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 '.!.' *.!•
 
 LATELY PUBLISHED, 
 
 In Octavo, on Fine Paper, handsomely bound in Cloth, lettered, and con- 
 taining iipxcards of -100 Pages, 
 
 THE HISTORY AND TOPOGRAPHY OF BRADFORD 
 AND ITS PARISH, 
 
 "U'ilh Biographical Notices of the eminent Men born there, and a 
 full Account of the Worsted Manufactdre at Bradford; Statistics, 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 J5V JOHN JAMES, 
 Embellished with Nine beautiful Steel and Copper-plate Engravings by 
 Cousen, Benlley, Geller, Adlard, and others. 
 
 Price lOs. — Witb Pedigrees, 12s. 
 
 A few Ciipiet on Royal Octavo, containing Pedigrees and Copies of the 
 Epitaphs in the Parish Church, remain on sale, price £\.
 
 P OEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON, 
 
 THE AIREDALE POET: 
 
 WITH 
 
 A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE AND WEITINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN JAMES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE HISTORY OF BRADFORD. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, BROAVN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS ; 
 
 AND 
 
 CHARLES STANFIELD, BRADFORD. 
 MDCCCXLIV.
 
 C. STAXFIELD, PRINTER, BRADFOKD.
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS^ 
 
 824 
 
 Life of John Nicholsox . , 
 
 Airedale in Ancient l^imes . . 
 
 The Poacher ; a Tale from Jteal Life . . 
 
 Genius and Intemperance . . 
 
 Reflections on the Return of the Sicalloiv, 1 
 
 Alas ! where are they ? . . 
 
 Psalm cxLViii. ^j«?Y//V/rffie(/ . . 
 
 On visitinff a WorkJiouse 
 
 JIan's Life 
 
 January 
 
 May Day 
 
 Mary of Marley 
 
 Evening in April 
 
 Lines ivritten in Sickness 
 
 I tcill love thee. Alary 
 
 Psalm XVIII. paraphrased 
 
 Melpomene 
 
 Lines on '■'■Long Tom,'' Bramham Park 
 
 The Faithful Wife 
 
 Morning in May 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Lord Byron . . . . 
 
 Spoken on Burns' s Birth-day Anniversary, at Leeds 
 
 Love on the Heath 
 
 Lines ivritten at Goitstock 
 
 Maid of Lowdore . . 
 
 The Deserted J\Iaid 
 
 On the Old Oak Tree lately standing near Spink-well 127 
 
 On Love 129 
 
 The Storm . . . . .. ,, .. ..131 
 
 Fairy Song .. .. ,. . .. 153 
 
 I'.uii:. 
 iii. 
 1 
 26 
 48 
 84 
 89 
 91 
 95 
 97 
 99 
 101 
 103 
 106 
 107 
 108 
 109 
 111 
 113 
 116 
 117 
 119 
 120 
 121 
 123 
 125 
 127 
 
 H24:^22
 
 COXTEXTS, 
 
 
 
 Page- 
 
 On Returninc/ from London 
 
 .. 135 
 
 On the Death of Jiis Child in London 
 
 137 
 
 On the Marriar/e Anniversary of Col. Sf Mm. 
 
 Tempest 138 
 
 'To a Friend 
 
 .. 139 
 
 The Dying Lover 
 
 140 
 
 The Hunter's Dirge 
 
 .. 141 
 
 On Bingley 
 
 143 
 
 Trom a Mother to her DutigJtter in L<»idon 
 
 .. 145 
 
 Love 
 
 147 
 
 Dirge 
 
 .. 149 
 
 'The Dream 
 
 151 
 
 Female Constancy . . 
 
 .. 153 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady 
 
 154 
 
 Song 
 
 .. 155 
 
 Solemn Reflections 
 
 157 
 
 On Wilsden Church 
 
 .. 159 
 
 The Muse 
 
 162 
 
 On the Ascent of a Bcdloon 
 
 .. 163 
 
 Sports of the Field 
 
 168 
 
 A Night Scene 
 
 .. 169 
 
 The Malt-hiln Fire 
 
 171 
 
 'The Snowdrojj 
 
 .. 173 
 
 The Drunkard's Retribution 
 
 175 
 
 TJie Va]dty of LLuman Affairs . . 
 
 . . 177 
 
 Mary, L u-ill think of you 
 
 179 
 
 'The Absent Lover . . 
 
 .. 181 
 
 Ode to Laura . . 
 
 183 
 
 On a Calm Summer's Night . . 
 
 . . 184 
 
 On the Death of Lady Rickitts 
 
 1 85 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 . . 186 
 
 'The Poet's Sick-bed 
 
 187 
 
 The Bible 
 
 . . 189 
 
 'To the Critics . . 
 
 189
 
 LIFE OF JOHN NICHOLSON 
 
 Ix every walk of life misfortunes are strewed thickly 
 around, but in tlie lives of men of genius, in each 
 department of literature and science, they have greatly 
 abounded. The poetic race, in particular, appear to 
 be doomed to a state of misery; for their calamities 
 have in all ages been proverbial. If the mantle of 
 Elijah fall upon one of the inspii-ed, it seems also inse- 
 parable from the lot of dwelling by the brook Cherith. 
 The lives of the poets may in general be summed up 
 as comprising every species of human woe ; and the 
 blanket of Boyse, the loaf of Otway, the glass house 
 lodgings of Savage, and the poison cup of Chatterton, 
 are merely some of the more prominent incidents in the 
 sad history of the poets of our own country. Nor have 
 the bards of other lands been more fortunate. 
 
 The reason of this almost universal wretchedness 
 attendant upon poetic pursuits seems evident. For the 
 possessors of poetic genius being ever of strong pas- 
 sions, ardent imagination, and exquisite sensibility, 
 which indeed seems the first requisite of a poet, are 
 naturally disposed to indulge in day dreams of gay 
 hope, and disregard, until too late, the sLern monitions
 
 IV. TiiK T.iFr or 
 
 of prudence. They consider the world as a garden of 
 Eden blooming with roses, and find it, too late, a 
 waste of briars. Genius has also, along with its noble 
 attributes, conconutant failings ; and like its type, the 
 great and glorious luminary of heaven, the stronger 
 its power the more clouds it draws around it from this 
 lower world. High aspirations, sanguine hopes, arc 
 supplanted by the severe realities of life ; and the dis- 
 appointed bard too often droops through life neglected 
 and in poverty, — a prey to the gloomiest melancholy, or 
 of reckless dissipation and despair. 
 
 " 'Tis bis, to fall from Inspiration's heaven, 
 And feel the wrelchediiess tliat has no name; 
 Ills, to be often blani'd — less oft forgiven ; 
 His, frequent penury, and not .seldom — .shame ; 
 His, fierce extremes of glory and of gloom, — 
 Perchance an early fame — loo oft, an earlier tomb." 
 
 But if by his constitution and feelings the poet is 
 peculiarly exposed to the blasts of this boisterous stage, 
 he alone is truly alive to the great beauties of the phy- 
 sical and intellectual world. He has, in the sunny mo- 
 ments of his existence, a heaven Avithin hiin whicli 
 passes the understanding of the vulgar sons of men ; 
 and his exquisite sensibility gives a tenfold zest to the 
 charms of nature and society, and adds additional gi-acc 
 to every pleasing scene of life. 
 
 Among those of the uneducated poets who tasted 
 deeply of the cup of misery may be ranked John Ni- 
 cholson. 
 
 He was bom at Weardley, a hamlet in the parish of 
 Harewood, in this county, on the 29th day of Novem- 
 ber, 1790. His father, Thomas Nicholson, having
 
 JOHN Kiciroxsox. V. 
 
 married the daughter of a farmer at Eldwick, near 
 Bingley, removed thither when his son was only a few 
 weeks old. 
 
 The first rudiments of education were taught him by 
 his father at the wool-sorting board ; and afterwards 
 he was sent to school to a person named Brigg, who 
 for lack of a sufficient livelihood from the occupation 
 of school-master, united with it that of besom-maker. 
 The school-house, forming diu-ing the season a shoot- 
 ing-house, was seated on the very summit of the wild 
 mountain tract of llomalds Moor, which stretching 
 from Skipton eastwards sixteen miles, divides Airedale 
 from Wharfdale. Here on summer afternoons, amidst 
 the smell of wild flowers and the whirling boom of 
 the mountain bee, the besom-maker, like a peripatetic 
 philosopher, led forth his little band of scholars, to 
 teach them lessons while they pulled the blooming ling 
 for his besoms, which he sold in the surroimding vil- 
 lages on the Saturday holidays. Under this rustic 
 schoohnaster, who possessed, notwithstanding his hum- 
 ble station, considerable scholastic attainments, and 
 above all the happy art of communicating them to his 
 scholars, young Nicholson made a remarkably rapid 
 progress. 
 
 After remaining with the Romalds Moor schoolmaster 
 a few years, he was sent to Bingley Free Grammar School, 
 then in high repute, and taught by the late amiable 
 and learned Dr. Hartley. He only remained about a 
 year at this school, during which time he had, by 
 attention and good behaviour, obtained the favour of 
 the master, who afterwards, vsdth his characteristic 
 kindness, revised the " Airedale" and other early poems
 
 VI. THE MFi; OF 
 
 of our poet, and assisted liim on many occasions 
 through life. 
 
 On leaving Bingley School, Nicholson's father, a 
 worsted manufacturer, destining him for the business, 
 as a preliminary step, put him to the sorting of wool. 
 The pursuits of poetry, and an unsettled mind, pre- 
 vented him ever becoming a manufacturer, or com- 
 mencing business for himself, and he remained all 
 the days of after life either a journeyman woolcomber 
 or sorter. 
 
 During youth he had, like all men of vigorous and 
 active minds, a strong inclination to reading, and 
 jierused with avidity every book which fell in his way. 
 His favourite authors were Pope's Homer, Shakspeare, 
 and Young's Night Thoughts. The former he inces- 
 santly read, and had a considerable portion of it by 
 memory. To the love of Homer may be imputed the 
 partiality he evinced through after life to battle scenes. 
 In a long poem of his, "Tlie Lyre of Ebor,'" not publish- 
 ed in the following collection, the whole of the battles 
 which have been fought in tliis county are vividly 
 .described. He was a great admirer, through life, of 
 the terrible and sublime ; and these three avithors suited 
 his taste in that respect. 
 
 Whatever plausible reasons may be advanced to the 
 contrary, experience fully shews that long indulgence 
 ■in the pleasures of poetry, or the graces of polite litera- 
 ture, unfits for the drudgery of menial occupations : — 
 
 " Where once those fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.'' 
 Such effect had also the pleasures of poetry upon young 
 Nicholson. When he grew up, his parents fotmd that 
 the love of reading greatly interfered with the set duties 
 in the wool warehouse; for he was in the habit of pro-
 
 JOIIX XICUOLSON. VU. 
 
 Ionjz;innf the studies of the night to an early hour in the 
 morniniif, and thus rendering himself unable to resume 
 woolsorting at the wonted hour. To correct this habit, 
 alike prejudicial to health and fortune, liis indulgent 
 mother carefully concealed from him candles : but an 
 ardent desire for knowledge who can restrain ? He by 
 one of those expedients to which men of genius, strug- 
 gling to the goal against adverse circumstances, have 
 often had recourse, contrived to evade her intentions ; 
 for having access to the olive oil with which combers 
 prepare their wool, he, by dijjping a twisted cotton rag 
 in an old mustard pot filled with oil, and thus making 
 it subserve the purpose of a lamp, studied through the 
 night, when the rest of the family were asleep. 
 
 Nor was he too industrious during the day, if an 
 opportunity occurred for him to steal to his pleasant 
 reading. On the set days when his father was custo- 
 marily absent from home on business, he wandered 
 with some ftivourite author in hand, among the roman- 
 tic dells of Eldwick, or the mountain waste of Romalds 
 Moor, and 
 
 "Amid the broom he bask'd liim on the giouiid. 
 Where the wild thyme and camomile are found : 
 There would he linger, till the latest ray 
 Of light Silt trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
 Then homeward through thu twiliglit shadows stra\-, 
 Sauntering and slow." 
 
 "■ So had he passed many a day,'' often careless of food 
 or the allurements of the world, and only intent upon 
 the ten thousand bright reveries that filled his mind. 
 
 There is no spot in Yorkshire better fitted to bring 
 forth, and nurture, poetic ideas than P^ldwick with, its 
 neighbourhood, for it embraces every variety of lowland
 
 VUl. TIIK lAlK OF 
 
 and mountuin scenery. The effect of pure mountain 
 air in invigorating tlie intellect, and producing noble 
 and exalted sentiments, is well established. 
 
 He had during the earliest periods of youth indidged 
 in rhyme, but none of his poetical efforts at that period 
 have escaped oblivion. 
 
 The connexion between music and poetry is obvious, 
 and he who is deeply touched by the one is by the 
 other. He was an enthusiastic admirer of sweet sounds, 
 and early in life learned to perform on the hautboy. 
 With characteristic energy and enthusiasm he has 
 often been known to travel to Leeds, a distance of 
 sixteen miles, for the sole purpose of })urchasing a reed 
 for his favourite instrument. One of his amusements 
 was to proceed on a Sunday morning to the heath, and 
 play siome divine melody. His performances, however, 
 on the hautboy were not always so harmless in their 
 tendency, but sometimes led him into riotous company, 
 and awkward scrapes. To music he was indebted for 
 his first wife. Being engaged in playing at a wedding 
 party, he met her there, and before he was twenty years 
 of age, or had any experience of the world, married. 
 She died soon after, leaving him a child. 
 
 He now became religious even to austerity, and as 
 an earnest of his intention to cast away the vanities of 
 the world, buried on Romalds ]Moor the hautboy, where 
 it remains. Nicholson's parents were of the persuasion 
 of Wesleyans, and having joined their society, and 
 possessing considerable fluency of speech, he was soon 
 enrolled among the Methodist local preachers. His 
 " outpoui'ings" are still well remembered for their en- 
 ergy, and the number of poetical quotations from Blair 
 and Young with wliicli they were interspersed. It is
 
 JOirX NICHOLSON. IX. 
 
 to be hoped that his hearers still have impressed upon 
 their memory the tremendous sentences which he had 
 culled from the " Last Judgment'' of Young. 
 
 Nicholson's union with the Methodists was not of 
 long continuance, and the cause of separation from 
 them leaves no stain upon his memory. He left their 
 society never to return. 
 
 In the mean time he had taken to himself another 
 wife. He married Martha Wild, of Binglcy, in 1813. 
 Through all the changes of his fitful and unhappy life, 
 in evil report and good report, in sickness and in health, 
 ' Pat,' as he was wont familiarly to call her, continued 
 the comforter of his adversity, and the cheerer of his 
 desponding moments. She survives him only to lament 
 his loss, and while deploring the habits which rendered 
 her union with him unpropitious, cherishes with the 
 deepest respect his memory. 
 
 At the time of his second marriage he resided at 
 Bingley, but shortly after went to Eldwick, and was 
 employed about three years in the warehouse of his 
 father, who then, as throughout life, used every means 
 to forward the fortune of his son. 
 
 In 1818, he came to reside at Red Beck, and worked 
 at Slupley Fields mill, and while here he wrote the 
 first piece which has escaped forgetfulness. It was 
 a sarcastic composition relating to a physician in Brad- 
 ford ; and as the subject w^as a popular one, brought 
 the author into repute in this neighbovu-hood. 
 
 The period during which he dwelt at Red Beck (five 
 years) was indeed the summer day of his life, for he was 
 in the receipt of good wages, had only a small family, 
 and was sui'rounded by intellectual and staunch friends. 
 Among his particular acquaintance, he could boast of
 
 X. xui: i.iri: of 
 
 several artists resident in Bradford. \\ ho have sine; 
 greatly distinguished themselves in the fine arts. One 
 of these friends, Mr. Geller, has not forgotten after long 
 separation — nay, the separation of death — his intimacy 
 ^vith the poet at this time, but has many delightful 
 reminiscences of hours spent with him. 
 
 His poetical ability also brought him into contact 
 with a party of players, who were, vmder the manage- 
 ment of a ^Ir. Thompson, performing in Bradford 
 old theatre. At their urgent entreaty, he was induced, 
 though a stranger to dramatic composition, or the 
 laws on which it is based, to write a piece of three 
 acts, termed the '' Bobber of the Alps.'" It was so well 
 received that he was prevailed upon to try his powers 
 in the same department of literature again, and pro- 
 duced the " Siege of Bradford,'' founded on the events 
 of the Civil War, which was acted for the benefit of Mr. 
 Macauley, one of the players, and yielded the sum of 
 £47. Nicholson had been led to believe that he would 
 share in the profits of this last piece, but never received 
 a farthing from its being acted. It was, however, 
 printed, and ran through two editions. This was the 
 first of his printed pieces. 
 
 The fame of Nicholson was now in this locality great. 
 He had fairly launched into poetic pursuits, and hence- 
 forward his whole mind was devoted to them. 
 
 In the year 1822, he removed to Harden Beck, a 
 small knot of houses near Bingley. Elated with the 
 success of his first publication, he began to contem- 
 plate another work, and finally fixed upon " Airedale.'' 
 ^^^lile engaged in this task, a circumstance happened 
 which, doubtless, determined his lot as a poet. He 
 had ever been remarkable for impromptu verse making,
 
 JOIIX MCJIUJ.SON. XI. 
 
 and one day, J. G. Horsfall, Esq., who resided in 
 the vicinity, passing the poet's house, requested a 
 drink of water, when he was obUgingly handed a 
 draught of beer. Mr. Horsfall, in a jocose manner, 
 said, " Nicholson, they state you are a poet, let us hear 
 what you can say about this pot of beer," when 
 without premeditation he improvised the foUoAving : — ■ 
 
 " O for an everlasting spring 
 
 Of liome-brew'd drink like this! 
 Then with my friends I 'd laugh and sing. 
 
 And spend the hours in bliss ; 
 Then come old Care, link'd with Despair, 
 
 For I, with thee made strong, 
 Would plunge them over head in beer. 
 
 And make them lead the song." 
 
 Mr. Horsfall was so much pleased with this prompt 
 effusion, that from that time he encouraged Nicholson 
 to pursue his poetical laboiu"s, and bestowed on him 
 many substantial marks of patronage. 
 
 Under these auspicious circumstances, he proceeded 
 to complete " Airedale." While composing the greater 
 part he did not follow his daily occupation, but was 
 enabled, through the labours of his wife at a worsted 
 mill, and the generous assistance of Mr. Horsfall, to 
 devote a considerable portion of time to the compo- 
 sition of "• Airedale," and many of the short pieces 
 which first appeared with it. But several of the sweet- 
 est of the lyrics which appear in the following pages 
 were produced at the sorting-board, and dotted down 
 on its greasy surface with a skewer. Most of my 
 readers will know that the labours of a woolsorter are 
 congenial to habits of thought and meditation. 
 
 The mode of study he pursued after the hours of
 
 XU. THE LIFK OF 
 
 work was characteristic. While engaged on a poem 
 containing sombre or sublime thoughts, he loved to 
 stroll late at night on the banks of the babbling rivulet 
 ■which ran close to his dwelling ; and while the moon, 
 " sweet regent of the sky," shed her mild rays on the 
 spot, study his subject. A small picturesque cascade, 
 in a dell near Goit Stock, is pointed out as a favourite 
 resort of our poet while ruminating on the topics of 
 many of his choicest poems. Several of them of a 
 gay and cheerful nature were v\Titten early in the morn- 
 ing, especially " Lines -s^Titten at Goit Stock," " A 
 ^Morning in May," and " Return of the Swallow." 
 In summer he generally rose at four o'clock, and strayed 
 to his accustomed spot for poetic contemplation and 
 expression. — a huge flat rock which overlooks the 
 pleasant valley at Harden Beck. 
 
 His life at this time was one of industry, for if not 
 engaged at the sorting-board, he was earnestly employed 
 in poetic composition or reading. He had hitherto 
 been a sober steady workman, distinguished only by 
 superior mental attainments and lofty sentiment. 
 
 After the completion of " Airedale," he removed to 
 Hewnden Mill, (about a mile distant from his former 
 residence,) and was there employed three years, as a 
 woolsorter, by Mr. Stephen Skirrow. WTiile at this 
 place he wrote " The Poacher." All the incidents in 
 the piece, with exception of one. in which the principal 
 hero is at last drowned, were faithfully drawn from real 
 life. At that time, a daring and desperate band of 
 poachers resided in the neighbourhood ; and Mr. Hors- 
 fall having suggested the subject of " The Poacher," 
 he commenced obtaining materials for the work 
 by frequenting the company of poachers. Upon
 
 JOIIX XICIIOLSOX. XUl. 
 
 treating them liberally witli liquor, they furnished 
 him with full particulars of their modes of catching 
 game and poaching exploits. He was accustomed to 
 sit up whole nights with them for this purpose ; and 
 they have been known to dispatch at one sitting a 
 couple of gallons of the poefs home-brewed beer. 
 Two persons of the names of Jack Moore and Dan 
 Ingham stood for the pictures of Ignotus and Desparo. 
 I lately met with the latter near Hewnden Mill, and 
 casually asked him how much game he had bagged as 
 a poacher in his life ; he answered, with the most 
 innocent simplicity, " As much as that mill," pointing 
 to it, " would hold if well packed." He has been 
 fined some forty times for poaching, and been several 
 times in the House of Correction for not paying 
 the fines imposed upon him. From these men 
 Nicholson readily obtained materials for the compo- 
 sition of " The Poacher." He wTote the Poacher's 
 Song previous to the other parts, and in the intervals 
 of their narration of poaching adventures and strata- 
 gems, it was sung by Desparo and Ignotus with great 
 glee over the poet's thin home-brewed, or the more 
 potent liquor of the neighbouring public house. The 
 Song is still a favorite in the neighbourhood, and there 
 are scores who, to the tune of the Farmer's Boy, exhi- 
 bit its lyric excellence to the best advantage. 
 
 Having now completed the manuscript for his first 
 volume of poems, and having obtained a numerous list 
 of subscribers, he committed the work to the press in 
 1824. Although unversed in the strict rules of com- 
 position, yet it may once for all be mentioned, that, 
 with the exception of a few grammatical inaccviracies or 
 verbal alterations, the work was altogether the fruit of
 
 XVI. Tin; r.irE of 
 
 A second edition was struck off in 1825, and our un- 
 fortunate author again started as a vender of his works. 
 He had nov,- contracted inveterate habits of dissipation, 
 which he never afterwards shook off, but proved the 
 bane and curse of his life. His claim to a high rank 
 among the uneducated poets of the country was fully 
 proved, and he at this time was widely patronized, and 
 received substantial favours from the great. Had he 
 possessed the least foresight or prudence, the produce 
 of the poems, and the presents he received in this the 
 heyday of his popularity, might have secured him a 
 moderate competency for life ; but regardless of the 
 entreaties and endeavours of friends, especially of J. G, 
 Horsfall, Esq., he riotously wasted his money among 
 bacchanalian companions, and seldom returned from 
 book-vending excursions with a penny in his pocket. 
 
 Having disposed of the greater portion of the second 
 edition of the first volume of poems, he began to pre- 
 pare for the publication of another volume ; and in the 
 intervals of his wanderings wrote the " Lyre of Ebor,'' 
 and the other pieces which form the second volume of 
 poems published by him. These in all the requisites of 
 genuine poetry, are much inferior to the poems which 
 appeared in the first volume. He had indeed from 
 intemperate habits lost much of his former energy 
 and delicacy of thought. The tenor of his life was 
 now unsuited to poetic exertion. He had become 
 nerveless, and a prey to all the evils of intemperance. 
 
 Early in 1827 the " Lyre of Ebor and other Poems" 
 appeared. He was then resident at Bingley, and had 
 not worked at his trade for three years. In this inter- 
 val the trade panic had occurred, which made employ- 
 ment in woolsorting not easily obtained. The evils of
 
 JOHN NICIIOLSOX. XVU. 
 
 poverty now stole swiftly n])on lilm. His family had 
 increased to six children, and the improvidence of his 
 conduct had not abated, but rather increased. 
 
 While on a visit to the lakes of Cumberland, he 
 became acquainted with the steward of George Lane 
 Fox, Esq., of Bramham, who recommended Nicholson 
 to the notice of that gentleman, who, being pleased with 
 the perusal of Nicholson's poems, and hearing of his 
 distress, with characteristic generosity gave the poet 
 twenty pounds ; and ever afterwards he was wel- 
 come to the hospitalities at Bramham Park. There 
 he often quaffed the contents in strong beer of a 
 horn, holding about three pints, called " Long Tom." 
 The clever lines to " Long Tom" were written while 
 under the inspiration of this bacchanalian horn. But 
 Mr. Fox"s kindness to the poet did not stop here, for 
 at various times he presented him with money, to the 
 amount of more than £100 ; and after his death has 
 befriended his widow, and promoted in a manner never 
 to be forgotten by the poefs family, the success of this 
 publication. 
 
 But who shall assist him who is recklessly determined 
 not to be assisted? Nicholson, after receiving Mr. Fox's 
 handsome present, immediately determined to "\isit the 
 great metropolis ; and leaving four pounds for the main- 
 tenance of his family, departed in October, 1827, with 
 the rest of the money to London, taking with him a 
 large stock of books. Here he was introduced to the 
 late Dr. Bu'kbeck by Mr. Richard Nichols, brother in 
 law to his late master, Mr. Skirrow. The Dr. treated 
 him v>-ith his accustomed urbanity, and gave him intro- 
 ductions to a large circle of acquamtance, among whom 
 Nicholson found numerous purchasers of his volumes.
 
 XVIU. THE LIFE OF 
 
 The Yorkshire poet, no doubt, cut a picturesque figure 
 in London society : for he was dressed in a blue coat, 
 corduroy breeches, and grey yarn stockings, with a 
 head of hair that had not been touched with a comb 
 for a twelve -montli. During his stay in I^ondon, 
 a period of three weeks, he sold a large number of 
 his books, and Avas treated generously by many 
 friends. Through their kindness he was enabled to 
 visit every place in the metropolis worthy of note. 
 He was particularly gratified by a visit to Chantrey's 
 works, at Pimlico. Not knowing Chantrey's person, 
 he observed to a bystander, ^^ bile viewing the bust of 
 His Majesty George the Fourth, " What merit does ! 
 The artist is not now selling milk in Sheffield."' It 
 turned out afterwards that the person he so addressed 
 was Chantrey himself. After enjoying a long conversa- 
 tion with Allan Cunningham, Nicholson departed not 
 knowing that he had been in company Avith the great 
 sculptor. Upon being infonned, he sent to Chantrey 
 an apology in verse for the error. 
 
 While in London, a bust of the poet in plaster of 
 Paris was taken by one of Chantrey's workmen, which 
 is in the possession of the poet's family, and conveys 
 an admirable likeness of him. 
 
 His stay in London was at last shortened by an 
 untoward but laughable affair. Having gained the 
 acquaintance of a barrister from Yorkshire, he was 
 introduced to a number of gentlemen of gay habits, 
 who lounged away their time in the cloisters of the 
 Inner Temple. They were delighted with the rustic 
 uncouth appearance, eccentric conduct, and witty say- 
 ings of tlie Yorkshire poet ; and he was induced, 
 morning by morning, to partake of refreshment in their
 
 joux xinrciLSoN. xix. 
 
 chambers. On the 15tli of November the refreshment 
 of the mornmg was prolonged the whole day, which 
 was spent by these gentlemen of the bar, well assisted 
 by the poet, riotously drinking wine. In the evening 
 they proposed that he should proceed with them to 
 Drury Lane theatre, to witness the performance of the 
 opera of Artaxerxes. His friends paid for him at the 
 dress-boxes and then took him into the saloon, where 
 either intentionally or through inadvertence, they left 
 him. His odd dress, uncouth gesticulations, and apos- 
 trophes to Shakspcare, soon collected round him a 
 number of cyprians and their beaux, w^ho having never 
 seen such a grotesque figure before in the place, were 
 inclined to extreme merriment at his expense. A great 
 uproar Avas the consequence, and Bond, the oiRccr 
 on duty at the theatre, took Nicholson, after a severe 
 struggle, to Covent Garden watch-house. 
 
 As he had committed no offence, except apostro- 
 phizing a bust of Shakspeare, the officer after awhile 
 offered to set him at large ; he would not, however, be 
 so released, but demanded a hearing before the magis- 
 trate. Accordingly in the morning he was brought 
 before Sir Richard Birnie, who on hearing all the cir- 
 cumstances, and laughing heartily, discharged him, but 
 not before the poet, in shewing the magistrate how 
 rudely he was treated by the officer on dragging him 
 from the theatre, had shaken Bond very roughly and 
 pulled him round the office. "SVlicn he had just quitted 
 Bow-street office he met his friend the Barrister, who 
 having been informed of the misadventure was coming 
 to his aid. As will readily be supposed, the scene at 
 Bow-street was graphically sketched by the ready pen 
 of the short-hand writers, and reports of it, dressed 
 
 A 2
 
 SX. THE LTFI- OF 
 
 up with tlic usual coiulimenls, appeared in all the 
 daily papers, duly headed " The Yorkshire Poet in 
 trouble." Knowing well that his wife, upon hearing 
 through the newspapers that he had been imprisoned, 
 would instantly proceed to the metropolis, without, 
 farther delay he quitted it for home. On aiTiving at 
 IJinglcy, a single halfpenny was the sole remnant of 
 the £17, and the money he had obtained by book-selling 
 in London. 
 
 ^Vhatevcr opinion he had formed of London previous 
 to the adventure at Bow-street ofRcc, it was afterwards 
 far from favourable. In a pamphlet he published soon 
 after his return, giving an account, in prose, of this 
 journey, he depicts the city in dark colours, and makes 
 a contrast between it and liis favourite Romalds Moor, 
 much to the advantage of the latter. He adds, " If 
 peace is to be found, 'tis in the cottage of the peasant, 
 where neighbours and friends meet, reading the Bible 
 after returning from church, and then with honest 
 devotion retiring to rest. This I have seen under the 
 Avild mountains of Romalds Moor." Throughout the 
 pamphlet many original and striking observations arc 
 scattered. One I shall transcribe, because it forms 
 the best excuse for the inveterate habit of intemperance 
 he contracted. After moralising on the infirmities and 
 calamities of poets, he proceeds, " Walk to their monu- 
 ments, and sec their ages at death. Could they speak 
 and disclose what they had felt, even the most enthu- 
 siastic admirers of their works could they become su- 
 perior to them all in point of genius, would shrink from 
 the overwhelming anxiety and woe that too oft cuts 
 short a poet's life. The public answer, they should 
 not drink : but of the very persons who are advising
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON. XXI. 
 
 them, the next sentence is — come, take a single glass 
 with me, a single glass cannot hurt you. The poet 
 refuses — again is pressed ; he knows it hurts him, but 
 is afraid to disoblige his friend — he is a svibscriber ; — 
 points out the beauties, the defects, &c., of the Avork. 
 The next gentleman he meets with does the same : 
 perhaps another enters — another glass is the conse- 
 quence ; the poet's heart warms — forgets his constitu- 
 tion — till in a few years, like lime with water, ho falls 
 away and drops into the earth." 
 
