
 
 LINES ON HEARING A SKYLARK SING IN FEBRUARY 108 
 
 HAPPINESS ... ... ... ... 109 
 
 A PRAYER ... ... ... ... 112 
 
 SAY, MARY ... ... ... ... 114 
 
 STANZAS TO THE SKYLARK ... ... 117 
 
 STANZAS TO THE DAISY ... ... ... 119 
 
 LINES TO THE VIOLET ... ... ... 122 
 
 CHATTERTON... ... ... ... 123
 
 INDEX. 197 
 
 IN MEMORIAM (MRS. TURNER) ... ... 125 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND (GEO. O. NIXON) 127 
 
 REFLECTIONS... ... ... ... 129 
 
 STRAYED FROM THE HAUNTS ... ... 131 
 
 THE PASSION'S POWER ... ... ... 134 
 
 IN MEMORIAM (JOHN W. MUIR) ... ... 135 
 
 IN MEMORIAM (MARK WALL) ... ... 137 
 
 LINES ON THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR ... 138 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD ... 141 
 
 A BRIDAL WISH ... ... ... 143 
 
 TO-MORROW . . . ... ... ... 145 
 
 A PROLOGUE ... ... ... 148 
 
 Music ... ... ... ... 150 
 
 SITTING ALONE ... ... ... 152 
 
 BALLAD ON THE BATTLE OF NEVILLE'S CROSS,... 157 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE AUTHOR'S MOTHER 164 
 
 O! TELL ME NOT ... ... ... 166 
 
 HAMSTERLEY... ... ... ... 167 
 
 THE LITTLE Bow OF BLUE ... ... 177 
 
 TOM JONES ... ... ... ... 179 
 
 EVANGELINE . . . ... ... ... 182 
 
 SIT DOWN A WEE ... ... ... 184 
 
 GOUGH'S PERORATION ON WATER ... ... 186 
 
 THE REFORMED DRUNKARD'S ADDRESS ... 188 
 
 THE MONARCH ALCOHOL ... ... 191 
 
 STRIKE ... ... ... ... 194 
 
 GEO. NEASHAM, PRINTER AND PUBLISHER, DURHAM.