 " Chords that bring the sweetest measure 
 Trill the deepest note.s of woe." 
 
 A letter Avhich he sent to a distinguished friend, 
 shews very vividly the state of mind and feelings of 
 our poet at this time, and elucidates some passages in 
 his life. He ■\\Tites, " Days, weeks, and months pass 
 away, and adversity and the rhpncr have become 
 familiar. At the beginning I cringed and bowed to 
 every blast of misfortune, but my mind has at last 
 strengthened, and I meet the storms of life with a 
 kind of despairing resolution. I am sat in my cottage 
 this morning, and praised be the Giver of every gift, 
 we have not a want but this day is supplied ; — all in 
 good health, and a few pounds to spare. I have been 
 for some time back safely at anchor with my father, 
 whom I shall ever respect, and if ever I can repay him 
 I will. I cannot reflect with pleasure on the quanti- 
 ties of stimulus I have lately swallowed. I felt my 
 own bosom, and thought it was gi\'ing way under 
 the accumulated load of anxiety. I was afi-aid of the 
 lunatic asylum. You smile at this, but consider hopes 
 flying among the stars "'•' '^- * I cannot help think- 
 ing if I have good conduct, and sell all my present
 
 xxii. Tin-: i.Ti'K or 
 
 works, that I ciin write something belter than I have 
 ever yet written. This may be vanity ; but I know 
 one thing, I have been greatly deficient in reading, and 
 have accidentally hit upon some lines very like those 
 of others, which the public may think I have borrowed, 
 but which arc in reality my own. After my comjiosi- 
 tions were put together, I never could either write 
 new in their place or correct the old, for the anxiety 
 Avhich pressed on my mind smothered invention. I 
 have just read the introduction to Clare's poems. 
 What have I had to suffer, compared to what he had ! 
 'Tis true my family have been more numerous ; but 
 then I have had more friends. AVTien he, poor man ! 
 had worked hard for his twenty shillings to pay for 
 three hundred copies of a very humble prospectus, 
 and when they were all distributed, what was the 
 number of subscribers ? Seven ! ! ! Only seven. Oh ! 
 what must he have felt ! He had no one to whom he 
 could unbosom his mind, at least who had any influence. 
 I sadly want to know my fate ; but if my works should 
 clear me forty or fifty pounds, I would be well dressed, 
 take a day when I thought, and scribble over another 
 poem. You will say. What, not tired yet ! No, sir ; 
 I know I can leave my children no other legacy than 
 a volume of trifles, if they can find a real friend to 
 publish them. I will tell you what I am afraid of — 
 many will compare my works with those who have 
 had far greater privileges, and then they will be found 
 wanting." 
 
 The disappointment he experienced on the first visit 
 to the metropolis did not prevent him, after the lapse 
 of a few months, wishing to try his fortune there again. 
 He believed that Loudon was the great mart for the
 
 JOHN MCirOLSOX. XXIU. 
 
 works he had iiublishod, and that he had not used 
 proi)er means to bring them before the metropolitan 
 pubUc. ' Pat,' having sufficient evidence of the fruits 
 which might be expected from the intended journey, 
 used every persuasion to deter him, but in vain. She 
 therefore determined to be a partner in the trip, and 
 endeavour, if possible, to bring home some portion of 
 the money which the sale of his works would, during 
 their absence, produce. Being aware she would prove 
 a great check on his excesses, he endeavoured to escape 
 from her. but failed ; and after a laughable journey, 
 they reached the metropolis in the Spring of 1828. 
 All his former friends received him with marks of kind- 
 ness ; and he even became intimate with Bond, the 
 officer who took him into custody when before in town. 
 The five v,'eeks he remained in London this second 
 time were marked by none of the eccentric conduct or 
 excesses of the former. While there, he buried a favo- 
 rite infant child, and wrote on the occasion some 
 verses which were printed in the Morning Advertiser, 
 accompanied with flattering remarks on the poetical 
 ability of the author. During his stay in the metro- 
 polis he obtained, through the kind offices of Mr. 
 Nichols and the intercession of Dr. Birkbeck, a grant 
 of ten pounds from that meritorious institution, the 
 Literary Fund Society. The money was not, on account 
 of his notorious improvidence, given to him ; but on 
 his return to the counti-y sent to a friend over whom 
 he had no control, with directions to disburse it to the 
 best advantage of our poet. A full suit of clothes 
 was provided for him out of the donation, and several 
 little debts he owed were paid. At this i)criod, and 
 during the remainder of his life, he was remarkablv
 
 XMV. THE LIFE OF 
 
 slovenly in dress and treneral appearanec. Except 
 Sundays, he invariably wore from rising- in the morning 
 to bed-time the usual woolsorter's checked brat, which 
 covers the whole body. He was so careless i"cs2)ecting 
 clothes, that he was never known to go from home 
 M-ith a great coat but left or lost it. Though so 
 inattentive to dress in the latter portion of life, he was, 
 in early years, quite a martinet in that article. 
 
 When he returned home, that kind-hearted and 
 generous man. Dr. Birkbeck, (Peace be with his manes!) 
 spontaneously presented Nicholson's wife with four 
 pounds, besides having on othci- occasions given him 
 considerable sums. 
 
 The demand for his works in the metropolis was, 
 compared with that in the country, not so large as he 
 had been led to expect ; indeed it could not be sup- 
 posed, except by the most inexperienced, that a poet, 
 unknown to " fortune or to fame," would at once 
 attract notice in that great arena of literature. The 
 Yorkshire newspapers had, by favourable notices of 
 his publications, greatly assisted the sale of them in 
 this district. James Montgomery, Esq., a poet of 
 great merit, edited at tliis period the Sheffield Iris, 
 a paper of wide circulation, and penned a most flatter- 
 ing review of " Airedale, &c." As a consequence, 
 Nicholson sold more copies of the work in Sheffield 
 than in any other town. Mr. Montgomery also wrote 
 a letter to him, in which, with the true generosity of 
 genius, he bestowed great praise on Nicholson's poeti- 
 cal powers. This letter he greatly prized, as coming 
 from so high an authority, and being printed in the 
 local papers, contributed much to spread his fame. 
 He numbered among his patrons the late Earl of
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON-. XXV. 
 
 Harcwood and Lord Ribblcsdalc, and from botli re- 
 ceived considerable pecuniary gifts. There are several 
 anecdotes related of the kind condescension both these 
 amiable noblemen shewed to Nicholson. He was 
 ever a welcome guest at their mansions, and never 
 returned from tliem without having partaken largely 
 of the owners' hospitality. The late Lord Ribblesdale 
 was an amateur artist, and a painting by him, which 
 Nicholson begged, is now in the possession of his 
 family, and was highly valued by him on account of 
 the noble giver. He frequently presented our poet 
 with trifling articles of dress from his own person, 
 such as silk handkerchiefs. Tong Hall was another 
 place which he often \dsitcd ; and here, and Bram- 
 ham Park (as before alluded to), were the spots ho 
 most loved. With very rare exceptions, he seldom 
 brought any portion of the largess presented to him 
 by his distinguished friends home, but squandered it 
 away. One of them once wrapped up a sovereign in 
 the corner of his neckerchief, with a strict injunction 
 to carry it to his family. He promised to do so, and 
 performed the severe task of travelling many miles 
 with such a sum of money without spending it. 
 
 A circumstance now occurred which put an end to 
 his book-selling journeys. The person who had printed 
 and pxd)lished for him became insolvent, and on an 
 execution being levied on his goods, a large stock of 
 Nicholson's publications Avere seized. In vain he 
 remonstrated against this proceeding, and shewed that 
 he had purchased the paper on which these publications 
 were printed. During several days they were offered 
 for sale by the hammer, — realising about half their 
 value. Nicholson did not quietly submit to the in-
 
 XXVI. Tin; i,ni: of 
 
 justice; he came to Bradford and pulled the auctioneer 
 from his stand while selling the works. The sale, 
 however, was so gi-eat that compositors were employed 
 to set some of them in type, and they were sold wet 
 from the press. Henceforward the demand for them 
 in this quarter was glutted, and the source whence 
 Nicholson had for some years drawn the main jiortion 
 of his supplies, cut off. 
 
 No other resource now remained besides his trade ; 
 but employment in wool-sorting was not easily obtained, 
 and he was obliged to earn a livelihood by the laborious 
 and ill-recompensed occupation of Avool-combing. 
 
 He removed from Bingley to Bradford in 1833, and 
 here remained during the remainder of his life. For 
 a period of nearly ten years he obtained employment 
 in the warehouse of Mr. Titus Salt, who to his honour 
 retained him when very few masters would have 
 suffered the annoyance of his broken and disjointed 
 labours. During the first few years he resided in 
 Bradford he was in easier circumstances than he had 
 been for some years previous. Several of his family 
 had now arrived at an age when they were able, by 
 working at the staple manufactures of Bradford, not 
 only to sustain themselves, but oft, too oft, when their 
 father neglected to bring home the earnings of the 
 w'eek, supported the whole of the household. He had 
 the advantages of having industrious and affectionate 
 children, who, if he had been imable to work, would 
 cheerfully have laboured for his maintenance, and were 
 ever ready to sacrifice their own ease to his happiness. 
 
 In 1836 he became a convert to temperance prin- 
 ciples, or to speak more properly, put them in practice ; 
 for it cannot be doubted that the heart- aches, bitter
 
 .TOJIN NICHOLSON. XXVU. 
 
 reflections, and woe, he had brought upon himself 
 and others near and dear to him, taught him years 
 before the folly of his conduct. The advocates of 
 temperance were numerous in the neighbourhood of 
 Wilsden, and published an unique collection of poeti- 
 cal pieces in favour of their views. " The Drunkard's 
 Retribution," in the following pages, was thus pub- 
 lished. After abstaining fi-om intoxicating drinks for 
 seventeen weeks, alas ! he returned to the old path of 
 ruin and disgrace. 
 
 While at Bradford he was engaged by Mr. Richard 
 Oastler, then in the zenith of popularity as an advocate 
 of the rights of factory children, to write a poem 
 depicting their sufferings and urging their claims upon 
 the philanthropist. He remained at Fixby Hall, during 
 the composition of this piece, two or three weeks. 
 After it was published the poet and his patron dis- 
 agreed. 
 
 Nicholson's claim upon tlie Literary Fund Society 
 was again urged in 1837. E. C. Lister, Esq., M. P. 
 for Bradford, having been requested to apply to the 
 Society, exerted himself in our poefs behalf, and 
 finally another ten pounds was presented to him. It 
 must be mentioned that Mr. Geller greatly assisted in 
 obtaining this last donation. 
 
 The remaining portion of Nicholson's sad history is 
 soon narrated. His life was henceforward a chequered 
 scene of labour one day, and reckless conduct the next. 
 He never gave up the pleasure of composing poetry ; 
 and at intervals -wTote ' A Description of the Low-Moor 
 Iron- Works,' ' A Walk from Knaresborough to Harro- 
 gate," and other pieces, some of which are of considerable 
 length and were published. It was evident, however,
 
 XXYUl. THK I.IFK OF 
 
 that he had lost a considerable portion of the inspira- 
 tion which he formerly possessed. One of these, 
 however, ' England's Lament for the Loss of her Con- 
 stitution,' written at the time of the passing of the 
 Catholic Emancipation Act, and predicting that it would 
 only tend to increase the demands of the party it was 
 intended to satisfy, contains passages of great power. 
 He wrote also in verse against the Socialists and 
 Chartists, who were, with the great Agitator of Ireland, 
 the especial objects of his hatred. A few short poems 
 which he ^vrote in the latter portion of his life (inserted 
 in the present collection) are worthy of his best days. 
 Immediately preceding his death, he commenced a 
 poem on the Affghanistan war. I have the fragment 
 before me ; it was written in blue inJi, with a ling 
 stalk, as a substitute for a pen. 
 
 We now approach the time of his melancholy end. 
 On holidays he almost invariably retraced the footsteps 
 of youth on the wilds of Eldwick. It was a common 
 saying of his on such occasions — "• I '11 be off to Eld- 
 wick, to breathe a little mountain air, and get my throat 
 cleansed from the smoke of Bradford," and he usually 
 started thither the night previous to the holiday. The 
 evening before Good Friday, April 13th, 1843, he left 
 Bradford for the purpose of visiting his aunt at Eldwick, 
 and called at several places on the road. When he 
 left Shipley time was fast approaching midnight. He 
 was obser\-ed to proceed up the bank of the canal in 
 the direction of Dixon Mill, and at this place it seems 
 attempted to cross the river Aire by means of the 
 stepping-stones there, so as to take the most direct 
 course to Eldwick. The night was dark and stormy, 
 and the river swollen. It is conjectured that in en-
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON. XXIX. 
 
 dcavoui'ing to cross the stepping-stones, and on reach- 
 ing the farther part of the river, he missed his footing 
 and fell into the current, which runs deep and impetu- 
 ously at that point. From the appearance of the place 
 next morning, he had been carried away eight or ten 
 yards, where he caught hold of some hazel boughs, 
 and by a great effort got out of the water. The marks 
 of the wool-sorter's brat he wore, were visible on 
 the side of the bank, which is steep. It must have 
 required great presence of mind and physical strength 
 to enable him to extricate himself out of the river. 
 Afterwards he had crept on his hands and knees through 
 a hole in the hedge which fences off the river, a part 
 of his coat being found in the hole. Exhausted and 
 benumbed he lay here until about six in the morning, 
 when a half-witted fellow passing near heard him 
 groan and saw him rise into a sitting posture. The 
 man was terrified, and without rendering any assistance 
 hastened to the farm-house whither he was going for 
 milk, — did not mention the circumstance there, and 
 returned another way home. There is no question 
 that Nicholson's life would have been saved had this 
 person either rendered assistance or stated at the farm- 
 house what he had seen. Two hours after, the poor 
 poet was seen by a farm-labourer who was j^roceeding 
 to his work, and upon calling out and receiving no 
 answer, he without further investigation ran to inform 
 his master at Baildon, who instantly rctorncd with 
 him to the place, where they found Nicholson dead ; 
 bu.t life had only been extinct a short time, as he was 
 quite warm. 
 
 The dead man being removed to the Bay Horse Inn, 
 Baildon, a medical gentleman quickly attended, who
 
 XXX. TIIK LIFK OF 
 
 prouounceil death to have been caused by apoplexy, 
 owing to the body having been long exposed to water 
 and cold. The coroner at his inquest on the body 
 recorded a verdict in conformity with the opinion of 
 tlie surgeon. 
 
 On Tuesday, tlie 18th, Nicholson's remains were 
 deposited in Bingley church-yard. A large concourse 
 of people out of respect to his memory met the 
 corpse on the way, and at the burial a thousand persons 
 at the least were present : a full choir joined in the 
 sublime burial service of the Church of England ; and 
 a mourning peal was rung. 
 
 He left his wife with eight children, two of them 
 of tender age. The desire he expressed in the letter 
 before quoted has been fulfilled. Several ' real' friends 
 have been found to jiublish the legacy of trifles he has 
 left to his children. 
 
 The portrait of Nicholson, by Mr. Geller of London, 
 and wliich he has with characteristic generosity pre- 
 sented gratuitously for this work, conveys a faithful 
 representation of the features of the original. He was 
 at the time the portrait was taken forty years of age, 
 and time and intemperance had not made much havoc 
 in his look or constitution. There are some points 
 which the burnisher of the artist could not bring out. 
 Our poet was of a very ruddy com])lexion, with a dark 
 brown eye, in which fire seemed to roll at the bottoin. 
 His eye and massy overshadowing brow were the only 
 indexes in his countenance of the intellectual power he 
 possessed. He was about five feet ten inches in height, 
 of robust make, broad shouldered, and rather stooped. 
 
 In disposition he was kind-hearted, frank, and with-
 
 JOHN' XICJCOLSOX. XXXl. 
 
 out deceit. Tlie words of Churchhill may most happily 
 be applied to him, for he was truly 
 
 " Foe to restraint, unpractised in deceit, 
 Too resolute from nature's active lieat 
 To bro()l< aflVonls, and tamely pass tiiem by; 
 Too proud to flatter, too sincere to lie." 
 
 His great and sole vice was intemperance. Without 
 partiality it may be said that he had no other. In the 
 train of drunkenness often follows a host of attendant 
 sins, such as lewdness, profanity, lying, evil speaking. 
 Of these he was guiltless. As was written of another 
 frail son of genius, in allusion to his besetting sin — 
 " Oh ! call it not vice, it might be but woe."' So may 
 it of Nicholson, for A\hcn in the most distress or stung 
 in soul, he endeavoured to drown his cares in oblivion's 
 cup. Nicholson's brother Thomas, who is most inti- 
 mately acquainted with all particulars in the life of our 
 poet, states that for j'ears before his death a couple of 
 glasses of ale were sufficient to make him tipsy, and 
 exhibit symptoms which rendered it probable that in- 
 sanity would close his course. When under the influ- 
 ence of intoxicating liquor, he seldom misbehaved in 
 any other manner than raving in poetry. 
 
 How irreconcileable are the ways of man I At the 
 time of his worst conduct he was deeply impressed 
 with religious precepts, and took great care to instil 
 them into the minds of his children. On Sundays he 
 delighted to read the sublime passages in the prophets, 
 and was wont to declare they were the perfection of 
 mighty poetry. In the better moments of life he was 
 sincerely devout. 
 
 Few men in the same lowly station of life had more 
 sincere well-wishers and admirers. There are indeed
 
 XXXll. THK LTFK OF 
 
 to be found thickly scattered tlnongh the mass of 
 society, men who gloat with envious pleasure upon 
 any failing which the sons of genius may possess, or 
 which all the arts of hell can, if possible, impute to 
 them, though without foundation. These shooters in 
 the dark of slander's arrows conceive that whatever 
 lowers those favoured in intellect or the gifts of fortune, 
 elevates, in comparison, these vile detractors. That 
 Nicholson had many such enemies, who were glad that 
 by his conduct he somewhat lowered himself to their 
 o\\Ti moan level, there is no doubt. 
 
 Reader ! if within thco glows the purest fire of 
 heaven ; if thou art distinguished among men for 
 mighty genius or mental attainments ; if thou have 
 many sincere and influential friends, and the gifts of 
 fortune are within thy power, let the life of poor Ni- 
 cholson serve in part as a beacon to shew that all these 
 will not compensate for the want of prudence and good 
 conduct, but will rather hasten thy passage to dis- 
 appointment, tribulation, and certain woe. " Let him 
 that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall." 
 
 In reading Nicholson's poetry, the man of taste and 
 judgment will often find blemishes which are peculiar 
 to the compositions of uneducated poets. It must 
 always, however, be borne in mind that he laboured 
 under all the disadvantages in writing which arise from 
 want of education. It would be highly unjust to judge 
 of his works as compared with those of our polished 
 and educated poets, who have fortunately been able to 
 give a high finish to their productions. The best 
 apology for the imperfections of his works is to be
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXUl. 
 
 found in the preface to "Airedale."' He there observes, 
 " The vohime deprecates the severity of criticism, and 
 claims that indidgence which the author is confident 
 would be extended to him, were the circumstances 
 known under which it has been written. The truth is, 
 that it is the production of one self-taught, and living 
 from his childhood on the edge of a wild uncultivated 
 moor — the rocks his summers' evenings' study, and 
 a few borrowed books his sole companions — destined 
 to labour for the support of a numerous familj- — de- 
 prived of all intercourse with the literary world, and 
 even destitute of knowing what passes in it." Although 
 his education was so scanty, yet, like the class of 
 operatives to which he belonged, his mind was stored 
 with much general knowledge ; for I may digress to 
 observe that the wool-sorters arc, as a body, among 
 the best read and most intelligent of working men. 
 
 Without claiming for Nicholson a high seat in the 
 august assembly of British bards, his right to admit- 
 tance will, I think, be indubitably shewn by some of 
 the compositions in the ensuing pages. 
 
 The first, " Airedale," abounds in beautiful descrip- 
 tions of the variegated scenery in the valley of the 
 Aire. He excelled in description of this kind, which 
 he draughted from Nature herself, in a vivid and cor- 
 rect style. During the time he \\Tote " Airedale," he 
 was in the full vigour and prime of poetic conception ; 
 the thoughts and expressions are, notwithstanding, 
 chaster than any of his succeeding productions, and 
 it has fewer faults in either plan or style. To the 
 antiquary and lover of olden times, the scenes bygone 
 which, with the magic of poetry, he brings as it were 
 before the corporal eye, are highly interesting both for
 
 XXX IV. THE MVK OF 
 
 their faithfulness and tlie stirring emotions wliich they 
 produce. The versification of tliis poem is surprisingly 
 correct when it is remembered that it -was almost his 
 first essay, but is sufficiently accounted for by the fact 
 that he attentively read from his youth upwards the 
 best English poets. Throughout life his ear was very 
 acute in detecting slips in rliythmical compositions. 
 
 " The Poacher"' was written next. It has obtained 
 a wide circulation, being read through the length and 
 breadth of the land. He has happily described the 
 hair-breadth escapes by land and flood of his hero 
 poachers. Nothing is exaggerated ; but, as the author 
 in his preface to it stated, " The incidents are taken 
 from real life, in which the imagination had little to 
 do, except to aid in tui'ning them into verse." The 
 death of the poacher's wife, and the kindness of a 
 neighbouring peasant in taking the infant, are no 
 imaginary themes, but in all their circumstances ac- 
 tually occurred. The Poacher's Song is so spirited, 
 its measure so unusual, and its touches of a poacher's 
 careless life and manners so striking, as to require the 
 highest praise. I know of no faults in it, except a 
 classical allusion or two, such as "■ CjTithia," which 
 are quite unsuited to the subject. It will ever be a 
 favourite for its faithful delineation of the incidents in 
 a poacher's life. 
 
 " Airedale" and " The Poacher," along with the 
 greater number of the small pieces in this collection 
 of his poems, were comprised in the first volume he 
 published. In the next published by him, the " Lyre 
 of Ebor'' holds the leading place. It occupies nearly 
 one hundred i)agcs ; it was therefore impossible to print 
 it in this collection without leaving out nearly one-half
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON. XXXV. 
 
 of those productions contained in it. Besides tlic 
 " Lyra of Ebor" is, in my opinion, much inferior to the 
 pieces now printed. It undoubtedly contams passages 
 of exceeding beauty ; but as a whole is irregular, and 
 destitute of that sustained energy and method which 
 are indispensable to such a composition. 
 
 With the "■ Lyre of Ebor" originally appeared "Ge- 
 nius and Intemperance."" The state of the drunkard 
 which he there pictures, is often merely the transcript 
 of his own mind at the period he wrote it, for it was 
 composed in the intervals of drunlien adventures. It 
 is not equal in vigour of conception or happmess of 
 execution to some of his other labours ; but contains, 
 notwithstanding, many fine strokes of imagination and 
 feeling. The sketch of the calamities of genius is well 
 dra^vn, and filled up wdth very appropriate examples 
 of the miserable lot of poets. No one was better able 
 to shew in its true colours the ine%-itable result of 
 drinking too often at that cup of Circe, — the bowl of 
 intem.perance. Alas ! how deceitful the heart ! how 
 frail human nature ! — that he who knew and could depict 
 so well the fatal evils of the habit, could not shake 
 it off! 
 
 " Reflections on the Return of the Swallow"' appears 
 to me to be, according to its length, the best production 
 of his pen. It is in many parts deficient in rhythm ; 
 it must, however, always be kept in view that poetry is 
 the soul, diction merely the body ; but then to be per- 
 fect they should be in harmony — beautiful thoughts in 
 beautiful language. This piece is in almost every line 
 imbued with the very soul of poetry. I have read it 
 repeatedly, and confess that if Nicholson had written 
 
 A 3
 
 XXXVl. THE HFK 01' 
 
 nothing besitlc, it would have been sufficient to give 
 him a high place in my estimation. It -was written 
 upon the before-mentioned rock at Harden Beck, on 
 first observing, in the year it was written, the swallow 
 skimming along the surface of the pool of water below. 
 The passage commencing " Search for great Hannibal," 
 is an excellent epitome of the vanity of human great- 
 ness* 
 
 It would be a lengthy task to mark the varied excel- 
 lence of the minor pieces in the following pages. 
 Several of them are full of originality, grace, and 
 feeling ; and would not disgrace a collection of the 
 choicest pieces of English poetry. " He has written 
 his heart in his poems," and it may be there legibly 
 read. He was no pander to vice. It is greatly to his 
 credit that neither in his published nor unpublished 
 writings are to be found (as I remember) any immoral 
 sentiments. 
 
 Almost all Nicholson's pieces were written on sub- 
 jects which came within the sphere of his own observa- 
 tion. ' Mary of Marley,' ' Maid of Lowdore,' ' Sally on 
 the heath-vestured hills,' had all their living originals 
 with W'hom he was acquainted. 
 
 His genius was naturally suited to the sublime and 
 vast. As an instance, he has rendered or paraphrased 
 the eighteenth Psalm in a manner more worthy of the 
 
 ♦ On reading this, tlie noble poem of the grent Roman Satirist 
 suggests itself to the memon-, though I believe Nicholson ncvi-r 
 read it : — 
 
 " The urn of ashes to the balance bear, 
 And mark how much of Hannibal be fhere." 
 
 Tciilh Satire, Bndkain^s TransUdion.
 
 JOHX NICIIOLSOX. XXXVU. 
 
 grand original"' than any other person who has at- 
 tempted it. Some parts of Sternhold and Hopkins' 
 version (especially the verse beginning " The Lord de- 
 scended from above") have been much praised by 
 many of the best judges of poetry, but Nicholson's 
 " Bending heavens obeisance made" is unmatched. 
 I particularly point to this paraphrase, as shewing 
 where his poetic strength lay. He has also admirably 
 paraphrased the 1 iSth Fsalm, but it is infinitely infe- 
 rior to the other. 
 
 There is a peculiarity in Nicholson's poetry, namely, 
 that it suits both the grave and the gay. Though he 
 has written many light and sprightly pieces, yet his 
 excellence lay in the sombre jiath of poetry. The 
 thoughts and feelings which he has embodied in his 
 compositions were drawn, with very few exceptions, 
 from the fountain of his own heart : he detested the 
 vile conceits of affectation. Whatever he Avrote was 
 
 * I have in vain emJeavoured to find among the compositions of 
 the poets of antiquit}- one erjual to Ihis. The noted description by 
 Virgil of the eflects of Jupiter's wrath, and which has been compared 
 with this Psidm, falls miserably short of it, for it transcends in sub- 
 limity all others. The following is Virgil's; — 
 
 " The Thunderer, throned in clouds, with darkness crown'd, 
 Bares his red arm and flashes lightnings round : 
 The beasts are fled ; earth rocks from pole to pole ; 
 Fear walks the world, and bows the astonish "d soul. 
 Prone Athos flames, and crush'd beneath the blow, 
 Jove rives with fierj' bolt Ceraunia's brow ; ■ 
 The tempest darkens ; blasts redoubled rave ; 
 Smite the hoarse wood, and lash the howling wave.'' 
 
 First Geargic, Sot/iehy's Translation. 
 
 Let the reader compare this with the eighteenth Psalm as rendered 
 by Nicholson.
 
 XXXVIU. 1,11'K OF NICIIOLSOX. 
 
 generally on tlic impulse of the moment, — the sudden 
 bursts of emotion of his strong-toned mind, — the in^Yard 
 promptings of the spirit. For instance, the paraphrase 
 of the ciglitccnth Psalm was composed one Sunday 
 morning while he was partly undressed ; and produced 
 with the greatest rapidity. Three-fourths of the short 
 productions of his pen were in hke manner struck off. 
 
 Had his powers been cultivated, there can be no 
 doubt he would have ranked very high as a poet. His 
 great natural poetical ability covered, like as green and 
 pleasant ivy conceals a defective building, the scanti- 
 ness of his acquirements. The quaint remark of old 
 Fuller, made on one of the mightiest lords of intellect, 
 is not inapplicable to Nicholson — " One is not made 
 but bom a poet. Indeed his learning was but little ; 
 so that as Cornish diamonds arc not pohshed by any 
 lapidary, but are pointed and smoothed as they are 
 taken out of the earth, so nature itself icas all the art 
 that teas used upon hhn." 
 
 The melancholy circumstances of Nicholson's death 
 have elicited from the best of our local poets funeral 
 poems of great beauty. As the writers, being free of 
 the poetic craft, were better able to form a just estimate 
 of his works, and were intimately acquainted with all 
 the main incidents of liis life, I have thought it well to 
 print these poCms. The writer of one of them (Mr. 
 Crossleyj has since descended " untimely to the grave." 
 His memory claims " the passing tribute of a sigh." 
 He possessed all the requisites of a true poet and noble- 
 minded man. " Bard ! rest thee sweetly in the grave !"
 
 « 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 ]:legy 
 
 ox XHK 3)E.\XII OF JOllX NICHOLSOX. 
 BY ROBERT STORY. 
 We bring our jeui-.s 1o an eiul, /is it were a tale that is told." 
 
 Mute is the Lyre of Ebor I cold 
 The Minstrel of the streamy Aire ! 
 
 The " years'" are pass'd, the " tale" is told : 
 Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare ! 
 
 The tale is told — what is the tale r 
 The same that still the ear hath won, 
 
 As oft as in life's humbler vale. 
 Genius hath recogniz'd a Son, 
 
 First comes the magic time of life, 
 
 "When boyhood sees nor dreams of gloom, 
 
 And when within the breast are rife 
 
 Thoughts that are made of light and bloom. 
 
 Then j^outh, with all it's burning hopes 
 
 Of fame and glory ne'er to die, 
 When manfidly with fate he copes 
 
 A.nd zoill not deem a peril nigh. 
 
 At length he gives to public gaze 
 
 The transcript of his glowing thought ; 
 
 And vulgar mai-\-el, — high born praise. 
 Seem earnests of the meed he sought. 
 
 Now round him crowd where'er he wends, 
 His mind yet pure and undebas'd. 
 
 The countless troop of talent' s friends. 
 Those who affect — but have not — taste. 
 
 These bid him press to eager lips 
 The double poison of their bowl — 
 
 Flatteries that weaken as he sips, 
 And draughts that darken sense and soul.
 
 xl. 
 
 oh I lor a voice to rouse him up. 
 To warn him, ere too late it be. 
 
 That Frenzy mantles in the cup. 
 And that its di"egs are — Misery ! 
 
 Days pass — years roll — the novelty 
 That charm' d at first, is faded now ; 
 
 And men that sought his hour of glee 
 Repel him with an alter'd brow. 
 
 "Where is the bard's indignant breath ? 
 
 Alas ! the bard, from habits leam'd, 
 Is powerless to resent ; and Death 
 
 Kindly receives him — spent and spurn"d. 
 
 Talk ye of fame I Oh ! he hath borne 
 Contempt alive ; but praise him dead ; 
 
 Aye, nioum him — whom ye left to mourn ; 
 Give him a stone — ye gave not bread ! 
 
 No more. — The old, sad tale is told. 
 
 Prepare the shroud the grave prepare ! 
 For mute is Ebor's LjTe, and cold 
 
 The minstrel of the streamy Aire ! 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON IHE DEAIH OF JOHX XICHOLSOX. 
 BY THOMAS CROSSLEY. 
 
 Alas, that Genius should be doom"d 
 In life's unnumbcr"d ills to share ! 
 
 While vain Pretence has oft assum'd 
 The honours she alone shoidd wear. 
 
 Too soon she meets the frown of scorn ; 
 
 E'en Genius palls on Fashion's eye : — 
 The flow'r that shard the smile of morn, 
 
 Unnotic'd, ere 'tis noon, may die.
 
 xli. 
 
 Alas, that she, with all her charms. 
 
 Thro' life's rude thorny path should wend ; 
 
 And then at last, in Misery's arms, 
 Untimely to the grave descend ! 
 
 Such fate was thine, O gifted bard ! 
 
 Tho" Foi-tune hath her boon denied, 
 Yet Poesy, with high award, 
 
 A more than golden mine supplied. 
 
 Thy steps she led by banks and Ijraes, 
 O'er heathery mountains seldom trod. 
 
 Where thou could'st sing in touching lays, 
 Of Nature and of Nature's God. 
 
 Aire ! thou didst win his fond regard — 
 Thy lovely glens — thy peerless daughters ! 
 
 Alas, that thy devoted bard 
 
 Should perish in thy treach'rous waters ! 
 
 Or if, amid the desperate strife, 
 
 He stemm'd at last thy bounding wave, — 
 Traifress ! thou spar'd'st one spark of life, 
 
 And then a clay-cold death-bed gave. 
 
 A requiem sad thy night-winds wove, 
 "Mid vernal foliage gay and green ; 
 
 The stars of heaven, which gleam'd above, 
 Sole witness of the mournful scene. 
 
 Prostrate in Death's embrace, alone, 
 There to the eye of opening day, 
 
 (The spirit to its Giver flown,) 
 The wreck of tuneful genius lay. 
 
 Ah, thou art gone ! thy lyre is still, 
 
 Which thro' the glens of winding Aire, 
 
 From rock to rock, from hill to hill, 
 Pour'd forth its magic music there.
 
 xlii. 
 
 The dreary fell, tlic patlilcss Avoid, 
 llcturn"d the echo, sweetly wild ; 
 
 And many a rocky vale re-told 
 
 The mmstrel strains of Nature's child. 
 
 The Harp of Aire, by abbey old. 
 Of rapture yields no more a token ; 
 
 The hand which wak'd its fire is cold, 
 And all its thrilling chords are broken ! 
 
 The spirit of old Ebor"s sires 
 
 How well his living verse pourtrays, 
 
 And banner'd towers, and battle-fires. 
 And sylvan sports of ancient days ! 
 
 But say, shall those for whom to mirth, 
 Or sadness his wild harp was strung. 
 
 Be left without a friend on earth 
 
 For whom his tenderest strains were sun<2r ? 
 
 'O 
 
 And for whose weal the gentle rhyme 
 He sang, with Nature's gifted powers, 
 
 Like minstrel of the olden time 
 In princely halls or lady bowers? 
 
 No ! Gratitude forljid ! and thou, 
 Oh Pity ! with thy dove-like eyes. 
 
 Look up, and gently stem e'en now. 
 The widow's tears — the orphan's sighs. 
 
 Bard ! sleep thee by Aire's silvery tide ! 
 
 Friends shall thy helpless orphans save ; 
 For them shall generous hearts provide : 
 
 Bard ! rest thee sweetly in the gi-ave ! 
 
 Where Friendship's grief shall freely flow 
 And Memory's sigh be gently borne ; 
 
 And Genius shall her tears bestow. 
 Bright as the dewy flowers of morn !
 
 xlili. 
 LINES TO THE RIYlAi AIRE, 
 
 OCCASroXED BY THE DEATH OF JOHN NICHOLSON. 
 
 Br Enfr^RD collinsojv. 
 
 Cold were the winds that swept along 
 
 Thy far-fam"d waters, Aire ! 
 When on thy banks thy bard rcpos"d 
 
 Till death released him there. 
 Oft had the music of thy wave — 
 
 The gusliing of thy streams — 
 Infus'd a music in his heart 
 
 And mingled with his dreams. 
 
 In childhood's young and laughing hours, 
 
 Ere sorrow touch" d his brow. 
 He lov"d to sport where he could hear 
 
 Thy murmurs, deep and low : 
 In youthhood"s more ambitious time 
 
 When stirr"d with hope of fame. 
 He lov'd thy haunts by wood and glen, 
 
 And proudljj spoke thy name. 
 
 When vex'd with care, or scorn's dark frown, 
 
 He lov'd to wander where 
 He could forget the world's neglect, 
 
 Upon thy banks, sweet Aire ! 
 And when his tuneful harp he strung 
 
 To strains most bold or mild. 
 It was to link thy name to song, 
 
 And all thy legends wild. 
 
 And when the hour of death drew nigh, 
 
 In midnight's solemn gloom, 
 He sought, he battled — stemm'd thy wave — 
 
 As if it were his doom. 
 To have from thee, as/rom their source, 
 
 Alike, his fame and death ; — 
 Thou didst inspire his soul with song. 
 
 To thee he gave his breath.
 
 NICHOLSON'S rOEMS.
 
 AIREDALE 
 
 IN ANCIENT TIMES. 
 
 Tho" greatest Bards have sung most earthly things, 
 And scarcely left me room to touch the strings, 
 Yet humbly would I from the crowd retire. 
 And strike, tho' feebly, the responsive lyre. 
 By Nature's hand, O, may my harp be strung. 
 While I attempt the vale that ne'er was sung ! 
 Spirit of Ancient Times ! my genius turn 
 To scenes long past — and make my fancy burn ! 
 Genius of Hisfry ! Learning's loveliest maid, 
 Around me let thy mantle be display' d ; 
 Let all thy pow'rs together be combin'd, 
 My soul t' illumine, and support my mind 1 
 
 Lead me, O Muse, along Aire's winding course, 
 To sing of Gordale — its tremendous source. 
 Where terror sits, and scorns the poet's pen, 
 The painter's pencil, — all the pow'rs of men : 
 "Where sons of Science oft confounded stand. 
 To ^•iew this wonder of the Almighty's hand .' 
 
 B
 
 2 ArKKDALE. 
 
 Here, in dark shade, the rifted rocks appear. 
 The bursting cataracts assail the ear : 
 Projecting masses to the clouds are pil'd. 
 And grandeur revels in her palace wild ! 
 E'en those that to description would aspire, 
 Gaze mute with awe, and silently retire. 
 Here fierce banditti once securely slept, 
 And joyous revell'd, while the plunder'd wept. 
 "We now, secure, these awful cliffs survey. 
 Nor dread to fall the base assassin's prey. 
 
 But softer scenes on Malham Water view, 
 "When its smooth breast reflects the azure blue ; 
 Or wlien the skiffs, departing from its shore, 
 Convey the lovely nymphs of Craven o"er — 
 The still lake ruffled by each rower's stroke. 
 And its smooth surface into surges broke, — 
 The circling woods return their cheerful song. 
 As nymphs and swains harmonious glide along ; 
 AVhile at the flies the glitt'ring fishes bound, 
 And twice ten thousand eddies circle round. 
 Anon 'tis ruffled like the foam-white sea, 
 Then smooth as glass, reflecting ev'ry tree ; 
 The lofty fells upon its breast are seen, 
 Bro\vn here with heath, and there with brackens green; 
 Health, rosy Health, diseases drives away, 
 And Pleasure loves amid those scenes to stray.
 
 AIKEDALE. o 
 
 Firm fixed near, like the great throne of Jove, 
 Stands, rudely great, old Malham's lofty Cove, 
 From whence, in storms, the bursting streams arc hurlW, 
 Met by the Avinds, to misty vapours whirl'd. 
 Here the brave Percies, foremost in the chase, 
 Were follow' d by the sons of Clifford's race ; 
 Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn, 
 Obcy'd the cheerful summons of the horn ; 
 Malhams and Martons, on their hunters fleet, 
 Scatter'd the moorland moss beneath their feet, — - 
 Rode down the rocky hills with rapid force. 
 And still undaimted held their ardent course, 
 While nodding antlers of the mountain deer 
 Topp'd the high hills, — the hounds, the hunters near ; 
 Next took the vale, and with ambition tried 
 Which rider durst o'erleap Aire's infant tide. 
 The shepherds in the valley left their flocks, 
 Mounted the hills, and shouted on the rocks. 
 But, oh ! how soon does human greatness fall I 
 What years has ruin dwelt in Clifford's hall ! 
 The lord, the baron, and the warrior still, 
 And mute the horn on Elso's lofty hill ! 
 
 The sons of Craven now are happier far, — 
 No Scottish warriors wage the cruel war. 
 As when the sons of Gargrave sallied forth 
 To meet the fierce invaders from the north :
 
 4 AIKEDALE. 
 
 When on the shields the battle-axes rung, 
 
 Spears broke, helms cleft, and many a bow was strung ; 
 
 Death thro' Northumbria's fields had mark"d their Avay, 
 
 And mothers wept where lifeless fathers lay ; 
 
 Friends, kindi'cd, lovers, on the earth expir'd, 
 
 Their dwellings plunder'd, and their churches iir'd ; 
 
 The holy crucifix away Avas borne. 
 
 And from the shrines the sacred relics torn ; 
 
 The sacramental wine they rudely quaff" d, 
 
 Smil'd o'er the flames, and at destruction laugh'd ! 
 
 But when these hordes arriv'd on Craven's height, 
 The sons of Gargrave met them in the fight ; 
 Percy and Garri made a noble stand, 
 And fought their three-fold numbers hand to hand. 
 His well-tried sword brave Garri whirl'd around, 
 And brought three Scottish leaders to the ground ; 
 The blade of Percy bore the fray so well. 
 Beneath his arm, five northern warriors fell. 
 Their helms he cleft with many a mighty stroke, — 
 His temper'd weapon bent — but never broke. 
 No banner wav'd, no trumpets sounded clear, 
 T' inspire their breasts — 'twas silent conflict there. 
 The brackens green, where the hot battle burn'd, 
 To crimson with the warriors' gore were turn'd : 
 But soon of Percy's band but ten rcmain'd, — 
 The mountain stream with streaks of blood was stain'd ;
 
 AIREDALE. 
 
 The dccp-dy'd waters crept, mcancrrin^ slow, 
 As loth to toll the tragic tale below ; 
 There many a wounded youth, oppress"d with pain, 
 Lay on the earth — their pillows were the slain. 
 
 With conquest fir'd, the Northerns sallied down. 
 To plunder Gargrave's lone deserted town ; 
 The blazing brands within the church they hurl'd. 
 And soon the flames around the altar curl'd, 
 WhUe from the burning roof the molten lead 
 Dropp'd on the ancient tombstones of the dead ; 
 The blood-red sun sunk slowly in the west, 
 As by the dreadful scene of woe oppress' d : 
 But plunder ceas'd not in the shades of night, 
 The blazing ruins lent a baleful light. 
 Till Skipton's sons appeafd, with banners red, — 
 The Scots beheld their glitt'ring arms and fled ! 
 
 AVliat little cause have moderns to complain, 
 Thoughout our isle ! — no native warriors slain ; 
 Our fertile valleys, in improving charms. 
 With commerce smile, secm-e from Avar's alarms. 
 How chang'd, since Skipton's ancient tow'rs arose, 
 Their country's strength, and terror of its foes ! 
 Where Meschines, the long-ejected heir, 
 Led to the altar Cicily the Fair, 
 Obtaining thus, what many a life had cost. 
 With his fair bride, the lands his father lost ; —
 
 e AIKEDALE. 
 
 All those domains which Edwin once possess'd, 
 
 Where fam"d Romili fix'd his place of rest. 
 
 By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought. 
 
 The arms with which the Norman warriors fought ;• 
 
 Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigantine, 
 
 AVorn by the warriors of the Norman line, 
 
 Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear, 
 
 Lances and swords, have oft been polished there ; 
 
 Banners, which wav'd when shields and helmets rung, 
 
 "Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung 
 
 High in the tower, as in a place of trust. 
 
 Now w'asted all, and worn away wdth rust. 
 
 Here, gorgeous, glltter'd, once in days of old, 
 
 Satins of various dyes, adorn'd with gold : 
 
 The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er, 
 
 And silver'd robes the ancient Cliffords wore ; 
 
 Then- hangings were of silk, wdth silver ting'd, 
 
 And velvet canopies with gold were fring'd ; 
 
 Whole butts of Avine were in the cellar stow'd, 
 
 And m the hall the vessels oft o'erflow'd. 
 
 Upon each dish the dragon was pourtray'd. 
 
 And undeiTieath a gory lion laid, 
 
 Warriors and arms w'ere graven on the plate, 
 
 To show their fathers wish'd them to be great ; 
 
 Upon their cups, emboss'd, was many a shield. 
 
 And this strong charge — " Let Cliffords never yield I" 
 
 Upon the wall their bright steel armour hung, 
 
 With dimi)lcs mark'd, where many a s2)eHr had rung.
 
 AIREDALE. 
 
 Here many a sumptuous lordly feast was kept. 
 And ladies here o"er warriors slain have wept ; 
 Here lords have hunted thro' their wide domains, 
 Rode o'er the rocks, and gallopp"d on the plains ; 
 Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard, 
 Pass'd not unheeded nor without regard ; 
 Here many a night of jollity has been. 
 And festive mirth was stamp' d on every scene : 
 But how can scenes of cenfrics long gone by. 
 With all the ancient feats of chivalry, 
 Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport. 
 Their imitations of the monarch's court : 
 Their priests, rever'd, by superstition fed, 
 "\^Tio, they believ"d, could liberate the dead : 
 The sieges which the lofty tow'rs sustain'd. 
 Till on their tops no battlement remain' d ; 
 Their great possessors, since the Norman king. 
 Crowd all at once — too much for me to sing : 
 Then, oh forgive a rustic feeble bard. 
 When he admits the mighty task too hard ! 
 Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive hours. 
 In walking round these desolated tow'rs, 
 Where late such si;reatness and such valour dwelt. 
 Reflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt. 
 
 But to the vale 111 turn, where Aire winds slow. 
 And its pure waters scarcely seem to flow :
 
 8 AIREDALE. 
 
 Where cattle fed, and scarce a wall was seen, 
 
 But all one wide extended park of green ; 
 
 Or, when the native butter-flow'rets blew, 
 
 The valley shone in robes of golden hue. 
 
 The mountain's side with ash was spotted o'er. 
 
 Which Nature planted centuries before ; 
 
 Above, the huge grey rocks, which ne'er had broke 
 
 Since the creation with the hammer's stroke, 
 
 "Wliere jirickly furze for ages blossom' d round, 
 
 And the brown heath the lofty mountains crown' d. 
 
 From whence the crystal rills did gushing flow. 
 
 To seek repose within the vale below ; 
 
 Where the young shepherds sought the cooling shade. 
 
 And underneath the far spread branches laid, 
 
 Tun'd theu- sweet pipes, their flocks all grazing round, 
 
 While their lov'd nymphs stood list'ning to the sound. 
 
 Then near some lonely grange upon the green, 
 
 Where the old yew-trees had for cent'ries been. 
 
 In rural bliss the loving pairs would play. 
 
 And quite forget the labours of the day, — 
 
 Sing of some ancient warriors whom they knew, 
 
 Firm to their king, and to their country true ; 
 
 Or of some maid, who lov'd, but could not gain 
 
 The fickle heart of her too haughty swain, — 
 
 How oft she wander' d in the fields alone. 
 
 Till reason and her beauty all were gone. 
 
 They sung, till tears stood trembling in each eye., 
 
 And not a heart was there but heav'd a sigh.
 
 AIREDALE. 'J 
 
 Next, on his staff, opprcss'd with weight of years, 
 The father comes, and calls them in to pray'rs ; 
 His reverend looks they dare not disobey, — 
 The worst from cv'ning worship covdd not stay : 
 Then from his heart the Pater Nostcr flows ; 
 He worships God as tridy as he knows ; 
 No new fanatics can with him compare, 
 In true devotion and the fervent pray'r. 
 
 But I must sing of scenes more ancient still, 
 When ofi"rings smok'd upon the rocky hill ; 
 In days long past, when, circled round with wood. 
 The lowly huts of pristine warriors stood, 
 Where the majestic oaks their branches spread. 
 And for the Druids form'd a sacred shade, — 
 Who, at one period of the changing year. 
 Did for their deep, imposing rites prepare. 
 Wliitc as the snow their sacred vests appear'd ; — 
 They as the Gods' vicegerents Avere rever'd. 
 On ev'ry hill the milk-white beasts were sought ; 
 When found, with joy they to the groves were brought. 
 Then virgins cull'd the flowers with greatest care. 
 To strive who could the richest wreath prepare ; 
 While to the harps of bards the peasants sung. 
 And roimd the beasts the rosy garlands hung. 
 The rock, which yet retains the Altar's name. 
 Had honours paid, and mighty was its fame.
 
 10 AlKEDALE. 
 
 There, 'tis prcsuin"d, tlic misletoe was laid, 
 While to their unknown Gods the Druids pray"d ; 
 There were domestic quarrels made to cease, 
 And foes at variance thence return d in peace. 
 Unlike the various priests of modern days, 
 So diffrent, that they teach a thousand ways ; 
 And tho" they boast superior knowledge giv'n, 
 Who knows but Druids taught the way to heav'n ? 
 Then all returning from the Altar's height, 
 Some fiird with awe, some smiling with delight, 
 AVhilc ancient bards, as slow they mov'd along, 
 Touch"d their wild harps, and this their artless song 
 
 Now with the Gods our peace is made, 
 
 No witch" s spell or charm 
 Can make our hawthorn blossoms fade, 
 
 Our flock or herbage harm. 
 
 Safe from the wolf and furious hour 
 
 We rest another year ; 
 No fox shall take our feather"d store, 
 
 Or make our springs less clear. 
 
 Nu fairy climb the lofty oak, 
 
 The sacred plant* to kill ; 
 No warrior wear a bloody cloak. 
 
 Or fall upon the hill. 
 
 ♦ Mi>k>l<>f.
 
 AIREDALE. 11 
 
 No eagle, from the stormy north, 
 
 Shall our young lambs destroy ; 
 Nor hawk nor raven shall come forth. 
 
 To blast our rural joy. 
 
 But cv'ry thing we want is ours, 
 
 Bestow'd by bounteous heav'n, 
 And falls like fruitful rain in show'rs. 
 
 If for them praise be giv'n. 
 
 Oft on the hills, to chase the dappled deer, 
 The painted Britons would in troops appear ; 
 Swift as the hind they bounded o"er the plain — 
 The sportive chase was then their only gain. 
 They knew not then the sickle, scythe, nor hoe ; 
 No pantmg oxen labour' d at the plough : 
 Their flocks and herds were then their only store, 
 They liv'd content, nor knew, nor \vash'd for more. 
 But, if their chiefs had struck upon the shield. 
 And call"d their warriors to the embattled field, 
 They left their homes, and all their rural charms. 
 And o'er their painted shoiddcrs threw their arms : 
 The British virgins, while their l)ows were strung, 
 Join'd with the native bards, while thus they sung : — 
 
 Britain ! the land by Gods belov'd, 
 
 The land of warriors brave, 
 "Who ever meet their foes unmov'd. 
 
 Nor dread the hero's grave.
 
 12 AIREDALE. 
 
 By barbarous foes unconqucr'd still, 
 
 The pastures yet our o^\^l ; 
 Aud ours the grove and sacred hill, 
 
 AMiilc Cuno* wears the cro■\^^l. 
 
 The northern nations, fierce, may come. 
 
 To waste our fruitful field ; 
 But those shall rue they left their home. 
 
 And soon to Britons yield. 
 
 Arm, warriors, arm ! your children caU- 
 The Gods will give you aid ; 
 
 Before your spears your foes shall fall, 
 The mighty army fade ! 
 
 Arm, waniors, arm ! your all defend — 
 
 The Highland foe is near ! 
 Let all upon the Gods depend, 
 
 And strangers be to fear ! 
 
 With quivers fill'd, and brazen spears, 
 With trumpets loud and strong. 
 
 Rush to the fight — the foe appears, 
 But foes shall not be Ions'. 
 
 '&• 
 
 Thus sung the bards — and at their words. 
 
 At once the warriors drew 
 From brazen sheaths their gliltring swords. 
 
 And to the conflict flew. 
 
 • Cunobuline, a British Prince.
 
 AIREDALE. 13 
 
 So 'twas of old, one dreadful day. 
 
 Which ancient bards did sing, 
 "When mighty warriors fled away. 
 
 Like hawks upon the wing. 
 
 Fierce were their foes, — the savage boar 
 
 Had lent his bristled hide, 
 ^^^nch they for barbarous helmets wore, 
 
 With various colours dy'd. 
 
 Upon theu' breasts imagined beasts 
 
 And monsters were pourtray'd ; 
 The highland skins, with labour dress'd. 
 
 Was then their tartan plaid. 
 
 Dreadfully grim the van appear'd, 
 
 A far extended line ; 
 From wing to wing theu- spears uprear'd. 
 
 Did bright as silver shine. 
 
 The Britons waited not to view 
 
 Or study dangers o'er ; 
 But, dauntless, in their chariots flew. 
 
 And stain'd their arms in gore. 
 
 The conflicts on the fields of Troy 
 
 To this were but a fiay ; 
 Each Grecian warrior but a boy. 
 
 To those who fought that day.
 
 14 ATRKDAI.t. 
 
 No room to bear the banners high ; 
 
 No breath to give command ; 
 No heart to fear, no way to fly ; 
 
 Biit warrior hand to hand ! 
 
 Swords cut like saws, and broke in twain, 
 
 And spears as crimson red. 
 Were strew'd all o'er the bloody plain, 
 
 Or grasped by the dead. 
 
 Thus, when the Picts or Romans came in sight. 
 The Britons rush'd like tori'ents to the fight ; 
 Their chariot wheels with sharpest weapons hung. 
 And from each car were darts and arrows flmig ; 
 Death mark'd the way where'er the chariots turn'd, 
 And round each chief the bloody battle burn'd : 
 But if the artful cohorts gained the field. 
 The Britons made the woods their nightly shield. 
 And when the Romans thought the battle won, 
 They found, next morn, the conflict scarce begun. 
 Thus Britons fought, — by Boadicea led. 
 And on the slain the wolves and eagles fed. 
 
 Say, winding Aire ! ye rocks, ye woods, and hills. 
 How you were stain' d — and how your crystal rills 
 Ran crimson'd with your native warriors' blood. 
 When on the heights the Roman eagles stood. 
 When Olicano's rocky station rose. 
 And Britain Ijow'd, reluctant, to her foes I
 
 ArRKDALE. lo 
 
 But now, could Greece lier ancient grandeur gain. 
 Could Roman chiefs once more resume their reign : 
 Could Csesar leap on shore f invade our land. 
 And all his legions pour upon the strand ; 
 Should Alexander, with his mighty host. 
 With Xerxes in the rear — all threafning boast 
 To bring the myriads of their warriors here. 
 The troops of Waterloo would never fear. 
 For one dread day like that of Trafalgar, 
 Had brought to peace the ten years" Trojan war! 
 
 O Nature ! be my muse — to touch the scene 
 Of Bingley"s glories, which long since have been ; 
 "V\Tien in full splendour were its ancient halls, 
 And high achievements grac'd their massy walls ; ' 
 AVlien oaks, which now the whirlwind's force witlistand. 
 Had bent to earth beneath an infant's hand, 
 Where winding Aire, enamour"d of the place. 
 Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze ; — 
 To leave the scene the glitfring river mourns. 
 And shows reluctance in its varied turns. 
 Till, forc'd at last, it rushes down the steep. 
 Turns into rage, as if too proud to weep ! 
 
 Could I but call some venerable shade, 
 "Whose earthly part a thousand years has laid 
 Within the tomb, in silent, soft repose. 
 Perhaps it might such things as these disclose : —
 
 IG AIREDALE. 
 
 Where rolls the stream above yon sacred fane, 
 
 And where the hills, in Time's all-wasting reign. 
 
 Have chang"d their forms ; while struggling for its way. 
 
 The furious flood has torn a part aAvay 
 
 Of yonder fields, which bear a castle's name, — 
 
 There once a castle stood, tho' lost to fame : 
 
 But, safely shelter'd from the feudal rage, 
 
 It gain'd no place in the historian's page ; 
 
 And as the gi-eatest temples rise and fall, 
 
 So none can tell where stood its ancient hall : 
 
 Its gothic arches and the strong-built keep. 
 
 Within th' adjacent floods are buried deep ; 
 
 The strong foundations of its lofty tow'rs. 
 
 Crumbled to sand, and wash"d away with sho\vr"s ! 
 
 The river's course a thousand times has chang'd, 
 Since on its banks the ancient Druids rang'd. 
 The fords, which once the Roman cohorts cross"d, 
 Fill'd up with sand, are now for ever lost. 
 The course now fields, where once the river ran — 
 Emblem of empires, and of changing man ! 
 The streams of Science once thro' Egypt flow'd. 
 When Thebes in all its ancient grandeur glow'd ; 
 Then left the margin of the fruitful Nile, 
 Cross'd o'er to Greece, and made great Athens smile. 
 Athens and Corinth fell — and Rome appear' d, 
 Stretch'd forth her empire, and no danger fear"d,
 
 AIREDALE. 1 7 
 
 Till Gothic ignorance, with her sable robe 
 
 Of darkest superstition, wrapt the globe. 
 
 Then bigot Fury rear'd its hydra head ; 
 
 Then Science sunk, and all the Muses fled 
 
 To their own shades, and there for cenfrics mourn"d, 
 
 Nor to Parnassus have they yet return'd : 
 
 At length on earth again they deign'd to smile, 
 
 And fix'd their residence on Albion's isle. 
 
 But stop, my Muse — 'haste not so far away ! 
 I'll woo thee in my native vale to stay. — - 
 Its beauties be thy theme — the woods and dells, 
 Sequester'd boAv'rs, and sweet melodious bells ; 
 The flow'r-deek'd la-\vn, the distant heath-crown'd hills, 
 Stupendous rocks, and softly murm'ring rills ; 
 The woodland echoes, whisp'ring in the trees, 
 Or floating loudly on the fitful breeze ; 
 ^\^lere nought of sameness the charm'd sight offends. 
 But ev'ry scene the former scene transcends ; 
 Where rocks in rich variety are dress'd. 
 Some in the grey, and some the auburn vest ; 
 Where varying Nature gives the lovely tinge. 
 And on the banks suspends the mossy fringe. 
 But where's the bard can sing of Bingley's vale, 
 And never once in his descriptions fail ? 
 'Tis here the modest snow-drop first appears, 
 Drooping its head, and wet with icy tears, 
 
 c
 
 18 AIREDALE. 
 
 Like some jioor bard, un]vno\\Ti to public fame, 
 It shrinks and mthers on its native stem. 
 And here the primrose, from its mossy bed, 
 Silver'd ^^•ith dew, lifts up its lovely head, 
 "SMiere springing woodbine to the hazel cleaves, 
 "With snow still pressing doA%'n its velvet leaves. 
 How pleasant here to walk, when daisies spring, 
 "WTiile the sweet bells in tuneful changes ring, 
 "When ev'ry tone the echoing woods receive, 
 And thus delightfully the ear deceive. 
 Reverberating, mellow, sweet, and clear. 
 As tho' a far more dulcet peal was there ! 
 
 Could I describe the days of olden time, 
 ^Vhen first this valley heard the varying chime ;— 
 I hear them yet — am present at the hour 
 "When zealous crowds from ev'ry \illagc pour, 
 At early mom, upon the holy day, 
 To worship God, confess their sins, and pray. 
 No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find. 
 But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind. 
 The Church, establish'd, is their fav"rite place. 
 And rev'rence dwells on ev'ry varied face. 
 The manor's lord, with all his household, comcs,- 
 His honest tenants leave their distant homes ; 
 The rural peasant takes his frugal wife, 
 And ev'ry child, without religious strife.
 
 AIREDALE. 19 
 
 The aged come, with years of labour worn, 
 Nor stop, tho' distant, on the holy morn. 
 The daughter here an aged mother bears. 
 Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers ; 
 And there the son leads on his pious sire, 
 Warni'd with devotion's purest, holiest fire. 
 'Tis rev'rence all — no lightsome smile appears, 
 See them, and blush, ye modern worshippers ! 
 Your fathers met their Maker to adore, 
 Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er, 
 And from the priest words of affection flow'd — 
 He pray'd, he wept, — until the list'ning crowd- 
 Melted to tears ; and tears that were not feign'd, 
 Like crystal drops, from all the audience rain'd. 
 Such were the days when churches were rebuilt, 
 Tho' days of darkness, not so gi'eat their guilt. 
 
 Tho" history has shaded o"er with crimes 
 The long past period of the feudal times. 
 Here foreign luxuries were yet unkno^vn, 
 And all they wish'd was in the valley grown,— 
 Their wholesome food was butter, cheese, and milk, 
 And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk, 
 The line they grew their own soft hands prepar'd, 
 The wool unneeded to the poor was spar'd ; — 
 But few the poor, unless by age oppress'd, 
 At little rent some acres each possess'd.
 
 20 AIREDALE. 
 
 ^Mien from the fields the golden sheaA'es were led, 
 
 The lovely fan* coiild glean their winter's bread ; 
 
 The husbandman could to his cottage bear 
 
 The wither'd boughs his frugal hearth to cheer, 
 
 Or oft at eve his willow basket, stor'd 
 
 With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord ; 
 
 Or did he want for Lent a proper dish. 
 
 Aire's sUv'ry streams produc'd imnumber'd fish ; 
 
 Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore, 
 
 And plum trees bended Avith the sable store : — 
 
 The ills which crowded population brings, 
 
 Had never broke, sweet rural bliss I thy wings ; 
 
 Then on the green the njnnphs and swaiiLS Avould dance. 
 
 Or, in a circle, tell some old romance. 
 
 And all the gi'oup would seriously incline 
 
 To hear of Saracens and Palestine, — 
 
 Of knights in armour of each various hue, 
 
 Of ladies left, some false, and others true. 
 
 Their pure descriptions show'd how warriors bled. 
 
 How wgins wept to hear of wamors dead. 
 
 The furious steeds swift rushing to the war. 
 
 The turban"d Turks, the bloody scymitar. 
 
 The cross-mark'd banners on the lofty height, 
 
 The impious struck with teiTor at the sight ! 
 
 Then told what spectres grim were seen to glide 
 
 Along this dale, before its heroes died. 
 
 Then mark'd their fall within the holy vale, 
 
 Describ'd them, lifeless, in their coats of mail, —
 
 AIKEDALE. 21 
 
 Told how some lady, frantic with despair, 
 Shiiek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire, 
 AVhcn tidings reach' d her from the Holy Land, 
 That her lov'd lord lay deep in Jordan's sand, — 
 And how her shrieks flew echoing thro' the wood, 
 AVliile her rich jewels glitter'd in the flood! 
 Thus happy they then- summer's evening spent, 
 Parted in peace, and homeward singing went, 
 Their voices, soft as th' ^^olian strings. 
 Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's wings. 
 Such was this vale when Kii-kstall's glories shone, 
 And who can help but sigh that they are gone ? 
 
 'Tis pleasant jet to see how i-\7 clings 
 Aroimd the walls where night bu-ds clap their wings ; 
 A solemn awe pervades the feeling breast. 
 To view the sacred earth with ruins press'd, — 
 The fallen arch, the shattered tow'r on high, 
 Remind us of the days and years gone by ; 
 Imagination sees the whole entire, — 
 The smoke yet ciu-ling in the ancient quu-e. 
 And slowly as their clouds of incense roll. 
 The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole, 
 "While the great organ, solemn, deep, and strong. 
 Joins with the worshippers in ancient song ; — 
 Beholds the Abbot in his robes array' d, 
 The altar wet, where once Tui'gesius pray'd,
 
 22 AIEEDALE. 
 
 The tapers burning, till each holy shrine 
 
 More brQliant than the thrones of monarchs shine^ 
 
 The glitfring cross, the \-irgin's image there, 
 
 Before the imagination all appear ; 
 
 The veiled niins, on some grand solemn night, 
 
 Rang'd on each side, their vests of purest white. 
 
 Tho' cent'ries intervene, yet fancy hears 
 
 The Abbot reading o'er the latin pray"rs ; — 
 
 HoAv stUl — ^how awful ! as the solemn strain 
 
 Now swells, and now to whispers falls again ! 
 
 TUl the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd, 
 
 Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud. 
 
 In all the diapasons deep or clear, 
 
 Man could invent, or his weak passions bear ! 
 
 The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen. 
 
 Is cover' d with a mossy robe of green ; 
 
 Elms in the cloisters gtow, and like a pall, 
 
 Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall ; 
 
 Upon the place where many a knight lies low. 
 
 Weeds, nettles, and the baneful nightshade grow, 
 
 ^\^lile on the cornice wildly waves the fern, 
 
 Like verdent plumes, in many a graceful turn. 
 
 How chang'd is Kirkstall, since to ruin tum'd. 
 And slow departing the last Abbot mourn' d ; 
 When ancient records, kept with pious care, 
 Qung to the boughs which overhung the Aire,
 
 AIREDALE. 23 
 
 Or toss'd in flames, or into pieces torn, 
 
 Like autumn leaves upon the winds were borne ; 
 
 Its income gone, and lost its fruitful land, 
 
 "Which was bequeath' d by many a dying hand ; 
 
 The granges ruin'd, and the cattle sold, 
 
 The sheep remov'd to a far distant fold ; 
 
 AU that was good and precious swept away, 
 
 And desolation seiz'd it as its prey ! 
 
 Of all its wealth the once fam'd place bereft, 
 
 And but the walls were to the artist left, 
 
 While many a pensive sti'anger, passing by. 
 
 Stops to admire, then leaves them with a sigh ! 
 
 The scenes how chang'd, since Loidis' castle stood 
 Encircled by the ancient park and wood ! 
 Where streets are now, the shining pheasants flew, 
 Or cattle cropt the daisies clos'd with dew ; 
 Commerce, to Albion's modern sons so dear, 
 Had never spread her golden pinions there. 
 Where chiu'ches stand, some centuries ago. 
 The swift-wing'd arrow left the archer's bow, — 
 A village small, no vessel then could ride. 
 The saUs unfuiiing in commercial pride, 
 A place of little note and scarcely known, 
 AVhose fame now widely spreads thro' ev"ry zone. 
 The village youth then heard but Kirkstall's bells, 
 And rustics sported where the organ swells ;
 
 24 AIREDALE. 
 
 Where now extends the great commercial street, 
 
 The virgins pluck' d the hawthorn blossoms sweet, 
 
 And where the spacious public halls are seen, 
 
 In times remote was once the -sillage green, 
 
 \Vhere noontide hours, and many a summer's night, 
 
 Were danced away with feelings of delight. 
 
 Upon the hills where oaks for cenfries grew. 
 
 Years, undisturbed, the glossy pheasants flew ; 
 
 Partridge and hares in every field were bred, 
 
 And never fell, struck by the murd'ring lead. 
 
 From aged furze, or from the lonely rocks, 
 
 Oft nightly Avander'd forth the wily fox. 
 
 The valleys echo'd on the early morn, 
 
 With hounds, with huntsman, and the cheerful horn ! 
 
 Then, as they cross'd the vale, fleet as the air. 
 
 Forsaken, lagged behind, old wrinlded Care, 
 
 Joy join'd the chase, and chcer'd each sportive mind. 
 
 And Sorrow there could no companion find. 
 
 The life-inspii-ing cries the hunter knew, 
 
 And from each breast dark melancholy flew : 
 
 Pleasiu'C and Mirth the foremost led the chase. 
 
 And rosy Health was sliining on each face. 
 
 With all our modern concerts, parties, balls, 
 Assembly rooms, oiu* theatres and halls. 
 Are we more happy than the ancient lord. 
 With good Octoljcr sparkling on his board,
 
 AIKEDALE. 25 
 
 His warriors round him, and the tuneful lyre 
 Strung by the bards, wlio sung his valiant sire : — 
 A lady lov'd, who strove her lord to please, 
 A priest at hand his troubled breast to ease ? 
 One wife he lov'd, the chase, and moral song, — 
 No follies broke his constitution strong ; 
 His guests true hearted, each a Avarrior brave. 
 And not a heart but scom'd to be a slave. 
 To-day they to the chase or feasting yield. 
 To-morrow duty calls them to the field. 
 With learning unrcfin"d, they knew no fear, 
 When front to front they met the shining spear. 
 Such were the sons of Leeds when Towton's plain 
 Was crimson'd o'er with thirty thousand slain ; 
 Their king they lov'd, and for their king they died, 
 "While "NMiarf's clear stream roU'd on a purple tide ; 
 And such must modern lords of Britain be. 
 If Britain conquer, and if Britain 's free !
 
 THE POACHER; 
 
 A TALE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 " The receiver is as bad as the thief." — Old Proverb. 
 
 This subject wants no Muse the breast t' inspire, 
 Deep learning, — nor the Apollonian lyre ; 
 Fine tropes and figures here can nought avail, 
 'Tis but a plain and simple rustic tale, — 
 A tale of poachers, partridge, grouse, and hares, 
 Gamekeepers' acts, their dangers and their fears ; 
 And who the persons that are most to blame. 
 Or those who buy, or those who steal the game. 
 But, in description little is my pow'r, — 
 I never took a hare at midnight hour ; 
 Experience cannot teach me how to sing, — 
 My shot ne'er broke the pheasant's glossy wing ; 
 No partridge in my hands resign' d its breath, 
 Nor moor-cock clos'd its beauteous eyes in death ; 
 For when I found them young upon the bent. 
 Far from their nests in sympathy I went.
 
 THE POACHEK. 27 
 
 Tho' low the theme, yet lords it has engag'd, 
 And famous knights have oft at Poachers rag'd. 
 They act such deeds as make e"en barons swear, 
 Break down their fine park walls and take the deer ; 
 In every hedge suspend the murd'ring snares, 
 And from their best preserves fetch bags of hares. 
 Nor is it strange — a child may know the cause 
 Wliy daring Poachers break the nation's laws ; 
 When for one night they gain far more reward 
 Than for a week of honest labour hard. 
 Game laws, they think, are made by greedy elves, 
 "Who want the free-created game themselves ; 
 The partridge, snipe, and grouse, for ought they know. 
 Belong to them just equal with the crow. 
 
 The youthful Poacher first a terrier keeps, 
 And where the conies haunt oft slily creeps 
 Till one is caught, — and then the foolish boy 
 Is elevated mth a ruinous joy. 
 His parents chide not, nor his actions blame. 
 But praise his skill and gladly take the game. 
 GroAving in Adce, such implements he gets 
 As powder, shot, a fowling-piece, and nets. 
 His parents then too late their follies see, 
 Pass days of grief, and nights of misery ! 
 Absent from home — ^lie ranges far and wide, 
 His comrades are his ruin and his pride ;
 
 28 THE POACHER. 
 
 Daily they spend the money they obtain ; 
 Half drunk at night they sally forth again : 
 Dangers on ev'ry side they heedless scorn, 
 If they with hares and pheasants can retui-n, 
 
 Ignotus was a man who work could get, 
 Had he not more than working lov'd his net ; 
 On tlie brown fallow he the grain could throw, 
 Covxld use a flail, a sickle, scythe, or hoc ; 
 To rustic youths he had no cause to yield, 
 A better Avorkman seldom took the field. 
 Had not his failing been the death of hares, 
 Keeping a dog, and making nets and snares. 
 An old experienc'd Poacher, nearly done, 
 "Who scarce could walk, yet gloried in the fun, 
 Learnt him to call, and how to temper wire, 
 With rushes, straw, or shavings set on fire ; 
 Told him what money on a night he made, 
 Wlicn he was young, and fewer of the trade ; 
 An evening long he lengthen" d out his tale, 
 Spoke of his feasts on spirits, beef, and ale, 
 Then prais'd the persons who had bought his hares,- 
 Forgot his wants, his miseries, and his cares ! 
 Tho" old, infirm, and rack'd with many a pain, 
 He almost wish"d to pass such nights again ! 
 
 When sportsmen some notorious Poachers fine, 
 On game at taverns they should never dine,
 
 THE rOACHEK. 29 
 
 For fear it was their own the week before. 
 
 Hung in their parks, or shot upon the moor ! 
 
 But here we scarce can tavern-keepers blame. 
 
 They wish to have a wide extended fame ; 
 
 And but for Poachers, what coukl such men do. 
 
 When for a feast they want a hare or two r 
 
 If there be supper, or a private ball, 
 
 Be there no game, it does not please at all ; 
 
 The beaux and belles go home dissatisfied 
 
 With ev'ry dainty, roasted, bak'd, or fried. 
 
 The ladies blame the master of the house. 
 
 If in the feast there be nor snipes nor grouse ; 
 
 For that is ever held the choicest dish. 
 
 That comes in secret, be it game or fish ! 
 
 The ladies then in extacy declare 
 
 "Wliat part they took of partridge, grouse, or hare ; 
 
 Describe the dainties when they each get home, 
 
 But ne'er consider how those dainties come : 
 
 For whether Poachers steal from squires or kings, 
 
 This is the cause whence most of Poaching springs. — 
 
 The epicures of ev'iy trading town. 
 
 Who get a hare or pheasant for a croA\Ti, 
 
 Have done more harm than all the murd'ring wire 
 
 That e"er was temper"d in the Poacher's fire. 
 
 The bards of genius sing the orphan's woe, 
 The rise of nations, or their overthrow ;
 
 30 THE POACHER. 
 
 Others describe the shipAvreck'tl sailor's fate, 
 
 The terrors of th* ensanguin'd field relate. — 
 
 Mine be the task to paint unto the life, 
 
 The deep distress of a poor Poacher's ^\ife, 
 
 "Who in the worst of huts is forc"d to live, 
 
 "\Micre winter snow comes thro' it like a sieve ; 
 
 The fumitm'c, were it put up for sale, 
 
 Would scarcely make a crown to buy him ale ; 
 
 His children to the utmost famine driv"n, 
 
 Quite destitute of clothes but what were giv'n, 
 
 By one whose heart could at misfortunes melt, 
 
 AVho knew their wants, and for their sufferings felt. 
 
 He sees them shiv'ring oft A\'ithout a fire. 
 
 And what should buy them coals is spent in mre ; 
 
 Two-thirds laid out in powder, shot, and nets, 
 
 The other part the well-fed landlord gets, — 
 
 And when the night of danger 's past away, 
 
 "While others work, he sleeps throughout the day : 
 
 But oft his sleep is broke by sudden fears. 
 
 He starts, — and thinks some bailiff's voice he hcars,- 
 
 He lifts his head, — 'tis famine all and dearth. 
 
 His famish'd children clinging round the hearth ; 
 
 Disease destroying all his partner's charms. 
 
 And tears fall on the infant in her arms. 
 
 His conscience wakes, tho' nearly hard as stone — 
 
 He turns him o'er, and heaves a heavy groan ; 
 
 Vows like an honest man's his days shall be — 
 
 At last convinc'd his deeds bring misery.
 
 THE POACTIEK. 31 
 
 His weeping wife hears the repentant sighs. 
 In anguish t'warcl him turns her tear-drench'd eyes, 
 Thus speaks, mth looks that would the marble move, 
 A\Tiile weeping o'er the pledges of their love : — 
 " Thou once, dear youth, for whom I all forsook, 
 " To me and mine, O give one thoughtful look ! 
 " "Where shall we fly ? — oui- credit all is o"cr, 
 " Thy evil deeds have made and keep us poor. 
 " My mother, wearied out, no more can do, 
 " My fathers bosom wasting with his woe ! 
 " Thou, while at enmity with ev'ry friend, 
 " Dost only to the worst advice attend. 
 " Bring thou but constant wages, I could rest, 
 " And with a certain pittance should be blest. 
 " ^\Tiile others sit in plenty and at peace, 
 " As years roll on their nuptial joys increase, 
 " Here is our eldest and our only son, 
 " "Who blest us first ere sorrow had begun, 
 " Without a shoe to travel in the snow, 
 " By rags defended when the cold ^vinds blow ; 
 *' "Who knows not yet an alphabet or pray'r, 
 " Nor ever yet engross'd a father's care. 
 " Such things as these sink in my bosom deep, 
 " And hours unseen I sorrowing sit and Aveep ; 
 " And see those little innocents beside, 
 " More than half-nak'd, Avhile clothes are wash'd and 
 di'ied.
 
 32 THE rOACHEK. 
 
 '•'■ "\\nille other children are with raiment bless"d, 
 
 "• And twice upon a Sabbath-day are drcss'd, 
 
 " Ours stand aloof upon the holy day, 
 
 " Or weep, upbraided with their rags at play. 
 
 " Debts undischarged, while thou enjoy'st thy cheer, 
 
 " Forgetful of the wants and sorrows here. 
 
 " How well could we be cloth'd, — ^how well be fed, 
 
 " If like an honest man's thy life was led ; 
 
 " O that the purchasers of game could knoAv 
 
 " My children's wants — the burden of my woe !"' 
 
 "N^Tiile thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came. 
 Extensive orders he had got for game, 
 From a rich man in whom they could confide, 
 Theander, whom the Poachers long had tried. 
 To those who bought his goods he presents made 
 Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betray' d 
 The youths who brought them from the distant wood. 
 And risk'd their lives to bear them o'er the flood ! 
 Then to the distant parks with steps of haste. 
 They cheerful cross"d the Avide-extonded waste. 
 The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high, 
 Tho' hid were half the diamonds of the sky ; 
 "WTiile skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air. 
 Shrouded the heav'ns, — excepting here and there 
 The moon-beams darted thro" a misty veil. 
 And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale.
 
 THE rOACHTCT?. 
 
 Two dogs attended them across the moor, — 
 A double-barrel'd gun each Poacher bore : 
 The hares were feeding on the turnips green, 
 But "Wharf's broad stream roll'd rapidly between, — 
 So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed, 
 They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost. 
 But soon they found the horse they oft had tried. 
 Which ne'er refus'd to cross the toi-rent wide ; 
 Without a bridle to adorn his head, 
 The peaceful creature by his mane was led. 
 A while they on the brink consulting stood, 
 Then mounted both, and ventur"d in the flood. 
 The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong, — 
 Yet, in the midst, they humm'd the Poachers song. 
 To kill their fears ; for who could help but fear; 
 Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near. 
 The aged horse his oft-tried strength now lost, 
 And on the rapid stream they both were toss'd ! 
 Their homes the Poachers ne'er had reach" d again, 
 Had not Ignotus grappled fast the mane ; 
 Desparo seiz'd his friend — 'twas all he could, 
 And thus, half di'own'd, they ferried o'er the flood. 
 Upon the bank they search for ball and string, 
 And in the oil-case wrapp'd, they quickly bring 
 Across the stream their implements of sport. 
 And ^vith them to the farmer's house resort. 
 The frugal aged dame is fill'd with fear, 
 Lest some should say they harbour'd Poachers there. 
 
 D
 
 34 THE POACHER. 
 
 Her son — a sporting youth, then goes and draws 
 
 A jug of ale — regardless of the laAvs : 
 
 Then vows, — nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop. 
 
 Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop ! 
 
 He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat, 
 
 And soon the Poachers' clothes smoke with the heat. 
 
 The aged farmer, griev'd, with locks turn'd grey. 
 
 Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away ; 
 
 Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out, 
 
 To listen if the keepers are about ; 
 
 While down his furrow" d cheeks the tears run fast, 
 
 Afraid with him that year ^vill be the last. 
 
 His landlord angry, — now no hope appears ; 
 
 But his good farm, possess'd for forty years. 
 
 He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone, 
 
 Thro' the bad actions of a wicked son. 
 
 With eyes suffus"d with tears, the poor old man 
 
 To reason with his son then thus began : 
 
 " O that I could persuade thee to give o'er 
 
 " This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor ! 
 
 " Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live, 
 
 " My little all to thee I'd freely give : 
 
 " But now each field, untill'd, neglected lies ; 
 
 " Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies. 
 
 " Whilst thou art ranging with thy nets and gun, 
 
 " Our cattle and our farm to ruin run ; 
 
 " Among thy comrades all that little spent 
 
 " Which should have paid my long arrears of rent.
 
 THE POACHEU. oO 
 
 " Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot ; 
 
 " I wouhl have liv'd at this my native spot, 
 
 " Wliere I so many years of labour pass'd, 
 
 " And where I first drew breath, have breath'd my last ! 
 
 " But now the workhouse" here his anguish strong 
 
 0"ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue ! 
 
 The harden 'd Poachers could not help but think ; 
 But soon they took the quart, and swore " Let 's drink !" 
 Ignotus vow'd that was no time for fears, 
 The squire must have his score of living hares. 
 The rich Theander, grown by commerce great, 
 Had purchas'd with his wealth a wide estate ; 
 Then down came ev'ry hedge and ev'ry wall. 
 And ev'ry humble cot was doom'd to fall. 
 Upon the rising hill each plan was drawn. 
 Of villa, gardens, grove, and sweeping lawn ; 
 And planted thick were trees of ev'ry hue, 
 The oak, the ash, the sycamore, and yew, 
 The fir, the larch, and plants not native here. 
 The poplar, with its waving leaves, was there. 
 The rills collected, form'd a lake for trout, — 
 And who that has a park would be without ? 
 With a high fence the whole Avas circled round, 
 But in the modern park no hares were found ; 
 No pheasants in the new plantation bred, 
 Nor partridge cherup'd its young brood to bed
 
 36 THE POACHER. 
 
 But Avhat "s the ^■illa, garden, or park A\all, 
 
 Except the hares are frisking round them all ? 
 
 '\'Miat pleasure in the grove and cooling breeze, 
 
 Except the pheasants glitter in the trees ? 
 
 The partridge whii-ring from beneath our feet. 
 
 In our own grounds, is surely pleasvu-e sweet ! 
 
 So thought Theander, — who from Poachers bought. 
 
 With cheerful heart, all living game they brought. 
 
 But stop, my pen — O let it not be said 
 
 That great Theander woiild have bought them dead ! 
 
 The Poachers, with their nets, their dogs, and gun, 
 Directed truly by the farmer's son, 
 Then left the house, and hasten' d to the wood ; 
 In silence there a while they list'ning stood. 
 Just when the hammer of the village bell 
 Twelve times hcav'd back, the midnight hour to tell. 
 Then nature such an awful silence kept — 
 The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept ; 
 The wither'd rushes, on the heathy hill, 
 Were scarcely mov'd — the tallest pines were still. 
 The waning moon a bloody vesture wore. 
 The only sounds, the distant cataract's roar, 
 And dcep-mouth'd mastiffs, struggling in the chain. 
 Fierce barking to their echo'd noise again. 
 This solemn scene no deep impression made 
 On hearts of flint, so harden'd with the trade.
 
 THE POACIIEU. ')/ 
 
 Then thro' the thick-grown briars they wandcr'd slow, 
 
 Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough. 
 
 Ignotus swore they would not fire that night. 
 
 Till they beheld between them and the light 
 
 Ten glisfning birds within the trees at rest ; 
 
 For oft before they number' d many a nest, 
 
 And when the powder flash' d, and shot had flo^\-n, 
 
 Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled down. 
 
 The number in the wood was quickly found ; 
 
 They left them there, and rang'd the open groimd. 
 
 That night the Poachers did their utmost strive, 
 
 To catch the rich Theander hares alive. 
 
 Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers Avcnt, 
 
 Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent ; 
 
 And when the flpng hare was just before. 
 
 Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more. 
 
 But fatal for poor Stormcr was the night, 
 
 Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight, 
 
 Leveird their pieces at the vital part, 
 
 And shot poor faithful Stormcr thro' the heart ; 
 
 "While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued. 
 
 And left her partner struggling in his blood. 
 
 The echoing woods convey'd the swift report, — 
 
 The Poachers guess'd the end of that night's sport. 
 
 Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries, — 
 
 Rage fill'd each breast, and blaz'd within their eyes ; 
 
 Ignotus swore, " This luckless night I'll die, 
 
 " Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie ;
 
 38 THE POACHEK. 
 
 *' And should a legion of gamekeepers come, 
 
 " The shot of both my baiTcls shall fly home !" 
 
 "Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew, 
 
 As to the fatal place the Poachers flew ; 
 
 And when arriv"d, Ignotus raised his head, 
 
 Then heav'd a sigh, and deeply swore, " He's dead ! 
 
 " O Mend, Desparo ! such a dog ne"er went 
 
 " Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent. 
 
 " Poor Storaier ! look, Desparo, where he bled ! — 
 
 " How oft to us he has the hares convey'd ! 
 
 " How oft have I, ^vith exultation great, 
 
 *' Stood listening to the singing of his feet ; 
 
 "• But now his turning of the hares are o'er, 
 
 " And he must pant close at their heels no more !"' 
 
 No sooner had these words escap"d his tongue. 
 Than four arm'd keepers, lusty, stout, and strong, 
 Leap'd from the bushes with the full design 
 To make these bold marauders pay the fine. 
 O'er Stormer's death their bosoms Avere cnrag'd ; 
 In desperation, one with two cngag'd. 
 Around the Poachers many a pellet flew. 
 Before in war they either trigger drew ; 
 Then all at once their double barrels went ; 
 The shot whizz' d past, — its force in air was spent ; 
 No time to load again, they met in blows, 
 The Poachers stiniggling with superior foes.
 
 THE POACHER. 39 
 
 His piece Ignotus by the barrel took, 
 
 One adversary's arm in splinters broke ; 
 
 He groan'd and fled, his piteous case to tell ; 
 
 Another stroke, — and strong Ignotus fell ! 
 
 While bold Desparo, with his strong butt-end. 
 
 Made his antagonist to earth descend. 
 
 Now two disabled, furious was the fray, 
 
 Both sides were stupid, neither would give way. 
 
 The barrels broken from their carved stocks, 
 
 And on the field were strew'd the torn-off locks. 
 
 Enrag"d, Ignotus rose, and drew his knife. 
 
 And cried, " Desparo" s freedom or your life I' 
 
 The keepers dreading much the fatal blow. 
 
 Took to their heels, and let the Poachers go. 
 
 And where 's the squii'e who can such keepers blame ? 
 
 They fought, 'tis true, — but who would die for game r 
 
 Next night, of game Desparo made a feast. 
 And every well-known brother was a guest. 
 Not to the ale-house did the group retire, 
 But drank and smok'd around the Poacher's fire : 
 Pheasants and grouse, and Stormer's last-caught hare, — 
 Domestic fowls, unbought, were roasted there. 
 Their liquor, home-brew'd ale and smuggled rum ; 
 And each was arm'd had the excisemen come : 
 But these as soon durst fierce banditti meet, 
 As force their way into the lone retreat !
 
 40 THE POACHER. 
 
 The Slipper ended, what a jovial crew ! 
 Each show'd his nets, of those they had not few. 
 From friend to friend the cheering bumpers ran, 
 The viol tiin"d, the merry dance began. 
 O that some greater bard had present been, 
 And touch'd with verso burlesque the festive scene ! 
 Their tatter"d clothes were such as might have grac'd 
 Some farmer's scarecrow in a wheat field plac'd : 
 Thus doth misconduct bring the richest down. 
 And clothe with rags the Poacher and the clown. 
 
 Ducando Avas a man of careful heart, 
 He seldom paid a sixpence for his quart ; 
 To sip the smuggled drops was his delight, — 
 With such a group he spent the jovial night. 
 The keeper of the neighbouring squire was there, 
 Enjoy'd the sport, and drowned all his care. 
 
 Inspired by drink, who can be silent long ? 
 The Poachers could not, but began their song : — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come all ye brethren of the night, 
 
 AVho range the mountain, wood, and vale, 
 
 And in the moonshine chase delight, 
 May our true friendship never fail !
 
 TUiu POACIlEli. 41 
 
 Then diink aiouiul, 
 
 Your cares confound, 
 Ye champions of the wire ; 
 
 The field — the moor, 
 
 "Will we range o'er. 
 Nor care for ford nor squire. 
 
 The parliament, such yotTths as we 
 
 With laAvs may strive to bind ; 
 But they as soon in cords might tie 
 The lightnings or the wind ! 
 By Cynthia's beams, 
 "NVe cross the streams, 
 To fetch the game away ; 
 Then here we rest, 
 With bumpers blest. 
 And banish fears away. 
 
 60 long as planets rise and set. 
 
 Or tim'rous hares can run. 
 The Poacher true will hang his net, 
 And level sui'e his gun ; 
 The high park wall. 
 Spring guns and all, 
 And keepers strong with beer. 
 We value not, 
 Xor shun the spot. 
 If hares are frisking there.
 
 42 THE POACHEE. 
 
 The lord upon the hunting day 
 Such pleasures never knew, 
 AVhen echo bore the sounds away, — 
 The hounds — the fox in view ; 
 As when the hares 
 Are caught in pairs. 
 Upon the glitt'ring frost ! 
 Shoidd we be fin"d, 
 What need we mind, 
 Since others pay the cost ? 
 
 We stop not at the rivers deep. 
 
 The frost or winter's snow ; 
 The lazy keepers soundly sleep. 
 When tempests ^vildly blow. 
 Of rain and hail. 
 Let Jove's great pail 
 Be emptied from on high ; 
 The darker night, 
 The more delight, 
 And greater nimibers die I 
 
 The song was ended ; — and Ignotus drew 
 The plan of ev'ry distant park he knew ; 
 Describ'd each gateway where he hung the not. 
 And ev'ry hedge, where oft his mre he set ; 
 Mark'd out the fish-ponds, and the river's flood, 
 The pheasants' haunts, ami where the villa stood.
 
 THE POACHER. 43 
 
 "Upon this spot,"" said he, "one stormy night, 
 
 " When darkest clouds obscur'd the moon's pale light, 
 
 " I stood alone, while Stormer rang'd the plain, 
 
 " And five strong hares within my net were slain ! 
 
 " And here the place where I my tackling hide, 
 
 " "When lusty keepers press on ev"ry side ; 
 
 " And here, within the wood, the lonely dell, 
 
 " Where oft I fir"d, and sleeping pheasants fell. 
 
 " Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied, 
 
 " And there my game across the river ride ; 
 
 " Then I the bridge securely travel o"cr, 
 
 " And none take oath that murder'd game I bore." 
 
 The junior Poachers, silent, sit and gaze. 
 
 And give with joy the senior Poacher praise. 
 
 T' increase their sport upon this festive night. 
 These bungling verses did a rhjTner Avrite : 
 
 The Poachers on the heath, the fields, the wood. 
 Or where the shining fishes cleave the flood. 
 Against the laws will yet pursue their sport, 
 And to the parks of distant lords resort, 
 Tho' half their incomes were to keepers paid, 
 Tho' traps were set, and ev'ry scheme were laid, — - 
 The Poachers, heedless of the fine or shame. 
 In spite of all would sometimes steal the game. 
 Then those that would such things in safety keep, 
 Must catch and couple them like straying sheep ;
 
 44 XHK rOACHEK. 
 
 And lords A\ho -would make property of game, 
 Cut short their wings — like poultry keep them tame. 
 For "tis a truth, and let it once be known, 
 A Poacher's shot 's oft surer than your own. 
 
 They laugh" d — they shouted — ^^vhen the rhjoner cea,s'd, 
 
 (For fools, half drunk, with feeblest Averse are pleas'd.) 
 
 Then four strong keepers burst the shatter'd door, 
 
 And stood well arm'd upon the dirty floor. 
 
 Desparo and Ignotus forc"d their way ; 
 
 The rest, o'crpower'd, were captives forc'd to stay. 
 
 Game, newly kill"d, was in the cellar found. 
 
 Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread around : 
 
 The Poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport, 
 
 To meet the dreadful audit of a court. 
 
 Desparo and Ignotus knew their cares. 
 
 Supplied their wants, and kill'd the squire his hares ; 
 
 Death and destruction thro" his grounds were spread. 
 
 Till scarce a leveret on the clover fed. 
 
 With sorrows worn, and ebbing fast her life, 
 Unhelp"d, unheeded, lay the Poacher"s wife. 
 He spent his days in revelry and mirth ; 
 "While she, too weak to give her infant birth, 
 0"ercomc with grief, and of her suffering tir"d. 
 Neglected, starv'd, and pitiless, expir"d I 
 No husband there, her fading eyes to close, — 
 Confess his guilt, tho" author of her woes.
 
 THE POACHER. 45 
 
 When he was told the period of her pam, 
 lie snail" d, and had the tankard fill'tl again ; 
 Untouch'd with sorrow, anguish, or remorse, 
 One tear he never dropp'd upon her corse. 
 He left his home the two succeeding nights, 
 To make expenses for the funeral rites. 
 His starving childi-en o'er their mother mourn"d, — 
 A neighbouring peasant o'er the infant yeam'd, 
 In pity took and nurst it as her own, — 
 And sure such deeds are worthy of renown. 
 Loos'd from his Avife, with whom he jarring liv'd. 
 His children bread thro' charity receiv'd. 
 One night he spent where lies fam'd Robin Hood, 
 The next where Hare wood's ancient castle stood ; 
 The beauteous vale of Wharf he wander'd o'er, — 
 Expecting wealth, but still was always poor. 
 ^Miat he in dangers got at taverns went, 
 Or in rich treats was on his comrades spent. 
 Read this, ye rich, — who stolen game receive, 
 And think how wretchedly the Poachers live : 
 Far from your feasts prohibit lawless game, 
 Caught in disgrace, — and purchased with shame ! 
 
 Ye rustic plunderers, who sport by night. 
 And fearlessly invade another's right. 
 Cold winds and storms your frame will soon impair. 
 Your robust limbs will soon in siclyaess wear :
 
 46 THE POACHER. 
 
 Tlio" firm your sinews as the hardest steel, 
 
 Yoiu" constitutions must your follies feel : 
 
 The sport, the bowl, the glass, the cheering quart, 
 
 Soon, soon will fail to animate the heart. 
 
 Ye who pui'loin by night the harmless game, 
 
 Ere youth is past, old age shall rack your frame. 
 
 No days well spent can you look back to view. 
 
 At last couAdnc'd this axiom is true, — 
 
 " If injur"d lords no punishment prepar'd, 
 
 " Drinking and poaching bring their own reward." 
 
 On lost Ignotus' fate a moment gaze. 
 Who in his cups oft gaind the drunkard's praise ; 
 He swiftly hasted with his pilfer'd load 
 The bridge to shun and oft-frequented road. 
 Beneath a sheet of ice the river slept, 
 Half o'er its course the thoughtless poacher stepp'd. 
 Around his feet the yielding crystal bends. 
 And, dreadful ! in a spreading circle rends. 
 He heard, — ^he trembled, — but it was too late, 
 The ice gave way, and lock'd him up with fate. 
 Till morning came his faithful lurcher stopp'd, — 
 Howl'd near the chasm thro' which his master dropp'd. 
 His frantic children view'd the fatal cleft, 
 Tlio" injur'd, — their affection still was left ; 
 Their grief, — their woe, — can never be expressed, — 
 Imagination must depict the rest.
 
 THE rOACHEK. 47 
 
 His corse, tho' sought, was never brought to land, 
 But somewhere lies deep shrouded in the sand. 
 His neighbours wept not, tho' he ne"er return'd, 
 And for his loss his children only mourn' d. 
 
 No distant parks but cv'ry shade he knew. 
 From whence at morn the waking pheasants flew ; 
 The lonely streams where speckled fishes play'd, 
 And where the hares upon the mountains fed. 
 The dark brown heath, upon the trackless moor, 
 With dog and gun he often ranged o'er ; 
 In winter's frost, upon some rocky spot. 
 He call'd the list'ning grouse within his shot. 
 Then on his uprais'd knee he Icvell'd true, — 
 The trigger pull'd, — the moorcock never flew : 
 But now — the hares may feed, the fishes play. 
 The pheasants sleep upon the lofty spray ; 
 The grouse, secure, may in the rushes rest. 
 The speckled pairs of partridge form their nest ; 
 The keepers now their watchings may give o'er, 
 Ignotus, prince of Poachers ! is no more.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Death and Disease my solemn muses be ; 
 Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canojiy ; 
 Let sorrow dictate cvry mournful line, 
 And, true repentance, let the strains be thine ! 
 Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain, 
 O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain. 
 
 Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were, 
 Before their infant eyes could drop a tear ; 
 And when they felt the first of earthly joys. 
 When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys, 
 Pluck' d in each others gardens, flowers they chose. 
 And smil'd together, when they knew not woes. 
 How oft their parents talk'd of future times. 
 And pray'd that they might e'er be clear from crimes, 
 Pleas'd to behold them in a garment new, 
 And lov'd them better as they older grew ! 
 Young Philo join'd them — then the happy three 
 In pleasure liv'd, and knew not misery.
 
 GENIUS AXn IXTEMPERAXri;. 19 
 
 Far on the hills, amid the purple bloom 
 
 Of honied heath, they talk"d of bliss to come ; 
 
 Then bath'd amid the mountain's crystal spring, 
 
 Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing. 
 
 A thousand sports were there to make them blest. 
 
 The happiest moments when the heath they press' d ; 
 
 'WTicn the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew. 
 
 Screaming around their heads in circles flew, 
 
 And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath, 
 
 To save their little broods from instant death ; 
 
 But Avhen the cruel youths once came too nigh. 
 
 They spread their wings, and show'd they yet could fly : 
 
 An emblem these of joys seen just before, 
 
 AVe grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more. 
 
 Oft in mischievous sport these took delight. 
 And made the sable ev'ning clouds seem bright 
 With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry. 
 The heath soon blaz'd, and seem'd to light the sky. 
 As if some great volcano there had been. 
 And ting'd with lurid glare the midnight scene. 
 Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame. 
 When blaz'd the woods, and liquid iron came ; 
 Compare it then to Etna in his mirth, 
 And spoke of Herculaneum swept from earth ; 
 Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze. 
 And wish'd that on its terrors he could gaze. 
 
 E
 
 50 GENIUS .VXD INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 The fiu-ious flames now to a circle spread 
 
 A mile around, and dy'd the smoke with red ; 
 
 Then came the besom-makers with a shout. 
 
 And with their besoms strove to dash it out ; 
 
 Scorch'd Avith the flames, the heat they could not 'bide. 
 
 For they with brooms as soon had stopp'd the tide. 
 
 The ling was deep, and aged was the bed, 
 
 Dry was the night — the flames in fury spread 
 
 To such extent, that nought could stop their force, 
 
 Till not a branch of heath was in their course. 
 
 Where first the flre began the youths were lain, 
 
 Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again. 
 
 Their other fires some acres swept away, 
 
 This blacken'd many hundreds ere 'twas day : 
 
 At\ emblem this of drink — we take a quart, 
 
 Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part. 
 
 And then another glass, perhaps the same. 
 
 Till folly spreads into a foolish flame. 
 
 My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys, — 
 They spent their lives in play, like other boys. 
 Young Philo was to learning most inclin'd. 
 But Amphorus to music turn'd his mind. 
 Faros, a lovely youth, within his breast 
 Of mortal feelings surely had the best. 
 lie saw not misery, but shed a tear, 
 And all his friends he lov'd but far too dear ;
 
 GENIXrs AND INTEMPERANCK. 51 
 
 Belicv'cl all flatterers were such as he, 
 
 So honest, man's deceit he could not see. 
 
 The ev'ning sun of summer seldom set, 
 
 But these three youths in purest friendship met, 
 
 Talk'd till the light had faded in the sky, 
 
 Or listen'd Amphorus' Avild melody. 
 
 Sometimes young Philo, struggling with his theme, 
 
 An ev'ning from his comrades would redeem ; 
 
 His mind expanded as his knowledge grew. 
 
 And learning, every step, more pleasant grew. 
 
 He saw the hidden springs of Grecian lore — 
 
 Each draught he took but made him thirst for more. 
 
 Amphorus said, " For nought on earth I'll live 
 
 " But those sweet pleasures harmony can give ; 
 
 " Whate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent 
 
 " On music, and the noble instrument 
 
 " Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone 
 
 " Which shakes foundations of the firmest stone. 
 
 " The viol's sweetest tones I yet will know, 
 
 " The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow ; 
 
 " Each varied part my bosom shall inspire, 
 
 " Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir ; 
 
 " And marches for the army I'll compose, 
 
 " Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes. 
 
 " The music of the ancient school I'll learn, 
 
 " And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn ; 
 
 " Mozart, Yon Weber, in each lofty flight 
 
 " I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight."
 
 52 Gi:xir.s and iMKMriiu.VNOE. 
 
 Young Paros, smiling, look'd on Nature's face. 
 And with his eye her outlines he could trace ; 
 In youth he begg'd for colours to be bought. 
 To place upon the canvas what he thought. 
 AVith practice now he can in shades pourtray 
 The varied tints of soft departing day. 
 Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade. 
 That many thought the pencil'd objects play'd. 
 The youths and virgins, in the bow"rs of love. 
 Were so like Xature, that they seem'd to move. 
 ^\^lene*er the landscape was by Paros shown. 
 The varied trees and ev'ry shrub were known. 
 Send Paros where you would, in ev'ry place 
 His lively eyes were fix'd on Natui-e's face : 
 But such his fervent zeal to gain a name, 
 Deep study shook at last his tender fi-ame. 
 And for his health, and for the art he lov'd. 
 From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he remov'd. — 
 Pleas'd with the paintings, where the Masters shone. 
 He gaz'd upon them as a chisel'd stone 
 f^orm'd to a statue ; so engag'd his mind. 
 He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind ; 
 But when the time arrive! that he must part. 
 The thoughts of Grasmerc rush'd upon his heart. 
 No scenes in Paris gave him such delight 
 As he had found upon Helvellj-n's height, 
 Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high. 
 And round its rocks the strongest ravens fly.
 
 GENIUS AND IXTKMPERANCK. 53 
 
 Grandeur may be at Paris in fine forms, 
 
 But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms, 
 
 Walk Paris round, and v-iew its beauties o'er. 
 
 What arc its fountains to the gi-and Lowdore, 
 
 Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high. 
 
 The cataract seems as rushing fi-om the sky. 
 
 These Paros saw — retiring in despair. 
 
 He durst not venture at the grandeur there. 
 
 Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake 
 
 Slow curling to the hills in many a flake. 
 
 And as the morning sun sent forth his rays. 
 
 The scene was far above the highest praise ; 
 
 Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows. 
 
 When the pure lake upon its surface shows 
 
 Skiddaw inverted, and the clifis on high — 
 
 Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy. 
 
 Oft Paros view"d tlie yellow orb of night. 
 
 When rising on the lake with golden light. 
 
 Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame. 
 
 And with the scene soft Meditation came. 
 
 Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore, 
 
 Oft Paros sat and heard its torrent roar. 
 
 Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell 
 
 Humm'd through the valley with a solemn swell. 
 
 The hills return"d the sound with weaken'd power. 
 
 And told the artist "twas the midnight hour. 
 
 He thought upon the peace he left behind — 
 
 The thoughts of Ellen press" d upon his mind ;
 
 54 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Ellen, tliiit ever was to Paros true, 
 
 At Grasmerc dwelt, where waves the solemn yew. 
 
 Oft luid he led her up Helvellyn's height, 
 
 Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white 
 
 As is the snow Avhcre British eagles dwell, 
 
 Upon the mighty rocks from whence Gough fell. 
 
 "When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars, 
 He thought of France and all her bloody wars, 
 AVith all the arts, — to Paros these gave pain, 
 While admiration mingled with disdain. 
 To think what noble works to France were brought. 
 The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought, 
 When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine 
 Such works were torn as, France, were never thine ! 
 While the great artists slept within the tomb, 
 By study hasten'd to an early home, 
 Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears, 
 With by-past actions of a thousand years, — 
 Adam and Eve, the flaming sword behind, 
 So well pourtray'd, it seem'd as if the wind 
 Bended the flames, or as Eve's flowing hair 
 Wav'd Avith the blast of vengeance that was there ; — 
 The Saviour dead — before the sheet was thrown 
 O'er him that made all worlds, and wears the crown. 
 Great is the imitation ! but I shrink 
 That greatest artists ever yet durst think
 
 GENIUS AND INTKMPEllANCK. 55 
 
 To paint the Saviour, giver of all bliss, — 
 Raphael ne'er could form a face like his, 
 Coiild he have seen how fair in death he slept — 
 The hardest heart that view'd it would have wept. 
 These things are nothing to the present theme ; 
 Paros believ'd his Saviour would redeem 
 Poets and painters, tho' they wildly rov'd. 
 For Geniiis sure in heaven must be belov'd. 
 
 Through France and Switzerland the artist rang'd, 
 Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains cliang'd : 
 And view'd the whole with unexpressed delight, 
 Scenes rich by day, and nobler stUl by night. 
 As on the Alps the avalanches rise. 
 Hills of eternal -winter pierce the skies. 
 He climb'd their sides, with perseverance true. 
 Till kingdoms on each side were in his view. 
 Arriv'd at Rome, his young researching mind 
 With works of ev'ry master was refin'd. 
 "What there he saw, what artists can behold. 
 To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold : 
 But he return'd again to Cumbria's fells. 
 To Derwent- water, and to Grasmere's dells ; 
 Then his rich neighbours flock'd around to hear. 
 How well he lik'd at Rome, Avhat saw he there : 
 He said, Dc Urban" s lively canvas spoke. 
 And great Raphael every passion woke :
 
 .56 GENIUS AND INXEMPEKANCK- 
 
 Curracci's master-piece would make you weep, — 
 He knew so well what would his paintings keep, 
 That on each face you"d think old Nature play'd, 
 And Life seem'd dancing in the light and shade : 
 But would not any travler seem a fool 
 To tell the masters of each varied school r 
 Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine, 
 But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine : 
 For he who once was well content with beer, 
 INIust now have spii'its, his weak heart to cheer ; 
 Then he could tell what he had seen away. 
 Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay. 
 Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast ? 
 Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest ? 
 Is there for mortals any earthly curse r 
 There 's nothing to a Genius that is worse. 
 Ilunckeds have ' spirits' sent unto the tomb. 
 And made for youth the grave an early home. 
 Death "s the dire consequence of drinking deep. 
 Then children, widow, and relations weep. 
 So "twas with Paros — he coidd paint the form 
 Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm ; 
 Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew. 
 Their bowsprit lost, and l)ii( her masts in view ; 
 Paint well the billows, that they seem'd to roll, 
 And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul.
 
 GENIUS AND I MKM I'KU.VNCE. 57 
 
 Nature was in his strokes, and ev'ry touch 
 Was neither yet too little nor too much ; 
 Secure in his imagination's might, 
 Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right, 
 U2)rais'd to fame, his company was sought, 
 And likenesses he sketch'd as if they thought ; 
 So well he touch'd the portrait of the fair, 
 She seem'd to breathe, as life herself was there. 
 The battle-piece of Preston Pans he took, — 
 The scene the noble mind of Paros woke. 
 An ancient song, with fire in ev'r}* line. 
 Gave the first sketches of the great design ; 
 These were the words that fu-'d his feeling heart. 
 And told how madly Stuart play'd his part : — 
 
 The flashing claj'mores gleam afar. 
 And small the files in distance are. 
 Each helmet glitters like a star. 
 As clansmen are advancing. 
 
 The trenches dug arc broad and deep. 
 In which the loaded cannon sleep — 
 Silent their guns the terrors keep. 
 To wait the Scotch artillery. 
 
 Behind the hill the fight began, 
 Death came with ev'ry kilted clan. 
 And down fell many a southern man. 
 The pipers sounding victory.
 
 58 GENIUS AND INXEMPEKANCE. 
 
 They yet remember'd Glcncoe's vale, 
 Aiid sent their bullets thick as hail, 
 And with the broad-swords cut the mail, 
 And met the slaughter dreadfully. 
 
 Now rages discord — man and steed 
 
 Rush to the charge — they fall, they bleed — 
 
 Forgot is many a noble deed. 
 
 The battle burns so terribly. 
 
 Each cannonier, with charge in hand, 
 And others with the blazing brand. 
 Close to the heated cannon stand, 
 The smoke ascending rapidly. 
 
 The steeds, that left the foam behind. 
 The pennons, streaming in the wind, 
 And Scots, that scorn'd a coward's mind, 
 Rush'd to the onset gallantly. 
 
 The English, loyal and more true. 
 The thistle scorn'd, and firmer grew, 
 As closer press' d the bonnets blue, 
 
 Inspir'd with Highland minstrelsy. 
 
 The smoke, the blaze, the charge, the fire, 
 The ranks that fall ere these retire. 
 And England' .s banner lifted higher. 
 Were grandeur and sublimity.
 
 OKNIUS AND INTEJirKRANCP:. 59 
 
 Then darkness comes — the blaze is seen 
 At distance, and long time between 
 Each flash, which through the day had been 
 From cannon quick as musketry. 
 
 AVhat Scotland won, soon Scotland lost ; 
 Culloden all the glory tost 
 To the cold shades, and there the frost 
 Nipp'd her sharp thistle cruelly. 
 
 Brave Gardiner ! — in death he lay ; 
 A better never lost the day, 
 Nor nobler spirit fled away 
 
 To realms of blest eternity. 
 
 The banners now must wave no more. 
 The dreadful conflict now is o"cr. 
 And Scotland shall be clear from gore, 
 For discord 's lost in amity. 
 
 On the broad canvas Paros had pourtray'd 
 The varying glances of each shining blade, 
 Left all descriptive poetry behind. 
 And stamp" d at once the battle on the mind ; 
 But close beside him was the bottle hung — 
 He drank when faint, then painted as he sung ; 
 But when the cheering draught had lost its head, 
 His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
 
 (30 GEXIUS AND INTK.MrEKANCE. 
 
 "When warm'd with -wine, his airy thoughts brought home 
 
 The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome; 
 
 Columns of ev'ry order, hxid on earth. 
 
 Where Desolation frolick'd in her mirth ; 
 
 All Nature roll'd before his strong ideas — 
 
 The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas ; 
 
 But soon liis pulses in quick motions beat, 
 
 His ruin"d appetite enjoys no meat, 
 
 His frame decays, the mind is weaker made, 
 
 He starts in dreams — his bosom 's.sore afraid. 
 
 No pleasure can his weeping Anna give ; 
 
 To him 'tis now no happiness to live ; 
 
 He values not the bubble of a name, 
 
 Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame. 
 
 When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled, 
 
 Bound to the confines of a dying bed. 
 
 The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer ; 
 
 His mind was weak, his dissolution near. 
 
 When his pale clieek was laid on Anna's breast, 
 
 And his cold hand by her he lov"d was press'd. 
 
 "\Miat weeping tlien ! — no language now can tell 
 
 How tears were rain'd when such a genius fell. 
 
 Then was destroy'd a gcn"rous noble mind, 
 
 Wliile the destroyer lurk'd in shades behind. 
 
 Dreadful Intemperance I thy tempting snare 
 
 Holds while thou slaycst, O, father of Despair 1 
 
 There lay the artist, ready for tlic fomb. 
 
 His valued ])aii)liiigs luuig around the room;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 61 
 
 Here the old niin, and the shades below, 
 Spread where the crystal streams of Eden floA\', 
 And there the copy of the ocean storm, 
 From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form. 
 Oh ! the sad sight — "twas solemn there to tread. 
 To view his works, and see the artist dead. 
 How placid he appear' d! — he seem'd asleep — 
 I wept, and all his portraits seem'd to weep. 
 It was the last farewell — he covild not hear — 
 His eyes were clos'd in peace, and not a tear 
 Wet his pale cheek — he panted not for breath. 
 But outshone life as calm he lay in death. 
 
 His spirit 's fled, his hand is still. 
 
 His pencils now are useless laid. 
 No more to sketch the vale or hill. 
 
 No more to touch the light and shade. 
 
 Let violets bloom where he is lain ! 
 
 Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb ! 
 He ne'er can paint your tints again — 
 
 True genius now has left its home. 
 
 Relations wept, and Anna deeply sigh'd. 
 For Anna, had he liv'd, had been his bride ; 
 But all their weeping was an empty show, 
 Compar'd to Philo's " eloquence of woe."
 
 62 GENIUS AND IXTEAIPERAN^CE. 
 
 When Philo cntcr'd, not a word he spoke — 
 
 The feelings of the friend and poet woke ; 
 
 Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep. 
 
 When Paros' eyes were seal'd in endless sleep. 
 
 He thought upon the soul of genius fled, 
 
 Words bm*st in sorrow while young Philo said — 
 
 " Where is the spirit gone ? Could such a mind 
 
 " Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind ? 
 
 " Could matter think ? Could dust thro' systems roll ? 
 
 " No — 'twas the spirit fled without control. 
 
 " Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air — 
 
 " Look on his corpse when there 's no spirit there. 
 
 " The mind that once was kept by genius bright, 
 
 " I knew in innocence, when, day or night, 
 
 " Joy plum'd its wings : O, happiest days on earth ! 
 
 " When pleasure chang'd from purest joy to mirth, 
 
 " From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep, 
 
 " When health was good — we knew not how to weep. 
 
 " His mind for ever stretch" d in fancy strong, 
 
 " He soar'd too high on earth to tarry long : 
 
 " But language fails, while thus my bosom swells — 
 
 " I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells ; 
 
 " Then shall unnumber'd worlds, and all things new, 
 
 " Beyond the reach of man, burst on our view." 
 
 Through Nature Philo's lively fancy flew, 
 He something of each vaTicd science knew ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCK. G3 
 
 He read of polar Avondcrs with delight, 
 And search'd each cause on which the learned write. 
 He learn" d to knoAV how little mortals know 
 Of things above, or meanest things below, 
 That when the northern dancing streamers fly. 
 They cannot tell how these can light the sky ; 
 He learn'd to know that men of wit and thought. 
 With greatest learning, scarce have learned aught, 
 Philo the works of navigators read, 
 That round the globe the bending canvas spread ; 
 He knew by reading what each clime brought forth. 
 From Nova Zealand to the cold Cape North. 
 Astronomy he lov'd — his soul flew^ far. 
 Thro' all the systems, to the polar star, 
 Nor rested there — he struggled to explain 
 The cause of tides that roll upon the main. 
 Greek was his glory. Homer's verse he knew. 
 His mind thro' iEschylus with pleasure flew ; 
 He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong. 
 From great Euripides to Sappho's song ; 
 His mind was learning's self, for such as he. 
 That love to learn, grasp at infinity. 
 The microscopic beauties they behold, 
 Where atom insects seem as ting'd with gold ; 
 Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was. 
 In quick succession through their fancies pass. 
 And ev'ry language, A'ulgar or refin'd. 
 Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
 
 6i GEXIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 riiilo in study pass'd his years away. 
 Ere he was led to college far astray. 
 There, with all aids, the dissipated youth 
 Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth ; 
 The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse, 
 At ev'ry step the human heart grows worse. 
 Tho* these can have the globes, the map, the chart. 
 And ev'ry help of Nature and of Art, — 
 Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore. 
 And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er. 
 From Eg}^Dt curiosities are brought. 
 Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought, 
 Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome, 
 "WTicre Learning had a palace for her home. 
 Language is now at college which was spoke 
 When Britons groan'd beneath the Saxon yoke. 
 All that three thousand years can now supply, 
 Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye ; 
 However dark the works, they there can gain 
 Others that will the darkest parts explain. 
 But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide, 
 For Nature's scenes and his own closet sigh'd. 
 Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase — 
 All chances there, but still he wanted peace. 
 And sigh'd for solitude beneath some hill, 
 AMiere at its foot runs swift the moorland rill. 
 The blossom" d bough, the birds upon each spray, 
 Chaunting their vespers to departing day.
 
 GENITTS ANT) IXTKMrr.RANCi;. 65 
 
 Where bounding trouts within the brook arise, 
 When winds are still, and sporting are the flies. 
 Such rural pleasures Philo then could please, 
 And nought on earth can equal joys like these. 
 No jjleasure half so near the joys above, 
 As he experienc'd when he met his love. 
 True as Leander, she as Hero true. 
 Bliss most refin"d, the greatest e'er he knew. 
 Kings have not more, and riches cannot give 
 Such bliss as when in innocence we live. 
 
 Within the valley Philo had a friend. 
 With whom he many a happy hour did spend. 
 His greatest glory was to make him blest — 
 He lent the youth all volumes he possessed. 
 Here Pliilo, happy, pass'd his hours away. 
 Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray. 
 He read of battles, and the sons of Jove, 
 Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love. 
 In learning's happy hours the youth was blest, 
 TiU love's strong passion rag'd within his breast ; 
 Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire 
 Was quench'd amid the fervour of desire ; 
 Forgot the things below, the orbs above. 
 His tow'ring spirit was subdu'd by love. 
 She that had vow'd to love him while away, 
 Bless him at eve. and think on him by day.
 
 66 GENItrS AND IXTEMPERAJfCE. 
 
 Like woman, to be rid of anxioiis pain, 
 
 Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain. 
 
 Then fell the genius — Philo's love was scorn'd, 
 
 In silent grief the foolish scholar mourn'd, 
 
 Cobwebs were seen among his modern books, 
 
 And Care had stamp" d her image on his looks. 
 
 "S^Tiat tuneful Virgil ? or what Homer then ? 
 
 "What all the ^ratings of the Avisest men ? 
 
 "What all the greatest literatui-e of earth ? 
 
 What all his studies r — all are nothing worth. 
 
 French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, 
 
 Serv"d but the angxiish of his soul to speak. 
 
 His heart beat fast with love, tho' learn'd and young, 
 
 And thus, in lofty Greek, the scholar sung : 
 
 " "WTiat is the consummation of desire, 
 " The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire ? 
 " What pleasm-es from the greatest knowledge flow ? 
 " Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe. 
 " The peasants may admire the learned youth ; 
 " But did the poor unletter'd know the truth ; 
 " How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent, 
 " They then would sing, enjoying true content. 
 " The learn'd may search antiquity for years, 
 " Or read till not a novelty appears, 
 " These cannot Nature from the bosom move, 
 " No— more they know, the stronger is their love ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPEBANCE. 67 
 
 " And women, oh ! I write it with a tear, 
 " Soon lose affection when you are not there. 
 " O, angel forms ! heaven's master-piece on earth ; 
 " Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth ! 
 " Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe ! 
 " But why be blam'd, since Nature made you so ? 
 " Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays, 
 " But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze."' 
 
 Now Philo's years amount to twenty-one. 
 And he a learned youth, a hopeful son ; 
 His lyre he tun'd, and love was in its sounds. 
 And he sole master of three thousand pounds. 
 As when the rider, on the grassy plain, 
 .The useless bridle thrown upon the mane, 
 The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throAV, 
 Resolv'd all passions of mankind to know. 
 A sable velvet coat he fii-st had made, 
 And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed; 
 With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo rang'd. 
 As fancy led, so his amusements chang'd ; 
 Each night at parties, at the coiu'se next day, 
 And thus the hours of Philo pass'd away : 
 Or when the horn proclaim'd the cheerful chase, 
 Philo was there, with pleasure on his face. 
 At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball. 
 With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all.
 
 68 GENIUS AND INTEMPEKANOE. 
 
 No thoughts of feeble age, or future days — 
 His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise. 
 His gay companions now with him would go. 
 And view the far-fam'd field of Waterloo ; 
 Provided AveU with gold, they bade farewell. 
 Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell. 
 "WTien in the strongest gale, upon the prow 
 Young Philo stood, and watch"d the waves below, 
 "Wliose foaming tops were whiten'd o'er with spray. 
 And toss'd the vessel as she plough'd her way, 
 With heart undaunted he beheld the tide — 
 His mind rejoic'd to see the vessel ride, 
 Her head amid the waves, her stern on high. 
 And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky ; 
 One hand was firmly grasp' d around the line, 
 The other held a quart of pm-ple wine. 
 Serene, he view'd the waves in ev'ry form. 
 And vow'd 'twas wine inspir'd him in the storm : 
 For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plough 
 Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below. 
 The tempest ceas'd, the winds retir'd to rest. 
 The bark skimm'd smoothly o'er the ocean's breast. 
 On deck the sea-sick passengers appear'd, 
 By Philo and the sailors loudly cheer'd. 
 The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll. 
 The sight had warm'd his genius, fir'd his soul ; 
 The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea 
 Had rais'd his mind to noblest ecstacy.
 
 GEXIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 69 
 
 The sails were full, and, leaning on her side. 
 
 Swiftly she cuts her passage thro" the tide, 
 
 And soon the land is seen in distance blue — 
 
 The level shores of Belgium they view. 
 
 The music sounds, the wines like water run, 
 
 AVhen mirth upon the vessel is begun, 
 
 The captain joins, and there the spirits shine. 
 
 The choicest brandy and the best of wine. 
 
 And soon they hail'd a vessel which they knew, — 
 
 The captain from the steerage quickly threw 
 
 A cask of Hollands — wltli the best 'twas stor'd — 
 
 The sailors shouted when 'twas heav"d on board. 
 
 Then discord rose, and ev'rv sailor drunk — 
 
 Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk. 
 
 The boat was lower'd, but mirth and joy were o'er. 
 
 They fell — but from that fall they rose no more. 
 
 Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land. 
 
 And left them nearly buried in the sand. 
 
 Arriv'd upon the hill where armies fought, 
 Yoimg Philo's soul was all absorb'd in thought ; 
 The place where thousands lay interr'd was seen, 
 And there the gi-ass wav'd with a deeper green. 
 He thus reflected : — " ^\Tiat a stillness here ! 
 " Low the hussar, and cold the cuu-assier ; 
 " The meeting armies shout not on the field, 
 " Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield ;
 
 70 GENIUS AND INTEMPERAXCE. 
 
 *' The closc-wedg'd squares of British troops are gone, 
 
 *' Now still 's the place where Europe's peace was won ; 
 
 *' Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls, 
 
 " Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls, 
 
 •' And here the spade shall turn up many a skull, 
 
 " And broken arms, of which the fields are fuU." 
 
 In thoughtfid contemplation Philo gaz'd. 
 
 And saw the spot where Hugomont had blaz'd ; 
 
 He thought what thousands fell when that was fir'd. 
 
 Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retir'd. 
 
 At Belle Alliance, at the close of day, 
 
 The bhthe companions drove their cares away ; 
 
 Inspir'd with brandy, Philo's muse awoke. 
 
 And in extempore verses thus he spoke : — 
 
 *' Low laid in yon mountain the hero, the brave, 
 " The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot, 
 
 •' And the young British warrior 's no more than a slave, 
 " He now as a slave is forgot. 
 
 " The pride of the battle to ashes are turn'd, 
 " And dim their once war-beaming eyes ; 
 
 " The boldest, that rush'd where the hot battle burnd, 
 " Fell quickly, but never to rise. 
 
 •' And this is their glory — they stand as a mark, 
 
 " Firm, braving the bullets, for fame ; 
 " They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark— ' 
 
 " To them all the blaze of a name,"
 
 GENIUS AND l>'TEMrERANCE. 71 
 
 With thirst of knowledge Philo"s bosom burns, 
 
 And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns ; 
 
 But the young Muse had form"d her thorny nest, 
 
 Sweetly perfum'd, within his youthful breast. 
 
 Here he resolv"d to make remarks as true 
 
 As Ufe itself, on ev'ry passing view. 
 
 His books he spurn' d, and open threw his mmd 
 
 To read the spacious volumes of mankind ; 
 
 He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools, 
 
 Full of the modern jargon of the schools ; 
 
 But he resolv'd the varied scenes to see. 
 
 From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty. 
 
 First at Brussels he told his tale of woe. 
 
 As though liis arm was lost at Waterloo ; 
 
 His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side — 
 
 In Anglo-French he told how comrades died. 
 
 At night, what varied scenes were in his view, 
 
 Mix'd with the beggars" and the gipsies' crew ! 
 
 Their mournful tales were chang'd to mirth and glee. 
 
 And mendicants aU join'd in harmony. 
 
 When Philo saw theii- mii-th and fun begin, 
 
 A louis d'or he gave to pui-chase gin. 
 
 All instruments were tun'd that then Avere there. 
 
 And punch and music dro-mied all their care ; 
 
 Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see. 
 
 And good box-organs grinded melody. 
 
 Philo without its mask deception saw, 
 
 Amid the motley group, that laugh'd at law.
 
 72 GENIUS AND INXEMPEllANCE. 
 
 Escap"d from prison, one, disguise!, was there. 
 
 Another was a wounded privateer ; 
 
 And there was one her infant's blood had spilt. 
 
 That Hollands deeply drank to drown her guilt. 
 
 Mu'th still prevail'd, and tun'd the viol's strings — 
 
 Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsj^ wings, 
 
 And flew away — such sportive glee and fun 
 
 As few behold, by gipsies were begun. 
 
 Then young and old could sit not on the bench. 
 
 But danc'd — Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French. 
 
 Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg 
 
 Kept as true time as many a better leg. 
 
 To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene. 
 
 Up rose three youthftd gipsies, scarce eighteen ; 
 
 One touch" d the sweet guitar, and with a smile 
 
 The other danc'd, in true Italian style ; 
 
 Chords from the tambourine the third awoke — 
 
 Philo stood charm' d, their feet the music spoke. 
 
 These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain. 
 
 With these he never wish'd to meet again ; 
 
 Then were Deception's masks all torn away — ■ 
 
 In higher spheres he spent each future day. 
 
 When o'er Brussels dark Night liad cast her shade, 
 Hundreds were dressing for the masquerade, 
 In all the varied costumes nations wear 
 In ev'ry clime throughout each hemisphere.
 
 GENIUS ANB INTEMPJiEANCE. l'. 
 
 As great Apollo Philo's head was crown'd, 
 
 Who led the dance, with Muses circled round. 
 
 With grand majestic step Apollo trod — 
 
 The sons of song paid homage to the god. 
 
 First Homer came, a venerable form. 
 
 Upon his breast pourtray'd the ocean storm, 
 
 Above, the gods, descending from the sky, 
 
 Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy ; 
 
 Across the poefs breast a robe was flung, 
 
 And there pourtray'd the battles that he smig. 
 
 Next ancient Hesiod, whose mighty strains 
 
 Were heard from earth to the celestial plains ; 
 
 Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear, 
 
 Horace and Pindar pay their homage there. 
 
 Then Shakespeare comes, with a majestic mien, 
 
 The trumpet's sounds the greatest bard proclaim ; 
 
 Apollo bows, and reaches forth his hand, 
 
 Around the Muses and the Poets stand ; 
 
 Apollo crowns him with a wreath of light. 
 
 Whereon is written, " Nature, Depth, and Height ;" 
 
 Cupid is on his robe, the dying maid 
 
 Within the tomb of Capulets pourtray'd ; 
 
 The field of battle, and the ocean storm, 
 
 The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied form ; 
 
 The meeting armies, and the murder'd kings, 
 
 E'en some short sketch of all created things. 
 
 Philo, to praise the mighty bard, display'd 
 
 The noblest scene of all the masquerade ;
 
 74 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 His robes he chang"d, the merry dance he join'd 
 
 With fau- French belles, as lovely as refin'd. 
 
 Thro" ev'ry stage of life he strove to pass, 
 
 Resolv'd to see how varied Nature was : 
 
 But here the youth was foolish, learn'd, and vain, 
 
 His genius drowned in the bright champagne ; 
 
 "Wisdom departed, riot took her place, 
 
 And led young Philo into deep disgrace. 
 
 The scene must drop, and hide him from oiu* sight. 
 
 With all the follies of a drunkard's niglit. 
 
 Learning is not true wisdom. — Youths may be 
 
 Refin'd and polish'd to a high degree ; 
 
 Genius may mark the scholar for her own, 
 
 Yet by her brightest sons is often shown 
 
 Minds that can soar in rapture to the skies, 
 
 On Learning's wings — ^feel noblest ecstacies, 
 
 Then sink to earth ; and, mixing \\'ith the throng, 
 
 In Folly's path with drunkards roll along. 
 
 With best of resolutions Pliilo came, 
 
 And deeply sigh'd, through grief and inward shame. 
 
 Oppress'd with sickness, his ideas fled, 
 
 His memory weaken'd, and an aching head ; 
 
 A ruin'd appetite, a trembling hand. 
 
 His pen obeying not his mind's command. 
 
 To drive away the melancholy train 
 
 Of dark ideas, he flew to wine again ; 
 
 An ccstacy he felt in getting drunk — 
 
 To wliat a depth his learned mind was sunk !
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 75 
 
 Then horror sciz'd him, and his eyes rain'd tears, 
 That all the learning of his youthful years. 
 With -which his father hop'd to make him bless'd, 
 Should only leave his bosom more oppressed. 
 Oft would his mind upon the Muses' wings 
 Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things ; 
 Beyond mortality Avere Philo's strains 
 Tun'd to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains. 
 He sung not love's soft passion, lovers' care, 
 His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and air ; 
 In deepest bursts of passion he could shine, 
 And jDOwer and harmony fiU"d every line. 
 With thoughts original, with words at will. 
 His verses made his readers' blood rvm chill. 
 But not with horror, — mid the stars he trod, 
 And sung th' omnipotence of Nature's God ; 
 On wings of fancy his unfettered sovd 
 Flew far as comets soar or planets roll. 
 Where imdescrib"d Infinity had birth. 
 He look'd in vain for this small spot of earth, 
 Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide. 
 Then ask'd — ^- ^Vliat am I ? What is human pride, 
 " "What our conceptions, learn whate'er we can, 
 " "NMiat is the pomp, the dignity of man, 
 *' Compar'd A\-ith Him ? How mighty is the thought ! 
 " He spoke — the worlds, the systems sprung from 
 nought 1
 
 76 GENIUS AND IXTEMPEKANCE. 
 
 " Rolling in darkness all the heavenly spheres, 
 
 " He says, ' Let there be light I" and light appears ; 
 
 " And when it shall be the Creator's -will, 
 
 " A word can make the rolling orbs be still. 
 
 " At His command the orbs burst out in flame, 
 
 " Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came." 
 
 At intervals, the ]Muse of Philo sung 
 In strains like these, then silent was her tongue. 
 The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes, 
 Invention "s fled, the nervous feeling Avakes ; 
 His eyes have lost their fire, his falfring tongue 
 Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong. 
 His memory's fled, invention laid at rest — 
 His heart-strings quiver in his weaken'd breast ; 
 But still the thoughts of other bards' despair. 
 The sons of misery and rankling care, 
 Prompted a last, though enervated lay. 
 And this the substance of his weak essay : — 
 
 " Where merit lives the greatest sorrow swells, 
 " Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dwells ; 
 " Obscure in life the man of letters mourns, 
 " While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns ; 
 "Or if his reputation widely spread, 
 " Oft has he starv'd, and even wanted bread, 
 " Perish'd in poverty, of little note, 
 " ^\^lile others profited by what he wrote.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. ( I 
 
 " Poor blind Homer, the noblest bard of all, 
 " Or niov'd by want, or press'd by hunger's call, 
 " Mourning in shame, he scarce dui-st raise his head, 
 '' But spoke immortal verse to gam his bread. 
 " Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile, 
 " A miller was — then sat, and vrvote awhile ; 
 " It Avas no shame that he, a poet born, 
 " Shoidd sometimes sing, at others, gi-ind the corn. 
 " Xylander studied at eighteen for fame, 
 " His hope, his glory, was a poet's name : 
 " His notes on Dion Cassius, ev'ry line, 
 " Were sold for want, that he once more coidd dine ; 
 " Then his young vanity for ever fled, 
 " He thought, he studied, how to A\Tite for bread. 
 " Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head, 
 " But soon they found the great Agrippa dead ; 
 " Forc'd from his native valleys to depart, 
 " Despair and poverty had broke his heart. 
 " The tvmeful Camoens sweetly strvmg his Ipe — 
 " Dimm'd was the poefs eye, and quench'd his fire ; 
 " He, who coidd tune his wildest notes so sweet, 
 " Perish'd from hunger in the public street ; 
 " Child of the Muses ! he, a poet born, 
 " Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn ! 
 " Upon the bard the haughty learned gaze, 
 " And those who most neglected, gave him praise. 
 " He heard it not, his noble soaring mind 
 " Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind.
 
 78 GENIUS AND INTEMPEEANCE. 
 
 " Tasso, in great distress, had nought to spend, 
 
 " Till he a cro^^^l had borrowed from a friend ; 
 
 " And when in study he sat up at night, 
 
 " So poor, he oft was destitute of light ; 
 
 " But soar'd above all want, he wrote — and praise 
 
 " Has form'd his chaplet in succeeding days. 
 
 " Great Ariosto bitterly complains 
 
 " Of poets' misery, of poets' gains, 
 
 " Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot, 
 
 " And built the bard a little rustic cot ; 
 
 " AVhen these were done, the poet's soul was glad, 
 
 " Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad ; 
 
 " He found few riches flow from poets' strings, 
 
 " And palaces and verse are diff 'rent things. 
 
 " See gi'eat Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen, 
 
 " WTicn Spencer was approaching, step between 
 
 " Her and the bard whose fame thro' lands resounds, 
 
 " Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds : 
 
 " He thought his clerks deserved more than he — 
 
 " The child of genius and of poverty. 
 
 " But Burleigh's name detested shall be read, 
 
 " Who caus'd the bard to die for want of bread. 
 
 " O, poets ! hope not favour from the great, 
 
 " These merit often cast beneath their feet. 
 
 " Savage, unfortunate, by want distress'd, 
 
 " When cares and sorrows on his bosom press'd, 
 
 " Th' eccentric ' Wand'rer' he had studied years, 
 
 " Smil'd on its lines, or wet them with his tears,
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCK. 79 
 
 " Starving through want, no silver he nor gold, 
 
 " For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold ; 
 
 " And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven, 
 
 " For his great work, had just the same sum given. 
 
 " Otway and Butler suffered here in time, 
 
 " One starv'd, and one imprison'd for his rhyme ; 
 
 " But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth, 
 
 " Whose genius soar'd in hyperbole or truth, 
 
 " Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings, 
 
 " As o'er the clouds he touch'd his pow'rful strings, 
 
 " Oppress'd with misery, o'ercome with care, 
 
 " Fell, early victim to a dark despair ! 
 
 " A luxury he thought a single tart, 
 
 " And study and long starving broke his heart. 
 
 " He who to water got sometimes no bread, 
 
 " We see applauded when the youth is dead. 
 
 " Poor Boyce, who wrote ' Creation,' see him stand, 
 
 " White as the paper, while Death shook his hand !' 
 
 " Cold in the garret, destitute of fire, 
 
 " Deserted by the world, in want expire. 
 
 " No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread 
 
 " Found in his garret, when the bard was dead ! 
 
 " Here had he died in penury alone, 
 
 " O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown, 
 
 " A skew'r thrust in before to keep it fast, 
 
 " And in his hand was found his pen at last ! 
 
 " The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride, 
 
 " In hif^ youth's bloom full prematurely died,
 
 80 GENITJS AND INTEMrERANCE. 
 
 " Too indejienclent was his mind to bend 
 " To ask a favour even from a friend ; 
 " He struggled hard against his adverse fate, 
 " And when assistance came, it came too late : 
 "• Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceas"d its sounds, 
 "■ They heap'd upon his dust seven thousand pounds ! 
 " I speak the truth, what ev'ry man must feel — 
 " This would have bought and well stocked Mossgiel ; 
 " But poets seldom rise while here they live, 
 " The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they 
 give."' 
 
 Philo, irresolute, is still led on. 
 Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone. 
 The rosy cheek is pale, the manly face, 
 AVhere Health had stamp'd her own strong masc'line 
 
 grace, 
 Fast shrinks aAvay, and difficult the breath — 
 He feels the woeful harbingers of death. 
 Fain would he turn to his once healthful food, 
 But nought he sees can do the smallest good. 
 Life would die out as tapers do expire. 
 Did not strong spirits keep alive the fire. 
 His old companions, true to him when young, 
 Come to inquire, but when he hears each tongue. 
 Oh, how he weeps ! — he knows what is the cause 
 Of his strong system making such a pause,
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 81 
 
 Wishes tliat all the ' spirits' e'er he drunk, 
 Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk. 
 I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind, 
 When he must leave his dearest love behind. 
 The cares of earth with him will soon be o'er, 
 But what a boundless ocean lies before ! 
 
 Amph'rus beheld his lovely grave, but grief 
 Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief. 
 The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead, 
 Thrill'd through his heart, and his soft bosom bled. 
 The days of youth, but newly left behind, 
 With all their pleasures, rush'd upon his mind. 
 Young Philo's sister he before had lov'd — 
 From her his constant bosom never mov'd ; 
 But long had absence torn their hearts in twain, 
 And deep the grief when these can meet again. 
 With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke. 
 And all the sister in her bosom woke : 
 " Philo is now no more — oh ! Amph'rus, hear 
 " This last request — I make it with a tear. 
 " Philo, my brother, is untimely gone, 
 " And Paros' sand of genius too is run — 
 " Oh ! drink no more — stop, ere the hour come soon, 
 " "Which makes your morning sun go down at noon !'' 
 He heard and wept — he trembled for his fate — 
 He would return, but fear'd it was too late. 
 
 G
 
 82 GENIUS ANJ) INTEMPEKANCE. ^ 
 
 His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost. 
 
 His mind from music to despair was tost. 
 
 Just like a youth when running down a hill. 
 
 And shows his action and his youthful skill, 
 
 "Wlio sees, at length, a gulph where he must drop, 
 
 But, swift his motion, and he caimot stop ; 
 
 He takes a spring to live or rise no more — 
 
 He 's sav'd — his effort brings him safely o'er. 
 
 Amph'rus beheld before the gulph of death, 
 
 The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath, 
 
 Then he forsook strong ' spirits,' drank good beer, 
 
 He lives — and yet his noble notes I hear. 
 
 "WHien in the minster all the octaves swell, 
 
 'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well ; 
 
 'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute, 
 
 'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute. 
 
 In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines, 
 
 And, sun-lilic, will, if he refrain from wines. 
 
 But, oh ! what morals do the writers make ! — 
 
 'Tis better far to give advice than take. 
 
 Oh ! could I write that I myself could save 
 From this one curse, this sure untimely grave, 
 This endless want, that soon must stop my breath. 
 These flaming draughts, which bring the surest death. 
 Then should my Muse upon her wings advance. 
 And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 83 
 
 I know there 's mirth, and there 's a flash of joy, 
 
 When friends with friends a social hour employ. 
 
 When the full bowl is circled all around, 
 
 And not a single jarring string is found ; 
 
 But truest wisdom of a young man's heart, 
 
 Is well to know the moment to depart. 
 
 Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin 
 
 To mix with friends in this bewitching sin. 
 
 Soon lose their resolution, and what then r 
 
 Their privilege is gone to other men, 
 
 Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where 
 
 They secm'd so happy with his social cheer, 
 
 ^^^len all is spent, and all resources o'er, 
 
 Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door. 
 
 I could employ my pen for weeks, for years, 
 
 Write on this subject, wet it with my tears ; 
 
 For spacious as the ocean is the scope. 
 
 For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope. 
 
 Lies best of characters below the dust, 
 
 And fills connexions with a deep distrust. 
 
 But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told — 
 
 Eternity alone can these unfold. 
 
 That I may know these ills, and stop in time, 
 
 Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.
 
 84 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 
 ox THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOW, 1824. 
 
 Swifi-wing'd and pleasing harbinger of spring ! 
 
 Thou from thy winter's voyage art return' d, 
 
 To skim above the lake, or dip thy wings 
 
 In the sequester'd river's winding streams. 
 
 Instinct has brought thee to the rural cot. 
 
 From whence, with new-flcdg"d wings, thou took'st thy 
 
 flight. 
 Oh I could I give thee intellect and tongue, 
 That thou to man might'st teU what mazes wild, 
 And what eccentric circles thou hast flown 
 Since thou didst soar in autumn far away ! 
 Cities in rising splendour thou hast seen. 
 And those where solemn desolation dwells. 
 Hast thou not peaceful slept the night away, 
 Perch' d on the distant pjTamid's high point ; 
 Or on some massive column's hoary top, 
 Beheld great ^^tna's dark sulphureous smoke. 
 Then dipp'd thy wings upon the orient waves ?
 
 RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 85 
 
 Like thcc, could man with philosophic eye 
 Survey mankind, in cv'ry varying clime, 
 How would his mind expand ! his spacious soul, 
 Released from bigotry and party zeal, 
 Would grasp the human race in ev"ry form, — 
 Denominations, sects, and creeds would sink. 
 His mind o'erpowered with the thought that He 
 Who form'd the universe, regards them all ! 
 
 Upon this little wave-encircled isle. 
 What scenes diversified might he behold ! 
 Here men of commerce, seeking after gain, 
 To the emporium throng, as ants haste home 
 When frowns the sky, and distant thunders roU ; 
 And there their youthful inexperienc'd sons, 
 In wide extremes of pleasure, mirth, and joy, 
 Heed not the cares their fathers' bosoms feel, 
 But carelessly carouse the night away, 
 Regardless of the w^ealth by prudence gain'd. 
 
 Some crowd the theatres, by pleasure led ; — 
 But where 's the theatre like nature's o^^^l ? 
 ^Vliere sects of various creeds, like simimer flies. 
 Meet and re-meet, as tho" their hopes were plac'd 
 As widely opposite as the extremes 
 Of inconceivable imbounded space. 
 Then what is man ? think, O ye vain, ye proud !
 
 86 KETURX OF THE SWAXLOW. 
 
 "What his achievements, glory, wealth, or fame ? 
 
 Where can the hist'ry reach of all his deeds r 
 
 Scarce o'er the little mole-hill of this earth. 
 
 And Avhat the various sects — Jews, Pagans, Tiu'ks, 
 
 With those who to the mighty Sjiiiit bow, 
 
 The wand"ring Arabs, or the sable hordes 
 
 Who scorched dwell in Afric's torrid vales, — 
 
 Their idol gods, their temples, or their mosques. 
 
 And even Christians, with their numerous sects, 
 
 Di\ided, parted, and anatomiz'd. 
 
 Till almost ev'iy man "s a different creed r — 
 
 Astonish'd, he who thinks must make them one. 
 
 And breathe a fervent pray'r, — Heav'n bless the whole ! 
 
 All works of man, perform'd with greatest art, 
 Shall change, shall waste, and into ruin turn. 
 Where are the pristine altars and the groves ; 
 The first rude temples, and the sacred rocks ; 
 The liieroglyphics, and the works of priests, 
 Written in characters to us unknown ? 
 Where are the walls of Babylon r or where 
 The glorious splendour of the Trojan courts ; 
 Egypt's geometry, and Grecian lore ; 
 The thrones of emperors ; the croAvns of kings ; 
 The weapons of the warriors of old ; 
 The martial airs which cheer" d the Roman hosts ; 
 The Avreaths with which the conquerors were crown' d r 
 All lost, — and dark oblivion \\Taps the whole !
 
 KEIUKN OF THE SWALLOW. 87 
 
 The mighty Chinese empire yet may fall, 
 Like those of Greece, of Eg>-pt, and of Rome. 
 Canton, with all its millions, may decay ; 
 And golden Hindostan may yet arise, 
 Turn from its gods, — embrace the Christian creed. 
 
 Ye narrow-minded men, whose souls are bound. 
 Give wings to thought, and let your fancy soar ! 
 See the toss'd ocean leaping at the rocks, 
 To tear them from their stations, and cngulph 
 The pond'rous masses in its foaming jaws ! 
 Behold the vessels wreck" d, — the wretched crews. 
 Pale with dread horrors, leave their grasp and sink. 
 Their last faint shrieks aU lost in ocean s roar! 
 These are your fellow-mortals, and their state, 
 Man with his reason, reading, wit, and aU 
 May guess, but nought of certainty is there. 
 
 Next view the field of war, — behold the fray 
 On that small ant-hill, see the ciu-ling smoke, 
 And hear the roar which twice three leagues can dro^vn : 
 Stand at a distance, and the aimies fade. 
 Let the volcano burst, the hosts are lost, — 
 Smoke, lava, ashes would entomb the whole ! 
 Or dltl the earthquake open its wide jaws, 
 Victor and vanqvush'd, armour, banners, all 
 Would sinli, — and war be silent as the grave !
 
 88 KETUKK OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Search for great Hannibal or Caesar now ; 
 "Where shines their grandeur r what can we behold 
 But some few letters which record their names ? 
 Sage and philosopher, the ignorant and learn" d : 
 The t}Tant hated, and the prince belov'd ; 
 The statesman, patriot, poet, and mogul ; 
 The Indian chiefs, the despicable deys ; 
 Those who with microscopes behold the mite. 
 And they w'ho calculate the comet's course. 
 Measure the distances of heav'nly orbs, 
 Number their satellites, and think they view 
 Islands and seas stretch"d o'er the distant spheres ; — 
 Kings, priests, and paupers — live, and then expire ! 
 
 Had poets but thy pinions, they would soar 
 To taste the far-fam'd streams of Helicon ; 
 Artists and antiquarians, wing'd like thee, 
 "Woidd fly to view the works of Grecian art. 
 Then soar to Atlas, or the pointed Alps, 
 And rest where mortal footsteps ne'er were seen : 
 MjTiads would visit then the sacred place 
 "Where heaven's Eternal Majesty expir'd. 
 But man, proud man, with all his vaunted skill, 
 Must travel slowly o'er this atom globe, — 
 Tho' wonderful his new invented things, 
 His art still leaves him destitute of wings.
 
 89 
 
 ALAS! WHERE ARE THEY? 
 
 " I betook myself (o (he repositories of tlie de.id : — iind I exclaimed 
 in a plaintive tone, 'Alas! where are they ?' and Echo replied, 
 in the same plaintive tone, 'Alas! where are they?'" — From 
 the Arabic. 
 
 Soft ! bcliold in the shade the dark abbey appearing ; 
 
 Hark ! yon sad plaintive voice, — 'tis Mp-a the fair : 
 The bhxck robe of crape see the virgin is wearing, 
 
 And mourns her lost lover deposited there. 
 "What a stillness ! how solemn ! 'tis awfully fine ! 
 
 Night's queen throws the dark cloudy veil from her face, 
 The ivy leaves tremble, as faintly they shine, 
 
 And silence is now the sole lord of the \A<\.qc : 
 'Twas thus when fair Myra turn'd slow from tlie dead, 
 
 And cried out — "Alas ! where arc they ?" 
 Echo heard the sad sound — thro" the cloisters she fled, 
 
 And whisper'd in sorrow — " Alas ! where are they ?''
 
 90 ALAS ! -NVHEKE ARE THEY ? 
 
 When the pale moon was shining upon the clear river. 
 
 Sad Laura went slowly to mourn o'er the dead ; 
 Her husband, her son, and her daughter, for ever 
 
 Repos"d where the branches of cypress were spread. 
 She lean'd on the cold marble statue which stood 
 
 At the head of the tomb till she fainted away ! 
 She reviv'd ! — the tears gush'd from her eyes like a flood, 
 
 As her words burst in anguish — " Alas ! where are 
 they r" 
 'Tvvas silent around, and no answer was heard, 
 
 But Echo, wliich bore the sad question away, 
 Ask"d the grottos, the groves, and each sorrowful bird, 
 
 In soft dying cadence — " Alas ! where are they r" 
 
 To the place of the dead we may walk deeply mourning. 
 
 To sigh o'er our children, our lover, or sire, 
 But from the dark shades there is now no returning, — 
 
 Without them in sorrow we weep and retire. 
 We may gaze on the tui-f, or the fine-sculptur'd bust. 
 
 And sorrowful ask — " Where are they?" 
 If a faint mournful voice seems to rise from the dust, 
 
 'Tis but soft plaintive Echo that asks — " Where are 
 they ?"
 
 91 
 
 PSALM CXLVIIL PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Praise ye the Lord ! let songs of praise 
 Thro' highest heavens in chorus ring ! 
 
 Ye heights, where mortals cannot gaze, 
 Adore your great eternal King ! 
 
 Ye angels, that are cloth'd in light. 
 Ye hosts, which marshal at his word, 
 
 Ascribe both majesty and might, 
 In heav'nly concert, to the Lord ! 
 
 Shine to His praise, thou glorious sun ! 
 
 And thou, pale moon, at midnight hour, 
 Adoring, in thy orbit run. 
 
 And show thy great Creator's pow'r ! 
 
 Ye comets, which arc wand'ring far. 
 And in the wide-stretch'd ether blaze, 
 
 TeU ev"ry distant unknown star 
 To join ye in Jehovah's praise !
 
 92 PSALM CXLVXIl. rARAPIIKASED, 
 
 Ye stars, beheld by mortal eyes, 
 For ever steadfast, fix'd, and true, 
 
 The anthem join — till praise arise 
 From all the wide extended blue ! 
 
 Ye hcav'ns beyond the heav'ns, rejoice ! 
 
 In praise, ye unknown oceans, roar. 
 Which heard at first th' Almighty's voice 
 
 Bid you to last for evermore ! 
 
 Fix'd in His great eternal throne, 
 By an unchangeable decree, 
 
 To last when ev'ry orb is gone, 
 Existing thro' eternity ! 
 
 Ye mountains, lift your heads on high ; 
 
 In praise towards His throne ascend ! 
 Praise Him, ye lesser hills ! — reply 
 
 In awe, ye oaks, — ye cedars, bend ! 
 
 Ye fruitful trees, wave cv'ry bough. 
 With blossoms or with fruit array'd ! 
 
 By cv"ry shrub that blooms below. 
 Let homage to His name be paid ! 
 
 Thou earth, in songs thy glory give, — 
 One universal sabbath keep : 
 
 With all that in the ocean live. 
 
 The monsters in tli' unfuthom'd deep.
 
 PSALM CXLVIH. PARAPHRASED. 93 
 
 Yc clouds, that crown the mountain's brow, 
 Frauglit with the lightning's vivid blaze, 
 
 To distant thunders, deep and low, 
 Echo on high his awful praise ! 
 
 Ye storms of hail, that ride along, 
 On the wild wings of tempests borne, 
 
 Learn in the air the holy song. 
 And with it to the earth return ! 
 
 Learn it, ye snows ! and ev'ry cloud. 
 
 That sails in grandeur on the air ! 
 Ye whirhvinds, bear his praise abroad. 
 
 And his tremendous pow'r declare ! 
 
 Lions, which in the desert roar. 
 
 And all the mighty beasts of prey, 
 That range the vmknown forests o'er, 
 
 To Him your nightly homage pay ! 
 
 Ye creeping reptiles, weak and small, 
 
 By man unnotic'd and unkno\vn, 
 Show forth His skill — He form'd you all, 
 
 Ye live by Him and Him alone ! 
 
 Ye larks, ascending to the sky. 
 
 Ye birds, which warble in the wood. 
 
 With all the various fowls that fly, 
 
 Tune your wild notes in praise to God !
 
 94 PSALM CXLVIII. rArvAPHBASED. 
 
 Praise Him, yc kings, by mortals croAvn'd ; 
 
 And ye who judge by earthly law : 
 Let songs in ev'ry court resound ; 
 
 Ye princes, bend your plumes in awe ! 
 
 Ye youths, His sacred name adore ; 
 
 Ye maidens, on His glories gaze ; 
 Old men, whose earthly joys are o'er, 
 
 And infant children, shout His praise ! 
 
 To God, the great eternal King, 
 (For He alone deserves all praise,) 
 
 Let joyful hallelujahs ring 
 
 Thro' all creation's boundless space ! 
 
 The glorious lustre of the sky 
 Is darkness to th' eternal light 
 
 "Wherein He dwells enthron'd on high. 
 Below all depth — above all height. 
 
 Praise Him, ye saints ! tho' last — the best ; 
 
 Ye whom He still delights to raise 
 To bliss, and crown you with the bless'd, 
 
 Close by His throne to sing His praise !
 
 95 
 
 ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. 
 
 Allowed to walk into the sad retreat 
 Where tott'ring age and foolish fair ones meet, 
 I heard deep sighs from those bent doAvn with years, 
 Whose cheeks were deeply furrow'd o'er with cares. 
 To see their locks, by ruthless Time turn'd grey. 
 Melted my heart, and took my pride away : 
 For Avho was seated in the corner chair. 
 But one who in my youth I held most dear. 
 Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy. 
 Handled the knife, and made me many a toy ; 
 For me he caught the sparrows on the snow. 
 And made my youthful heart with raptures glow ! 
 Oft had I danc'd around him with delight. 
 While he had balanc'd well my little kite ; 
 But now, my aged friend, when he should eat. 
 His palsied hands can scarcely bear his meat, — 
 His pleasures lost, to life he 's but a slave. 
 And only waits his passport to the grave. 
 Here I beheld how mortals waste away. 
 Shoot vip to manhood, blossom, and decay ! 
 In wolsey gown, close seated by his side, 
 His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride, 
 Beauteous and fail-, — upon her bridal day 
 The wealthy countess scarce appear'd more gay :
 
 96 OK VISITING A AVOEKHOtrSK. 
 
 But tlic fine brow that bore the glossy hah', 
 
 "Which once she dress'd with such assiduous care, 
 
 Was furrow'd o'er by Time's all-changing plough. 
 
 And her few locks were nearly white as snow. 
 
 "When I had stood awhile, and dried the tear, 
 
 I spoke, but John my words could scarcely hear ; 
 
 At length he cried, in exclamation strong, 
 
 " Ah ! is that thee ?"' for still he knew my tongue. 
 
 His agc-dimm"d eyes then brighten'd with a ray, 
 
 "Which, like a wasted taper, died away. 
 
 Dotage had seiz'd upon his feeble brain, 
 
 As he revolv'd to infancy again. 
 
 Awhile he spoke of heav'n and things divine, 
 
 Then laugh"d — and stopp'd a moment to repine ; 
 
 "Wish'd for the grave, — next talk"d of things to come, 
 
 Then wept — and thought of his once happy home. 
 
 But his poor heart was most of all subdued 
 
 "With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude. 
 
 " Alas !" said he, " that those who owe me all, 
 
 " Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call 
 
 " To spend one hour, to mitigate my grief, 
 
 " To bring one cordial, or afford relief, 
 
 " Tho' they neglect a father, old and poor, 
 
 " They yet may have to enter at this door ; 
 
 " Yet O, avert it heav'n ! bless'd may tliey live ! 
 
 " O teach an injur'd father to forgive !" 
 
 Touch'd with the scene, I turn'd aside to weep, 
 
 And like a child he calmly fell asleep !
 
 97 
 
 MAN'S LIFE. 
 
 I'liL sing no more of cheerful things. 
 My lyre shall mourn in pensi^-e strain, 
 
 The Muse with tears shall wet her wings, 
 And with her feeble voice complain : 
 
 Grief shall her future hours employ, — 
 
 No more her features shine with joy ; 
 
 Each day and night will I declare,-^ 
 
 Man's little life "s a life of care ! 
 
 Thro' ev'ry stage of life, what woe ! 
 
 What various forms can sorrow take ! 
 Pleasures may charm an hour or so, 
 
 But sorrows ever are awake ! 
 E'en infants, weeping at their birth, 
 As if they fear'd the ills of earth, 
 In feeble plaintive cries declare,— 
 Man's little life 's a life of care j 
 
 How oft we see the youth at play 
 
 Sore griev'd and weeping o'er their toys ; 
 
 E'en in the morning of their day 
 
 Are sorrows blended with their joys : 
 
 H
 
 98 -^IVX S MFK. 
 
 Then 'tis the best to take the eup, 
 "Witli resignation drink it up. 
 Since of this truth we are aware, 
 Man's little life 's a life of care ! 
 
 The youth on love's strong pinions soars 
 
 Far — far beyond what he can gain, 
 And sees the nymph his soul adores, 
 Reject him, heedless of his pain ; 
 "While she must feel love's painfvd dart, 
 From one who slights her in his heart. 
 Thus, disappointed youths decM-e, — 
 Man's little life 's a Hfe of care 1 
 
 AVhere is the busy tradesman's peace, 
 
 ^\1ien losses after losses come ? 
 His rising family increase, 
 
 And ruin hastens to his home. 
 O'ercome with grief, he sits and siglis. 
 
 Broods o'er his sorrows in despair. 
 Then, weeping, to his partner cries, — 
 
 Man's little life 's a life of care ! 
 
 The sire, upon his crutches stay'd, 
 
 Weaken'd by age, disease, and pain ; 
 His grey locks scattered o'er his head, 
 Declares the joys of earth are vain ! 
 His joyless nights are spent in sighs. 
 His hearing lost, and dim his eyes, 
 No hopes of shortest pleasure here, 
 He dies — and leaves a life of care !
 
 99 
 
 JAM ARY. 
 
 Now bleak winter on the mountains 
 "\Miirls on heaps the dusty snow, 
 
 Seals with ice the sandy fountains, 
 While the streams can scarcely flow. 
 
 Starving grouse forsake the rushes, 
 Cover'd is their winter store. 
 
 Seek for shelter in the bushes, 
 While the heath is drifted o"er. 
 
 Trees beneath their loads are bending ; 
 
 Firs like ostrich plumes appear ; 
 Partridge tame the barn attending. 
 
 Picking up the grain with fear. 
 
 Hares the snow-drifts Avander over, 
 Forc'd the hawthorn buds to eat ; 
 
 Lost in snow the sprigs of clover, 
 Cover"d arc the blades of wheat.
 
 100 JANUARY. 
 
 Now the thrasher, old and weary, 
 Stops the northern door with straw ; 
 
 But the tempest, wild and dreary. 
 Finds a way tliro' ev'ry flaw. 
 
 Starv'd from woods, the beauteous pheasant 
 Leaves the icy boughs and mourns, 
 
 Haimts the cottage of the peasant, — 
 Snows may melt, it ne"er returns. 
 
 Thus the maids, their parents leaving, 
 
 Wanton to the city fly, 
 Soon with woes their breasts are heaving, — 
 
 Virtue, honour, beauty, die !
 
 101 
 
 MAY-DAY 
 
 Sk£ tlio nymphs in May-day dresses. 
 Dancing on the daisied green ! 
 
 Sloe-thorn blossoms grace their tresses, 
 Polyanthus deck their queen. 
 
 While of thyme and unblown roses, 
 Twin'd among the leaves of bay, 
 
 Each a fragrant wreath composes. 
 On the joyful holiday. 
 
 Lyra tunes the rural measure, 
 While the cowslips at her feet 
 
 Dance, as if they felt the pleasure 
 Of her trills and cadence sweet. 
 
 Sec ! — the lark her song suspending. 
 Drops and listens to the air, 
 
 While the snow-white lambs, attending". 
 Strive to imitate the fair.
 
 102 MAV-DAl. 
 
 Blithe and gay each nymph appearing. 
 Sec, how innocent they smile ! 
 
 Each a branch of mptle bearing 
 On a breast that knows no gviile. 
 
 ^\^^ere "s the youth that could deceive them, 
 Smiling on their morn of May, 
 
 Gain their love, then scorning leave them, 
 Like their garlands, to decav?
 
 l(i;'> 
 
 MARY OF MARLEY 
 
 At Marley stood the rural cot, 
 
 In Bingley"s sweet sequester'd dale, 
 
 The spreading oaks enclosed the spot 
 Where dwelt the beauty of the vale. 
 
 Bless" d with a small, but fruitful farm, 
 
 Beneath the high majestic hill, 
 Where Nature spread her ev'ry charm 
 
 That can the mind with pleasure fill. 
 
 Here bloom'd the maid, nor vain nor proud, 
 But lilte an imapproached flower. 
 
 Hid from the flatfry of the crowd, 
 Unconscious of her beauty's power. 
 
 Her ebon locks were richer far 
 Than is the raven's glossy plume ; 
 
 Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star : 
 Pier lovclv checks the rose's bloom.
 
 104 MAllV OF MAKLKY. 
 
 Tlic mountain snow, tliat falls by niglit. 
 By which the bending heath is press" cl, 
 
 Did never shine in purer white 
 Than was upon her virgin breast. 
 
 The blushes of her innocence 
 
 Great Nature's hand had pencil'd o'er ; 
 
 And Modesty the veil had wrought 
 Which Mary, lovely virgin, wore. 
 
 At early morn each fav'rite cow 
 The tuneful voice of Mary knew ; 
 
 Their answers humm'd, — then wand'ring slow, 
 From daisies dash'd the pearly dew. 
 
 When lovely on the green she stood. 
 And to her poultry threw the grain. 
 
 Ringdoves and pheasants from the wood 
 Flew forth and glitter"d in her train. 
 
 The thrush upon the rosy bow'r 
 
 Would sit and sing while Mary stay'd ; 
 
 Her lambs their pasture frisked o"er. 
 And on the new-sprung clover fed. 
 
 She milk'd beneath tlie bccch-trec's shade, 
 And there the tuif was Avorn away, 
 
 "WTiere cattle had for cent'ries laid. 
 To shun the summer's sultry ray.
 
 MAKY Oi- MARLEY. 105 
 
 Lj'sander, from the neighbouring vale, 
 \VTiere Wharfs deceitful currents move. 
 
 To Mary told a fervent tale. 
 
 And Mary could not help but love. 
 
 The richest might have come and sigh'd ; 
 
 Lysander had her favour won, — 
 Her breast was constant as the tide, 
 
 And true as light is to the sun. 
 
 When winter, wrapp'd in gloomy storm^ 
 
 Each dubious path had drifted o'er. 
 And whirl' d the snow in ev'ry form. 
 
 To Mary oft he cross' d the moor. 
 
 When western winds and pelting rain 
 
 Did mountain snows to rivers turn. 
 These swell'd and roar'd, and foam'd in vain, 
 
 Affection help'd him o'er the bourn. 
 
 Until the last, the fatal night. 
 
 His footsteps slipp'cl — the cruel tide 
 
 Danc'd and exulted with its freight. 
 Then lifeless cast him on its side I 
 
 How chang'd is lovely Mary no^\- ! 
 
 How pale and frantic she appears ! 
 Description fails to paint her woe. 
 
 And numbers to recount lier tears.
 
 1()() 
 
 EVENING JN APRIL. 
 
 (on first hearing a humblk bee, 1824.) 
 
 "Welcome with thy monotone, 
 
 Black and yellow lab'rer sweet ! 
 Thou this night hast nearly done 
 
 Dancing with thy little feet 
 On the willow's honied flower. 
 
 On the daisy's crimson side. 
 On the crocus near the bower, 
 
 Which thy velvet coat has dy'd. 
 Thou thy little sable bill 
 
 Hast in April blossoms dipp"d ; 
 From the cups upon the liill, 
 
 Luscious drops of honey sipp'd : 
 Thou hast slept the winter long, 
 
 But thy merit is not lost ; 
 Tliou hast yet the vernal song. 
 
 Spite of winter's chilling frost. 
 TliuK the Poet, as he sings. 
 
 While the storm of sorrow low'rs. 
 Finds that friendship gladness brings, 
 
 Sweet as dew on honied flow'rs.
 
 107 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Lovely darlings ! can you dry 
 
 The sweat-drops from your father's brow ? 
 Can you mpe his faded eye, 
 
 Sunk with pain and sickness low ? 
 
 O ! my little prattling boy. 
 
 Gladly thou would'st ease my pain ; 
 Pleas"d, would"st give thy father joy, 
 
 But thy infant arts are vain. 
 
 Must I leave you here to mourn. 
 With a mother deep distress"d. 
 
 "While I to the dust am borne, 
 
 AVlicre this aching head shall rest ? 
 
 Yes ! methinks I hear you say, 
 " Mother, when will father come : 
 
 '• Why is he so long away. 
 
 "Nor brings his weekly wages home:' 
 
 Must I leave you : — O thou Pow'r 
 
 Supreme I who seest the orphans' tears, 
 
 Guard them thro' each infant hour. 
 Watch them in maturer vears I
 
 OS 
 
 1 WILL LOVE THEE, MARY! 
 
 Whilk llic larks mount up in spring, 
 "While the grouse sport on the ling. 
 While the thrush and blackbird sing, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary I 
 
 "While the heat of summer glows 
 On each daisy, pink, and rose, — 
 Come sweet pleasure or deep woes, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 "Wlien the harvest field appears 
 Yellow with the golden ears, — 
 Bless'd with joys, or prcss'd with cares, 
 
 I wll love thee, Mary ! 
 
 In the coldest winter's frost. 
 On the drifted mountain lost, 
 Or on foaming billows toss'd, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 Life may waste, — but still impressed 
 Are thy virtues on my breast ; 
 Till in death my heart shall rest, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary !
 
 109 
 
 PSALM XVIII. PARAPHEASEI). 
 
 (from VEESE 6 TO 16.) 
 
 When in the temple of his God 
 In sorrow Israel's monarch pray'd, 
 
 Revenge ! — the great Eternal vow"d ; 
 
 The earth — the heav'ns were sore afraid I 
 
 "WTien frown'd the great eternal King, 
 
 All nature trembled at His look ; 
 Heav'n's choristers all ceas"d to sing, 
 
 While the eternal pillars shook ! 
 
 Wild roird the clouds of darkest hue, 
 And wrapp'd the sun in sable vest, — 
 
 Tlic affrighted sun his light withdrew. 
 And thunders roll'd from east to west ! 
 
 Earth trembled, and the ocean roar'd ; 
 
 The clouds all blush'd with cheeks of flame ; 
 Dread terrors veil'd the mountains o"er. 
 
 And earthquakes shook old Nature's frame !
 
 110 PSALM XVIir. TAKAPHKARED. 
 
 The bending heav'ns obeisance made. 
 
 As He on fierv cherubs rode ; 
 Beneath His feet the darkest shade 
 
 IloUd as a chariot for its God ! 
 
 The stars had from their orbits fled. 
 
 And melted all created things. 
 Had not the darkness wrapp'd His head. 
 
 As high he rode on wliirh\ inds" wings. 
 
 The channels of the mighty deep, — 
 The centre of the world was bare ; 
 
 The earth — the ocean could not keep 
 
 Their stations, when their God was there ! 
 
 As heralds He the lightnings sent, 
 The thunder was His trumpet strong ; 
 
 Devouring clouds before Him went, — 
 Hail, fire, and storms flew swift along! 
 
 His enemies His arrows felt. 
 
 And as a shadow fled away ; 
 Thus Israel's foes to nothing melt, 
 
 "\Mien faithful to their God they pray.
 
 11 
 
 MELPOMENE. 
 
 The Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd, 
 
 Majestically great above the rest, 
 
 With thoughtful look, and tears, and pallid cheek, 
 
 A comic line is scarcely heard to speak ; 
 
 For higher themes her feeling breast inspire 
 
 Than lyric measures or the keen satire. 
 
 The widow's woes, — the margin's love, she sings, 
 
 The fate of heroes, and the fall of kings ; 
 
 On palaces in ruins, where the throne 
 
 Which now is broke, with regal grandeur shone ; 
 
 ^Vhe^e once the beauteous chequer" d marble floor 
 
 Witli blood of kings was deeply crimson'd o"cr ; 
 
 There like a widow on her husband's tomb. 
 
 She sits enshrin"d amid the tragic gloom, — 
 
 Paints ev'ry scene of ancient tyrants' deeds. 
 
 Then gazes on the ruins cloth'd in weeds. 
 
 Till her rich mind replaces ev'ry stone. 
 
 And seats the murder'd monarch on the throne. 
 
 Musters his guards — which long in dust have been. 
 
 Beholds his knights, his heroes, ond liis queen :
 
 112 MELPOMENE. 
 
 Sees the vile traitor, with his murd'ring train, 
 Act all his deeds of darkness o'er again : 
 The courtiers lov'd to-day, and rais'd on high, 
 Frown'd on to-morrow, and tlieir glories die : 
 The dauntless heroes, niark'd with many a scar. 
 Rush on in search of glory to the war, 
 And on their arms the dread suspended fates 
 Of empires, kingdoms, or contending states ; — 
 Shrouded in terrors, while around her plays. 
 In ev'ry form, the lightning's vi\'id blaze. 
 Wading in blood, she marks the hero's fall, 
 While with her crimson pen she minutes all. 
 "When to the charge the furious steeds advance, 
 And red Avith noble blood the glitfring lance — 
 The drums, the trumpets, and the clang of arms. 
 The rattling mail, and war's most dread alarms ; 
 The banners waving over either host, 
 The day hung doubtful — neither won nor lost ; 
 The smoking tow'rs, the city wrapp'd in fire, — 
 With loftier themes, the Tragic Muse inspire — 
 With noise of battle plumes her tow'ring wings. 
 And gives terrific grandeur while she sings I
 
 113 
 
 LINES ON "LONG TOM,' 
 
 BRAMHAil PARK. 
 
 O GIIEA.T Long Tom! when thou with foam art cvo-\vn"d, 
 Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground ; 
 Despair thou buriest deep within the grave ; — 
 Thy contents sure would make the coward brave. 
 "When gloomy Winter, with her roaring floods, 
 Sends her fierce tempests through the leafless woods. 
 When sleet falls cold and when the night is dark, 
 Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramham Park. 
 Across the moors I then could checrly go. 
 Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow. 
 In sharpest frost I yet should take no harm — 
 In spite of all, Tom's soul would keep me warm. 
 ^\^len verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift. 
 And ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift, 
 Send them Long Tom, and they would sing so loud, 
 The larks would stop to listen in the cloud. 
 If from its verge could sip the mellow thrush. 
 How strong his notes upon the topmost bush : 
 
 I
 
 114 I,INES OX " I.OXG TOM." 
 
 All nature's songsters, could they drink from thee. 
 
 Would cheer the groves with louder harmony. 
 
 \Mien Summer comes with all her scorching fires, 
 
 And on his way the thirsty traveller tires, 
 
 Tho' sweat fall from his locks like di-ops of rain, 
 
 Thy soul would cheer him till he walk'd again. 
 
 In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away 
 
 "With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day, 
 
 When weary, he would better hit his mark. 
 
 Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park. 
 
 In Winter thou art good to kill the frost. 
 
 Through cii'cling years thy merits never lost ; 
 
 If war should ever rage, or Britons fight 
 
 For Albion's monarch, or their country's right. 
 
 That ancient British courage may not fail, 
 
 Fill them such horns, with such as Fox's ale : 
 
 Then would their bosoms need no more t' inspire 
 
 Their souls to fight with true heroic fire. 
 
 Rapid as whirlwinds they would sweep along. 
 
 Vanquish the weak — and terrify the strong. 
 
 May British tars for ever have such ale. 
 
 While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail ; 
 
 Then would the cannons roar till every wave 
 
 Curl'd back and own'd itself Britannia's slave : 
 
 May none disloyal, no dishonest hand, 
 
 Touch thee, O Tom ! while here thou hast thy stand. 
 
 But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire, 
 
 Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest fire,
 
 Lrxi;.s ox " t.oxg tom."" 11.3 
 
 With gi-ateful bosom may lie walk along. 
 And never be too drunk to give a song. 
 
 How I coidd write, wert thou but hither borne. 
 Full as I saw thee on the opening morn, 
 ^Mien slow thy contents lessen' d every draught, 
 And those who knew thy pow'r stood by and laugh'd ! 
 Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye. 
 And fill'd the humble Bard with ecstacy. 
 P'or generations, firm as Eldwick rocks. 
 Be tliou the far-fam'd mightv horn of Fox.
 
 116 
 
 THE FAITHFUL WIFE. 
 
 From times of ancient Greece, the fair 
 By greatest poets have been sung, — 
 
 The ^-irgins with the lovely air. 
 
 And all their beauties fresh and young ; 
 
 But praises gi-eater far are due 
 
 To her who braves the storms of life. 
 
 In ev"ry state her bosom true — 
 At ev*ry age the faithful wife. 
 
 How many nymphs have galn'd the praise 
 When blithe sixteen upon them shone ; 
 
 But soon the transient bloom decays, 
 And ev'ry outward beauty's gone. 
 
 AVhile she who in her bosom bears 
 A spark of virtue's sacred fire, 
 
 A^^lich like the purest gem appears, 
 When love's impetuous flames expire. 
 
 Is lovelier far when pale and cold — 
 She falls like autumn's ripen' d grain ; 
 
 Our mem'ries then her worth unfold. 
 And wish her here to shine again.
 
 117 
 
 MOENING IN MAY 
 
 The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is uprearing 
 Its white curling head from the valley below, 
 
 The bright glitfring dew-drops, like emeralds appearing, 
 All waken at once with Aurora to glow ! 
 
 The dark low'ring tempests of winter are over, 
 
 And sweet is the breath of the high mountain gale ; 
 
 The hare leaves her favourite fields of white clover, 
 And starts as she treads the dry leaves in the vale. 
 
 The rooks and the ring-doves are flown to the fallow ; 
 
 From their dew-sprinkled pillows the daisies awake ; 
 From the thatch of the cot '.age skims forth the swift 
 swallow, 
 
 And strikes into circles the smooth polish'd lake. 
 
 Near the stream the winds move not the weak waving 
 M'illow ; 
 
 The cattle are laid on the bright dewy hiU ; 
 On the clear rippled stream hush'd to rest ev'ry billow, — 
 
 The day-busy sons of the hamlet are still.
 
 118 MOENIKG IN MAY. 
 
 Hark! the birds are all chanting their song of the morning, 
 Ye virgins inviting to fields deck'd with dew ! 
 
 The fresh opening flowers wiU greet your rctiu-ning, 
 And bow their sweet heads in pure homage to you. 
 
 Blithe Health on the mountain sits smiling thus early. 
 With young Vemal Sweetness, her sister, in green, 
 
 AVhile Virtue, their mother, who loves them so dearly, 
 Points out to her daughters the beautiful scene. 
 
 They call on the youths and the innocent lasses 
 To see the rich beauties of Nature half dress'd, 
 
 P'orget all their joy-killing grief as it passes. 
 
 Live happy and love, for such moments are bless'd. 
 
 They sit on the hill where the bullfinch is bending, 
 In beautiful plumage, the weak birchen bough ; 
 
 With gay feather" d songsters their mellow notes blending. 
 In sweet rural chords, where the sloe blossoms grow. 
 
 But to sing of the rich varied landscape before us. 
 With all the fine beauties that Nature displays, 
 
 Requires all the Muses to join in the chorus, 
 
 And sweet smiling cherubs to chant in its praise !
 
 110 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 The greatest Bard is falFn that ever strung 
 
 The mighty IjTe, which swell" d from hell to heav"!!,- 
 
 The sweetest minstrel mute that ever sung, 
 Since fr-om the skies Apollo's harp was given! 
 
 Tho' little minds may not lament his full. 
 
 Nor bring one flow'r to form the mournful wreath- 
 He needs no wreath ! for Fame has wove it all ; 
 Wet with her tears — it blossoms at his death 1 
 
 Its amaranthine leaves thro' time shall bloom, 
 Beyond the reach of Envy's ruthless hand ! 
 
 Love, Liberty, and Genius guard his tomb. 
 
 And weeping there shall Grecian Freedom stand. 
 
 He sung of storms, and of the tempest wave, — 
 No theme on earth his mighty pen pass'd by ; 
 
 From ^ictory's height— down to the wamor's grave. 
 From earth's dark centre to the lofty sky ! 
 
 Ye minor bards, xmstring the feeble IjTe ! 
 
 Nor strive in Bp'on's lofty verse to mourn : 
 Four mighty poets only had the fire* 
 
 Fit to inscribe the lines beneath his urn ! 
 
 * Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton.
 
 120 
 
 LINES 
 
 SPOKKX AT TilK AXXIVKUSARY MEKXIXG AT LEJiDS, 
 TO CKLKBllATE THE BIUTH-DAY OF BURNS, 1826. 
 
 Learning has many a rhjiner made, 
 
 To flatter near the thi-onc, 
 But Scotia's genius has display'd 
 
 A poet of her own. 
 
 His lyre he took to vale and glen, 
 To mountain and the shade ; 
 
 Ccnfries may pass away, but when 
 "Will such a harp be play'd : 
 
 His native strains each bard may try, 
 
 But who has got his fire ? 
 Why, none — for Nature saw him die, 
 
 Then took away his lyre. 
 
 And for that IjTe the leanied youth 
 May search the world in vain : 
 
 She vow'd she ne"er would lend it more 
 To sound on earth again ; 
 
 But call'd on Fame to hang it by — 
 
 She took it with a tear. 
 Broke all the strings to bind the wreath 
 
 That Burns sliall ever wear.
 
 ILM 
 
 LOVE ON THE HEATH. 
 
 Ox the heath-vestur'd liills, where I courted my Sally, 
 Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk ; 
 
 The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley, 
 "Were all that could see us or listen our talk. 
 
 The pale yellow moss on the side of the mountain. 
 Far softer than velvet, invited our stay ; 
 
 And there by the rock, from whose foot gush"d the 
 fountain, 
 "\Vc, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away. 
 
 How oft she would say, when sat happy together, 
 " 'Tis thee — -and thee only I ever can Ioac !"' 
 
 With breath far more sweet than the bloom on tlie 
 heather, 
 Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove. 
 
 How oft has she vow'd, while we walk"d o'er the rushes, 
 With me, and me only she 'd wander so far. 
 
 Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes, — 
 'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
 
 122 hO\E i).\ XIIK IIK.VTJI. 
 
 On the heath thus we lov'd, and our love so delicious — 
 If heaven e'er bless"d any mortals below, 
 
 It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious, 
 ^^^lich only in innocent bosoms can glow ! 
 
 But, oh ! how the pleasures of mortals are clouded, 
 I'or SaUy, the heather-bells blossom no more ! 
 
 With the cold robe of death my charmer is slrrouded. 
 And I on the heath must behold her no more I
 
 123 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT GOIT-STOCK. 
 
 Haul,, thou sequester'd rural seat, 
 Which ever beauteous dost appear, 
 
 AVhere the sweet songsters oft repeat 
 Their varied concerts, Avild and clear ! 
 
 Upon thy crystal-bosom" d lake 
 
 Th' inverted rocks and trees arc seen, 
 
 Adorn" d with many a snowy flake, 
 Or in their leafy robes of green. 
 
 O could a riu'al rhj-mer sing 
 
 The beauteous scenes so richly dress'd, 
 Wnere piety may plume her wing. 
 
 And sweet seclusion form her nest ! 
 
 Here may the contemplative mind 
 Trace Nature and her beauties o'er. 
 
 And meditation rest reclin'd. 
 
 To hear tlie neighbouring cataract roar.
 
 12 1 MNJiS AVlllTTEN AT GOIX-STOCK. 
 
 Here, tir"d of the gay scenes of life, 
 The sire may sec his cliildren play. 
 
 While heav'n has bless"d him with a wife, 
 WIio smiles his happy hours away. 
 
 If ever fairies tripp'd along. 
 
 Or danc'd around in airy mirth. 
 They surely to this place would throng, — 
 
 Or else tliey never danc'd on earth. 
 
 The Loves and Graces here might stay ; 
 
 Th' enamour'd pair, with bosoms true. 
 Unseen appoint the nuptial day. 
 
 Among those scenes for ever new. — 
 
 The poet tune his rustic lyre. 
 
 If genius trembled on the strings ; 
 
 And merit modestly aspire, 
 
 ^Vhere friendship dwells to plume his wings. 
 
 O that I could this tribute pay, 
 As "tis upon my heart imprcss'd ! 
 
 !My song of friendship here would stay, 
 "When waves the grass above my breast.
 
 125 
 
 THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 
 
 The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary. 
 The winds roar'd aloud near the hoarse raven's nest, 
 
 The strongest with reaching its top would be weary. 
 And, like the young lover, be wisliful to rest, — 
 
 The lover that wandered, his breast with love burning 
 For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore, 
 
 ^\^l0 watched the clouds as she wish"d his returning, 
 But night came too soon — he returned no more. 
 
 Beneath him the dark mist rolFd rapid in motion ; 
 
 Above was the evening star seen thro* the cloud ; 
 But the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean. 
 
 When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten shroud. 
 
 A wand"rer he roam"d where the curlew was screaming. 
 Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain flood ; 
 Of danger approaching he little was dreaming. 
 The" on the high verge of dire ten-or he stood.
 
 12o tut: maid ok i,owdork. 
 
 lie thought on liis Anna, witli earnest endeavour 
 To reach the blest spot that his soul doth, adore : 
 
 He steps— shrieks, and falls I— but the shepherd can never 
 Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore. 
 
 His Anna now nightly sits list"ning with wonder. 
 To liear in the tempest the high cataract's roar ; 
 
 And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder, 
 Her sliepherd call " Anna, the Maid of Lowdore I"
 
 127 
 
 THE DESERTED MAID. 
 
 To some gloomy cave will I wander away. 
 Where waterfalls foam through each cleft, 
 
 And there shvm the light of the pleasant s])ring day. 
 Since I by my lover am left. 
 
 There hang, ye dried ferns, in the sad dampy shade, 
 
 Ye owls, fly around me in scorn. 
 As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd, 
 
 Whose features with weeping are worn. 
 
 O ! let not a flower be seen in the field. 
 
 Nor daisies spring up near my feet ; 
 Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield, 
 
 "NMiere my lover and I used to meet. 
 
 Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud, 
 
 Nor throw it away to the wind ; 
 Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood, 
 
 Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
 
 I'iK OX TTIK oil) OAK TKEK. 
 
 No more can yon its ancient arms behold. 
 
 Withered by time, and crumbling into mould. 
 
 Its infancy, its youth, and manhood past, 
 
 Tho" heart of oak, 'tis forc"d to yield at last. 
 
 But had it liv'd in Studley's peaceful shades. 
 
 Nor delvers" mattocks, hammers, or their spades 
 
 Had e'er been rals'd by the unfeeling clown. 
 
 To strike this only ancient vestige down. 
 
 Had it been mine, it should not yet have dropp'd. 
 
 But, wlicre 'twas weak, I had its weakness propp'd ; 
 
 Told o'er its story to the feeling breast. 
 
 And kept the tree while Bradford keeps its crest. 
 
 But why lament? since Nature says that all 
 
 That springs from earth, to earth again must fall. 
 
 So must the stately tow'rs of polish'd stone 
 
 Tumble to earth, and wear a mossy crown ; 
 
 AVhilc nettles form their canopies of state. 
 
 And rankest wTcds but mock their change of fate. 
 
 The sculptur'd marble monuments decay, 
 
 And crowns, and thrones, and statues fade away. 
 
 The mighty monarch and the warrior brave, 
 
 The greatest sultan and the meanest slave. 
 
 The wretched miser and most beauteous fair, 
 
 The rich possessor and succeeding heir, 
 
 Princes and courtiers, chiefs of ev'ry state, 
 
 Both high and low, must all submit to fate : 
 
 So, rest in peace, fam'd Oak, tho' doom'd to fall, 
 
 For such a mighty change awaits us all !
 
 129 
 
 Ox\ LOVE. 
 
 The love, how true — the love, how sweet, 
 
 That is in youth begun, 
 When innocence and beauty meet, 
 
 "WTiich never lov'd but one ! 
 
 No anxious doubts, no jealous fears, 
 
 Disturb the constant breast : 
 The faitliful youth, whose vows arc truth. 
 
 With one alone is bless'd. 
 
 Let other suitors come — her hcai't 
 
 From him she never moves ; 
 Nor aught on earth but death can part 
 
 Her soul from him she loves- 
 
 If angels smile at aught on cartb.. 
 
 They smile on love like this. 
 Whose origin "s of heav'nly birth, — 
 
 The crown of mortal bliss i
 
 130 ON LOVE. 
 
 The sweetest flow'r that blooming grows 
 Amongst the thorns of care ; 
 
 The balm that heals our bosoms" woes, 
 And pelds contentment there. 
 
 Such is that love that heav'n bestow" d 
 To make its creatures bless"d, 
 
 And such in our first parents glow"d, 
 "WTien Eden they possessed.
 
 131 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 When gentle breezes kiss the tide, 
 And waft the vessel o'er the deep, 
 
 Silent beneath her stately side, 
 The peaceful waters seem to sleep. 
 
 The trembling waves just heave along, 
 "While swift she cuts the yielding main. 
 
 To reach the port — their hopes are strong 
 That they their long-left home shall gain. 
 
 But gath'ring clouds the sun overspread. 
 While he with crimson gilds the west; 
 
 The storm appears, whose awful head 
 With terror chills each sailor's breast. 
 
 The frighted billows seem to know 
 The dreadful tempest, ere it comes ; 
 
 And, where the whirling hail descends. 
 The frothy sea in madness foams. 
 
 Nearer and nearer rolls the storm. 
 And wraps in darkness all the sky ; 
 
 WHiile o'er its fi•o^vning awful check, 
 The quick tremendous flashes fly.
 
 132 THE SIOKM. 
 
 The a/.urc arcli is seen no more ; 
 
 But, wrapp'd in deepest gloom of night, 
 Tlic v.-avcs return, the thunders roar. 
 
 And lightnings flash,— their only light ! 
 
 Then buried deep heneath the waves, 
 The shattefd rigging and the shrouds, 
 
 AVhilc, mad Avith rage, the tempest raves — 
 Her helm is lost among the clouds. 
 
 No steady course the vessel keeps. 
 By such a dreadfid tempest driv'n ; 
 
 But, like a cork upon the deeps, 
 Uplifted by the waves to hcavn. 
 
 Wliat fervent pray'rs, in that dread hour, 
 For worlds unknown, they all prepare ! 
 
 And to appease the Almighty Pow'r, 
 Is ev"ry trembling seaman's care. 
 
 At last she strikes— and floats no more, 
 But sinks a wreck amidst the deep -, 
 
 And, far from England's happy shore, 
 Beneath the waves the sailors sleep. 
 
 In vain their friends, with bosoms true, 
 Expect with joy their blest return, 
 
 For them no more their friends shall view. 
 But for their loss in anguish mourn.
 
 FAIKY SONG. 
 
 Let us trip in airy dances, 
 
 "While the weary mortals sleep ; 
 
 See the waning orb advances, 
 Lighting those that vigils keep. 
 
 Li the nectar drown all trouble, 
 Sweeten'd by the honied bee ; 
 
 Make a punch-bowl of a bubble, 
 Underneath our fav'rite tree. 
 
 Wc have not the cares of mortals ; 
 
 Nature's self our tailor is ; 
 Sorrow enters not our portals. 
 
 All a fairy's nights are bliss. 
 
 Some fine peacock's lovely feather, 
 Brightest that was ever seen. 
 
 With its edge adorn'd \<h\\ heather, 
 Forms a carpet for our Queen.
 
 1 ;; I J'AIKV SOXG. 
 
 stop Ihc dance, a beetle 's cominji:. 
 We must take his sable wing ; 
 
 Stop bis flight and mournful humming. 
 He must arm the Fairy King. 
 
 Now a moment's mirth and dancing, 
 We of songs have got no more ; 
 
 AVlien the moon 's so high advancing. 
 Shows the fairy dance is o'er. 
 
 Wings of insects on tlic river. 
 We can borrow when we please ; 
 
 Then wc fly away for ever, 
 
 To the shades of joy and peace.
 
 135 
 
 ON RETURNING FROM LONDON 
 
 How oft the glorious morning broke 
 
 On rock-crown"d hills — Time's paintings grey. 
 
 When from his bed the lark awoke, 
 And warbled to the clouds his lay. 
 
 The hills rejoice — with glory blush. 
 Like gold the crystal rivers shine. 
 
 The blackbird carols with the thrush, — 
 Sweet Bingley vale, such scenes arc thine ; 
 
 And such they were when all its woods 
 Had bow'd not to the woodman's stroke. 
 
 When salmon in its winding floods. 
 
 The smooth still deeps to surges broke. 
 
 Give me a cot, a garden near, 
 
 By kindred silent in the tomb ; 
 Should greatest monarchs ask me wlacre, 
 
 I "d answer this shall be my home.
 
 loG oy iiETUiiNiNci I'uoM hoynus. 
 
 The works of art I oft have seen. 
 The touches of a master's hand, 
 
 But never like the hills so gi-eeu. 
 Or Alpine rocks of Cumberland. 
 
 See the pale features of the town, 
 With all their fine exterior grace, 
 
 Tho' deck'd with jewels and a crown. 
 To Yorkshire lasses must give place. 
 
 Then be content, 'tis e'er the best, 
 
 From wives, from neighbours, ne'er remove ; 
 
 It takes long years to try the breast. 
 Then who can judge a stranger's love. 
 
 The eagle mounting to the sun. 
 While on the rocks the ravens cry, 
 
 As goats along the ledges run, 
 
 And falcons perch with piercing eye. 
 
 These have we seen, and may we long 
 Gaze on our native hills and vales ; 
 
 And listen to the rural song, 
 
 And smile to hear our children's talcs.
 
 I 'J/ 
 
 ox THE DEATH OF HIS CHILD, IX LOXDOX. 
 
 A SOLEMX scene was here ! 
 Absorb'd in anguish vnlcl, 
 Weeping upon the bier, 
 Of his departed child 
 The father stood — ^parental grief was there. 
 He kiss"d the cor.se — a prey to sad despair. 
 
 Oh Death ! oh cruel Death ! 
 
 In fearful garb array"d, 
 How could'st thou snatch tlic breath 
 Of life from that sweet babe. 
 See, see thy \ictim ! on her cold })alc face 
 A smile yet dwells, tho" clasp'd in thy embrace. 
 
 Clos"d are those sparkling eyes ; 
 
 Fled is my baby's bloom ; 
 Her cherub form nov,' lies 
 Enshrouded for the tomb. 
 Martha is gone, she 's breath'd her last, her thread 
 Of life is spun, is snapp'd ; the babe is dead. 
 
 Angels ! take her soul above. 
 
 And, as you bear her thro' the sky, 
 
 Sing a seraph's song of love, 
 A song of heav'nly harmony. 
 
 Now let celestial music sound, 
 Strike, strike the lyre ; ye heav'nly choir I 
 
 Angelic music breathe around.
 
 lo8 
 
 WRITTEN AT TONG HALL, 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSAKY OF THE MAERIAGE OF 
 COL. AND MKS. TEMPEST. 1829. 
 
 All the joys of months and years 
 Shall this day remember' d be ; 
 
 While old Sorrow, with her cares, 
 Sinks in past eternity. 
 
 Some have in the tempest sunk. 
 Deep within the ocean's bed ; 
 
 Others with proud fame been drunk, 
 Shone an hour, the next have fled. 
 
 Hut the stars which smiling shone 
 (3n your horoscope of birth, 
 
 Circling find you both as one ; 
 None can sever you on earth. 
 
 And as days and years go round, 
 like two strings in unison. 
 
 Trembling to aff"ection's sound, 
 True as when it first begun. 
 
 Parents of a happy race ! 
 
 May your children's children shine, 
 Till each orb has chang'd its place, 
 
 And the world be all divine.
 
 139 
 
 TO A FRIEN]). 
 
 Where 's my harp my soul to cheer ? 
 
 Its tones were wont to ghid my breast ; 
 Where 's my friend, who dried each tear, 
 
 Encourag'd me, and I was blest ? 
 
 Is he gone ? my only stay, 
 
 On whom my brightest hopes were plac'd ; 
 Is that friendship fled away. 
 
 And its heavenly form defac'd ? 
 
 Has some action, undesign'd, 
 
 Quench'd tlic spark that once Avas bright ? 
 Or my wild eccentric mind 
 
 Thrown a veil "twixt me and light ? 
 
 Friendship I O, thou glorious star ! 
 
 Tho" deeply clouded, yet appear ; 
 Wander not from me so far, 
 
 Nor leave me thus oppress'd with care. 
 
 But if thou art for ever fled. 
 In darkness I am left to mourn ; 
 
 Pleasure, hope, and comfort dead. 
 And rapture never can return.
 
 110 
 
 TIIK DYING LOVER. 
 
 All I soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine, 
 
 Will o^ive its beating o'er : 
 This weary aching head recline 
 
 Upon thy breast no more. 
 
 Tliese hands can pluck no more for thee 
 
 The heather's purple bloom ; 
 No more must I accompany 
 
 My lovely Mary home. 
 
 But, hush! — those sighs of fragrant breath; 
 
 The lovely crystal tear, 
 Can no impression make on Death, 
 
 Or keen me longer here. 
 
 b^ 
 
 Go, touch thy sweet piano's strings. 
 
 And chant me into rest. 
 Till angels come, and on their wings 
 
 Convey me to the Ijlest. 
 
 And mourn not as I soar away 
 To tune my harj) on high ; 
 
 Useless the tears upon my clay, 
 For I "m prepar'd to die.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE HUNTER'S DIRGE. 
 
 Ye woods in Rishwortirs verdant vale. 
 Which oft have ccho'd to the horn ! 
 
 Ye rocky hills, that blush'd so deep, 
 From hunters gay at early morn ! 
 
 Weep till yom- tears in crystal rills 
 
 Make winding Aire with grief run o'er, 
 
 That on the brown-rob'd heathy hills, 
 The huntsman's shout is heard no more. 
 
 Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds 
 By changing echoes borne away, 
 
 Who cross' d the moors in joyful chase, 
 And pleasure, on the sportive day ! 
 
 Go sit, where you vmearth'd the fox. 
 And mourn till Echo hear and weep ; 
 
 Wet, with your tears, the time-worn rock? 
 That modern squu-cs no huntsmen keep-
 
 1^2 THE HUNTEKS DIRGE. 
 
 Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient race; 
 
 Round Marley Hall in sorrow tread ; 
 Where dwelt the glory of the chase. 
 
 Who oft the noble sportsmen led. 
 
 Then take the horn, the requiem blow, 
 O'er rural bliss that now is lost, 
 
 And sound the dirge o'er those laid low, 
 Who never sigh'd at hunting's cost !
 
 143 
 
 ON BINGLEY. 
 
 Thy beauties, Binglcy ! never luvve been sung ; 
 Thy scenes employ"d nor poet's pen nor tongue ; 
 Description has not smil'd within thy vale, 
 Nor learning told one sympathetic tale ; 
 Thy woods neglected in tlie poet"s verse ; 
 All have forgot thy beauties to rehearse. 
 Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent 
 To distant seas, or some far continent, 
 The' these on thee have thought in other climes. 
 All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes. 
 When on tliy beauteous vale I stand to gaze, 
 Then is my mind convinc'd tliou wants no praise ; 
 Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bow'rs, 
 Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flow'rs, 
 Thy bold grey rocks, thy heathy purple fells, 
 Where silence, solitude, and beauty dwells ; 
 Where faithful honest virtue long has been. 
 Or love unchang'd, the glory of the scene. 
 These scenes should plume the poet's tow'ring wings, 
 And friendship aid him as he thinks and sings ; — 
 Religion, virtue, sisters, come and stajs 
 To teach her beauties virtue's sacred way. 
 Their minds instruct, tlieir innocence protect. 
 Their manners soften, and their paths direct ; 
 
 I.
 
 144 ON BINGJ-EY. 
 
 Let them be like the turtles of tlic -wood. 
 
 That dip then- bills in Aire's meandering flood ; 
 
 Then fly away, by sorrow not oppress'd, 
 
 While sunbeams glitter on each virtuous breast. 
 
 Innate the principle of truth and love, 
 
 Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove, 
 
 Sweet as the flow"rs when bending to the sun, 
 
 Are Bingley"s daughters when they love but one. 
 
 We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring. 
 
 The woods where ev'ry British bird doth sing, 
 
 WUd plants and flow'rs, wild birds, and scenes as wild, 
 
 Or soft as any on which nature smil'd. 
 
 Beauteous and lovely, as the moon is fair, 
 
 And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire. 
 
 The weeping birch, the great majestic oak, 
 
 Where dark green ivy forms a winter's cloak ; 
 
 The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow ; 
 
 The sj-lvan vales, with limping hares below, 
 
 "Where sits tlie pleasant beauty of the wood, 
 
 As spotted trouts fly swiftly thro" the flood. 
 
 For finer walks, for more sequester' d bow'rs. 
 
 For cooler grottos, and for richer flow'rs, 
 
 For streams that wind more beautiful along, 
 
 For birds with louder chorus to their song, 
 
 For all that gen'rous nature can bestow. 
 
 All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley vale must bow. 
 
 Beauty has kept great nature in the plan. 
 
 If there "s one fault 'tis poor ungrateful man.
 
 14.5 
 
 FEOM A MOTHER 
 
 TO IIER DAUGHTER, IN LONDON. 
 
 How thoughtful oft I sit alone, 
 My only child, and think of thee ; 
 
 I bear thee to th' Almighty's throne, 
 Whene'er in pray'r I bow the knee. 
 
 A mother's blessings and her pray'rs, 
 Are more than v/ords can e'er express ; 
 
 A father's love, a father's cares, 
 
 Tho' less display'd, are still no less. 
 
 The midnight hour oft comes and goes. 
 And tells the death of each short day, 
 
 I hear it oft before I close 
 
 Mine eyes, while thou art far away. 
 
 But why should I o'er this complain r 
 For many a friend and God is there : 
 
 Thou art not lost amid the main. 
 As many a mother's dauglitcrs arc.
 
 140 FROM A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER. 
 
 Thou hast not with the worthless fled, 
 
 On folly's miserable way ; 
 No word arrives, " Your Betsy 's dead," 
 
 In distant climes, far, far away. 
 
 But, blest with health, O let us praise 
 The Lord ! and not repine and mourn ; 
 
 For swiftly pass away the days, 
 
 "\\Tiich bring my daughter's dear return. 
 
 Then shall I hear again her strings. 
 And many a pleasant horn- employ, 
 
 As Time flies sweetly on his wings, 
 And evenings pass away with joy, 
 
 AVhen there is so much good and ill, — 
 O may the good by her be lov'd ! 
 
 May heav'nly wisdom guide her will. 
 And may she bring a mind improved.
 
 147 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 WiLJ)'s the night, my love, my Mary ! 
 
 But I promis'd thee to meet ; 
 Winds and ram they sound so dreary, 
 
 Yet thou listen'st for my feet ! 
 
 Dark the woods which lie between us. 
 
 High the rocks I have to pass, 
 Where the nymphs and swains have seen ua-, 
 
 Each one happy with his lass. 
 
 Frail "s the planlc across the river, 
 
 Slipp'ry with a night of rain ; 
 One false step — I"m gone for ever, 
 
 Ne'er to meet my love again ; 
 
 Swoirn the streams of ev'ry fountain, 
 
 Trackless is the stormy moor, 
 Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain 
 
 Which I have to wander o'er.
 
 148 LUVK. 
 
 Tho" the winds be cold and drear)-, 
 I have promis'd thcc to meet ; 
 
 If I reach my love, my deary, 
 
 'Twill but make our bliss more sweet ! 
 
 What the rocks or misty mountains ? 
 
 What the darkness of the woods ? 
 What the roaring of the fountains, 
 
 Tho' the rills be swoll'n to floods ? 
 
 What the trackless moor or river, 
 Tho' some demon should appear ? 
 
 Can those stop mc ? O no, — never ! 
 Three short hours will land mc there. 
 
 llien my plaid I Avill throw o'er mc, 
 Sing of Mary on the way ; 
 
 Tho" great dangc rs lie before me, 
 Yet I cannot, will not stay.
 
 149 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Blest may my cliildrcn be. 
 When death shall carry mc 
 Into eternity, 
 
 Ne'er to return ; 
 When the fast-falling tear 
 Drops on their fiithcr's bier. 
 May some true friend be near. 
 
 While they all mourn. 
 
 I now have had my prime. 
 Till there is nought in time 
 But Care's high hill to climb, 
 
 Weary and faint ; 
 Pleasure is fled away, 
 Grief is resolv'd to stay 
 With mc by night and day. 
 
 Terrors to paint. 
 
 What is bright glory's beam? 
 Why, 'tis an empty dream, 
 Or as the meteor's gleam 
 Crossing the sky.
 
 loO WIKGE. 
 
 Can riches pleasures loring? 
 No — cares oppress a king : 
 All earthly joys but sting 
 Deep as they fly. 
 
 Nothing Ijnt virtue can' 
 Give comfort unto man. 
 Whose life is scarce a span. 
 
 Wasting away : 
 Honour is but a shade. 
 Like beams on rain displayed. 
 Whose colours quickly fade. 
 
 Ere ends the day. 
 
 Thus shall our sorrows end : 
 May we have one great Friend, 
 Through whom we can ascend 
 
 Far beyond pain ; 
 There may my children come, 
 !May wc all find a home, 
 Far, far beyond the tomb. 
 
 In bliss to rei";n.
 
 151 
 
 JlJE DKEAM. 
 
 How soft, how cheerful, sound yon bell:- 
 
 Within niv native vale : 
 And cv'ry tone sweet echo tells, 
 
 That flies along the dale I 
 
 '^t) 
 
 And thus, my Henry, shall they sound 
 
 When we together join. 
 And Hymen has our wishes crown"d, 
 
 And thou art ever mine- 
 Contentment, hovering on his wings, 
 
 Shall at the wedding be ; 
 And viols, with their tuneful strings. 
 
 Shall trill sweet harmony. 
 
 The hautboy and the shepherd's flute. 
 
 Shall breathe a joyful air ; 
 The dulcimer and mellow lute, 
 
 Shall swell the octaves there.
 
 152 TIIK DllE.V.M. 
 
 The nymphs, unci all the cheerful Nine, 
 
 Unseen, shall eacli inspire ; 
 While Bacchus brings the choicest wine, 
 
 And Vesta lights the fire. 
 
 The virgins, with their tresses bound 
 
 By many a wreath of flow'rs, 
 Sh;ill wish their youths like mine were found, 
 
 And all their bliss like ours. 
 
 The world that day may roll away ; 
 
 But all, so blest with love. 
 Shall scarcely know the eve from day, 
 
 Nor think the moments move. 
 
 Thus thought the maid — 'twas truth she spoke, 
 
 As she in raptures slept ; 
 But, disappointed, when she woke, 
 
 That all was air — she wept.
 
 153 
 
 FEMALE CONSTANCY. 
 
 Stars thro' rolling cent"ries shine. 
 Nor does their lustre ever fade ; 
 And thus the virtues of the maid 
 Glitter ^Yhen her form's dccay'd. 
 
 With beauteous radiance divine, — 
 \Vlio never sigh'd to any swain 
 But one, and constant doth remain. 
 
 Still rememb'ring him with care, 
 Before the Maker of the spheres 
 She breathes for him incessant pray'rs, 
 And not another youth appears, 
 
 That wounds the bosom of the fair : 
 And can the youth deceive such love. 
 And conscience never once reprove ? 
 
 Maids to flow'rs have been compar'd. 
 But flow'rs of sweetest scent decay : 
 So doth the fair who runs astray 
 From Virtue's sweet sequester'd way. 
 
 Whose heart to many a youth is shar'd ; 
 While she who true thro' life has been. 
 Falls like a branch of evergreen.
 
 1.34 
 
 THE DEATH OE A YOUNG LADY 
 
 Weep, all yc birds, yc bowr's ; 
 
 Ye friends, a vigil keep ; 
 Send forth your tears, ye flow'rs, 
 Let all who knew her weep. 
 That she is gone who in your circle smil'd, 
 Far from her husband, from her lovely child f 
 
 The lov"d, the virtuous wife, 
 
 Has enter'd into rest. 
 Too weak for cares of life, 
 Call'd to her Father's breast ; 
 "While like a cherub her sweet babe appears. 
 And smiles, unconscious of a fathers tears. 
 
 Iler bounty cheer'd the poor. 
 Her hands the needy fed ; 
 Now all her pains arc o'er. 
 
 Now that sweet flow'r is dead, 
 And her glad spirit flown on seraph's wings. 
 To strike the Christian's harp where David sings.
 
 155 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The birks may Avave, the lieath may bloom, 
 The lasses trip the mountains o'er, 
 
 And deck their breasts with blossom"d broom, 
 But I can touch my harp no more. 
 
 The lambs may skip, the fishes sport. 
 And glitter in their woodland rills. 
 
 But I no more the muse can court, 
 
 Where thyme perfumes the purple rills. 
 
 There oft my sweet Elvina smig. 
 
 And softly trill'd the rural lay. 
 Till raptures in my bosom sprung, 
 
 As pleasure wing"d my houi's away. 
 
 But Nature now is fresh in vain. 
 The richest gifts to me are poor. 
 
 For bliss can never come asain. 
 And I can touch my harp no more-
 
 \r)6 soxn. 
 
 No more wltli joy can I behold 
 
 Elvina, dcck'd witli heather bloom : 
 
 The hand which oft I press'd is cold, 
 The heart that lov'd me in the tomb. 
 
 But still she lives in realms of day. 
 Far distant from a world of pain : 
 
 O ! could I soar to her away, 
 
 Then would I touch my harp again.
 
 157 
 
 SOLEMN REFLECTIONS. 
 
 My life wastes away, o'erburden'd with care ; 
 
 My days are o'erclouded with gloom ; 
 I'm lost thro the night — on the verge of despair, 
 
 And shudder to think on the tomb. 
 
 When backward I look, nouglit but folly and sin 
 
 Have been my employment below ; 
 I've err'd from the way I should have walk'd in, 
 
 And run in the high road to woe. 
 
 The strength of my passions has hurried me on, 
 
 Until I am far run astray ; 
 I'm afraid ev'ry beam of that mercy is gone, 
 
 And my bosom too harden" d to pray. 
 
 Shall the blessings, the threat'nings, the sermons, I've 
 heard. 
 
 Against me in judgment arise ? 
 Or in vain mortal pride shall I question thy Avord, 
 
 Which points to a crown in tlie skies :
 
 158 SOLEMN REFLECTIONS. 
 
 The time soon will come when ;ill volumes I've read 
 Will be lost in the thoughts of the grave ; 
 
 And my tongue, which so many light verses has said, 
 Will be asking for mercy to save — 
 
 To save a lost soul, whicli has fled from the road 
 
 Wherein it once ran with delight, — 
 Which has sought lying vanities rather than God, 
 
 And, like Sampson, is robb'd of his might. 
 
 If yet there is mercy, O bid me return 
 
 To Him who is mercy above ! 
 In deepest repentance, O Lord ! let nic mourn. 
 
 And this rock from my bosom remote.
 
 l.V.) 
 
 THE NEW CHURCH AT WILSDEN. 
 
 What temples, various, since old Time began, 
 
 Have on this little globe been rcar'tl by man ! 
 
 AVhat different kinds of gods been worshipped here, 
 
 Since earth, new form'd, was balanc'd in the sphere ! 
 
 Some ere the pointed pjTamids arose, 
 
 In lands remote, which scarce a modern knows. 
 
 The sumptuous Jewish temples — where are they, 
 
 Which seem'd to scorn old ruin and decay ? 
 
 When cost was nought, — and Asia at command 
 
 Brought forth its treasures to the builder's hand : 
 
 But now — would Europe golden millions give 
 
 One column from those fabrics to receive, 
 
 'Tis all in vain, — no stone nor Hebrew bust. 
 
 But cenfries since have been reduced to dust ! 
 
 All the old temples bviilt when Hesiod sung. 
 
 And those which stood when Homer's harp was strung, 
 
 Ai-e covered o"er with herbage or with trees. 
 
 And not one stone the antiquary sees. 
 
 The abbeys where " Te Deum" oft was sung. 
 
 And where the instruments of music rung.
 
 IGO THE NT.AV CHURCH AT WILSDEN. 
 
 Where " Venitc Exultemus" us'd to rise 
 In praise devout, ascending to tlie skies, 
 Ai-e cloth' d with ivy in its solemn green. 
 And modern artists pencil o"er the scene ; 
 Successive storms the tow"rs in furrows wear, 
 And on their columns dampy sweats appear ; 
 The creeping shrubs upon the arches grow, 
 Suspended o"cr the Irambler weeds below ; 
 And high engrav"d upon the time-worn scroll, 
 Scarce legible, the words, "Pray for the soul;" 
 The grass waves wildly on the broken wall. 
 And ev"ry year some time-AVorn fragments fall. 
 
 Not so with thee, thou Church, so fair and new, 
 ■WTiite as the polish"d marble to the view. — 
 Ere any stone is loosen" d from thy wall, 
 New states shall rise and present empires fall ! 
 Perhaps, like Greece, old Albion shall decay. 
 Ere those fine columns shall be worn away ; 
 Its commerce and its glory be no more. 
 And science fled to some far distant shore. 
 With lofty trees thou may'st be circled round, — 
 And here the deep-tond organ yet may sound. 
 A town may flourish on this barren hill, 
 Renown'd for science, commerce, wealth, and skill ! 
 
 Here shall some pastor, learned, good, and just. 
 In solemn pause, resign the dust to dust, —
 
 THE NEW CHURCH AT WIE5T)EN. 1(11 
 
 Perform each office with a pious care, 
 And cheer the wretched sinking in despair. 
 
 The bride, with modest blushes on her face, 
 Shall lightly tread across the hallow'd jDlace, 
 So fiU'd with joy when to the altar led, 
 Joy mix"d with fear, — a momentary dread ! 
 Here will the pious sons and daughters mourn. 
 As slowly from a parent's tomb they turn ; 
 Here shall the tuneful youths, the virgin train, 
 Join with the organ in a holy strain, 
 Touch'd by the sAveet expressive warbling trills, 
 Which give the undescrib'd cold shiv'ring thrills. 
 Such as to those with feeling minds are giv'n, 
 '\^niich charm the soul and lift it up to heav'n. 
 
 But difF'rent sects in time may yet arise, — 
 The present doctrines of the Church despise : 
 A future reformation yet may come. 
 And o"er our blcss'd religion cast a gloom. 
 Such great mutations have all earthly things — 
 How oft have creeds been chang'd by difF'rent kings I 
 The future generations yet may hope 
 For heav'nly bliss thro' pardons from the Pope. 
 The cross, the holy water, and the shrine, 
 Of some fam'd saint may yet be thought divine ! 
 But whatsoever doctrine here is giv"n, 
 May each succeeding pastor teach the way to heav'n !
 
 162 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 What means it tho' tlic poet's cot 
 
 Be plac'd in some sequester d spot? 
 
 Where oaks, and elms, and beeches grow, 
 
 Or on the heath, where rushes bow ; 
 
 In vales, where peaceful 'graze the flocks, 
 
 Or near the mossy-vestm-"d rocks. 
 
 Romantic scenes can ne'er indite, 
 
 Nor situations make him write. 
 
 'Tis genius must his breast inspire. 
 
 And light the true poetic fire. 
 
 Without it he may read and pore 
 
 Ancient and modern classics o'er ; 
 
 May walk in ruins late or soon, 
 
 While thro' the arches shines the moon, 
 
 "Where sleeps the abbot, monk, or friar, 
 
 But if he has not Nature's Ipe, 
 
 Nor ancient ruins, nor the woods, 
 
 The rippling rills, the foaming floods. 
 
 Embattled fields, nor ancient hall. 
 
 Romantic scenes, where cataracts fall. 
 
 Nor works of other authors' pens. 
 
 Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor Highland glens. 
 
 Nor all the scenes which ever grac'd 
 
 The paintings of a man of taste. 
 
 Not all the arts the scribblers use, 
 
 Can make a bard without the Muse.
 
 163 
 
 ON THE ASCENT OF A BALLOON. 
 
 The air balloon a picture is 
 Of man's most elevated bliss. 
 As on the wings of hope he hastes, 
 He finds all earthly pleasm-e wastes. 
 The sweetest bliss that man enjoys 
 In its possession only cloys ; 
 Tlio' with good fortune for his gas 
 He o"cr the clouds of want may pass. 
 Yet come a storm, the weaken'd air 
 May drop him on a sea of care. 
 
 Th' enthusiasts who soar on high. 
 And seem as if they 'd grasp the sky. 
 With reason weak, and fancy strong. 
 Think all the sects but theirs are wrong ; 
 Condemn all creeds, and think that they 
 Alone are heirs of endless day. 
 They cling around their car of hopes, 
 Till demon Nature cuts the ropes, 
 As thro' this evil world they pass. 
 And fierce temptations waste their gas.
 
 (il THE ASCE>J1' Ol- A liALLOON. 
 
 They downward fall — the phantom vain 
 Comes rapid to the earth again ; 
 And wlien they gather breath to speak, 
 They own they are but mortals weak. 
 
 The playful boy, when young his hope, 
 First forms his weak balloon with soap ; 
 With joy bright glitt'ring in his eyes, 
 He views it from the tube arise, 
 Dances and laughs to see it soar 
 With Nature's colours painted o"er : 
 Thus miniature balloons of boys 
 Are emblems true of riper joys. 
 
 The gay coquette, whose thoughts despise 
 The sober youth, tho' e'er so wise, 
 Becomes a spendthrift's mistress soon, 
 And soars aloft in love's balloon. 
 Thro' all the gayest scenes they pass, — 
 Her marriage portion is the gas 
 That bears them in the circle gay. 
 And turns the midnight into day. 
 But after all these golden hours, 
 They find the air-borne chariot low'rs ; 
 Their lofty flight they then repent. 
 For friends all fly from their descent, 
 And those who en\-ied them before. 
 Rejoice to see their flying o'er.
 
 THE ASCliNX Ol' A BALLOON. 165 
 
 The dashing youth, who sports along, 
 Amid the Avine, the dance, the song. 
 The oiiera, the park, the ball. 
 At Covent-Gardcn and Vauxhall, 
 Upon the turf, or at the ring. 
 With gold enough, is just the thing. 
 High in the atmosphere of pride 
 In his balloon he loves to ride ; 
 "While round his car the nymphs attend, 
 His ample fortune help to spend. 
 For ballast he no reason takes. 
 Till debts increas'd the phantom shakes ; 
 He falls, amid the gloomy cloud 
 Of creditors, and cries aloud, — 
 " Could I but live past moments o'er, 
 " Folly's balloon I'd mount no more !" 
 
 The tyrant, in his horrid car. 
 Hung round with implements of war, 
 "While on its edge sits rage and death, 
 And murder'd mjTiads arc beneath, 
 Elately rides, — his flags unfurl'd, 
 And waving o'er a prostrate world. 
 The ruin'd empires see him pass. 
 Pride and ambition for his gas ; 
 Despair below looks wildly up. 
 And frantic drinks the pois'nous ciip :
 
 166 IHE ASCEXX OF A BALLOON. 
 
 Orphans and widows curse his flight, 
 And Mercy, weeping, shuns the sight ! 
 When he to loftier heights would soar, 
 His ballast is the warrior's gore, 
 Which from his car the monster throws, 
 And sprinkles on the field of woes. 
 But He who rules above, looks down, — 
 His lightnings blaze — the tyrants crown 
 Drops from his head, — ^his mighty car 
 Is broke upon the field of war ! 
 The wounded warriors join with all 
 In joy to shout the tyrant's fall. 
 
 The humble poet, oft, alas I 
 Fills his balloon with fancy's gas ; 
 To see him launch it few attend, 
 He just is aided by one friend. 
 Who finds him ballast, silk, and ropes. 
 And keeps alive his trembling hopes ; 
 Then loos'd from earth and anxious care, 
 Aloft he springs ujjon the air ; 
 With lofty themes his passions glow, 
 The sordid world he views below ; 
 Thro' clouds he soars, and thinks he hears 
 The heav'nly chorus of the spheres. 
 He looks behind, — his fancy views 
 Close to his car, tlic Tragic Muse ;
 
 TIIK ASCENT OF A BALLOON. 1( 
 
 And, as in air he rides along 
 
 She charms him with her solemn song. 
 
 Her car 's adorn'd with sword and spear. 
 
 The dagger and the scimitar ; 
 
 The pois'nous goblet, — broken crown, 
 
 And palaces half tumbled down. — 
 
 The bloody vest, the murder" d maid, 
 
 Are on the Muse"s car pour tray" d. 
 
 The wide-stretch'd scene is spread below, 
 
 Where rich meand'ring rivers flow ; 
 
 The flow"ry fields, the foaming seas. 
 
 The moimtains topp'd with wa\-ing trees ; 
 
 The dancing nymphs, the sportive swains. 
 
 And crippled age, oppress'd with pains. — 
 
 Time present, past, and future, lies 
 
 All spread before his fancy's ej-es ; 
 
 "While his enraptur'd passions glow. 
 
 His lines in easy accents flow : 
 
 But humble bards must soon descend, 
 
 And in the shades their raptures end. 
 
 )/
 
 1()8 
 
 SPORTS OF THE FIELD. 
 
 A\''iiEX oaks arc brown and birches bare, 
 
 And not a bird is singing, 
 The sportsman drives away his care, 
 
 The speckled woodcocks springing. 
 
 True joy he in the country knows. 
 His faithful springers ranging 
 
 Among the hazel's yellow boughs, 
 Or holly, never changing. 
 
 When the long-bill' d woodcock springs, 
 Mark ! — the sportsman calling, 
 
 The blue smoke curls, — its useless wings 
 Through the trees are falling. 
 
 There 's many a man at this would sigh, 
 
 As sore against religion ; 
 But at a feast just let him try 
 
 At woodcock, grouse, or widgeon.
 
 169 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 While others love the concert, mask, or ball. 
 
 And walk in grandeur thro' the gazing crowd, 
 I'll seek the spot where bursting cataracts fall, 
 And o"cr my head the tempest roars aloud, 
 Wilde the deep dark abyss is murm'ring hoarse, 
 That the swoll'n stream comes rushinj? with such force. 
 
 'o 
 
 There, when the moon's broad orb is glimm"ring seen 
 
 Just rising in the orient atmosphere, 
 And trembling leaves but thinly intervene. 
 And night in all its glories doth appear, — 
 Pensive I'll walk, to study nature o'er, 
 And on the wings of meditation soar ; — 
 
 Listen the treble rills, with tinklings sweet. 
 Ring on the cavern's ancient rocky side ; 
 Behold them \\ith the larger current meet, 
 AYhose tenor murmurs on the stony tide ; 
 While in majestic bass the cataract roars. 
 Like the deep notes of ocean on its shores !
 
 170 A NIGHT SCEXE. 
 
 Such are the concerts that my soul admires ; 
 These I can hear with feelings of delight I 
 A solemn awe my thoughtful breast inspires, 
 
 When heav'nis deck'd by the great jeweller, Xight ! 
 'Tis then my thoughts, on fancy's airy road, 
 Soar far, and ask — "Where dwells great Nature's God ?" 
 
 The shining orbs responsive answer — " Here !" 
 
 The t\^'inkling glow-worms say by Him they shine ! 
 The loud abyss deep murmurs. He is there ! 
 And ev'ry object shows a Pow'r Divine ! 
 Nature proclaims Him there, in ev'ry part. 
 And conscience whispers — He can read my heart 1
 
 171 
 
 THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 
 
 When Mends who lov"d from infant years. 
 Whose friendship ne'er went wrong. 
 
 Are met to tell their joys and cares. 
 Or join the cheerful song. 
 
 What bard but to the utmost height 
 
 Would string the rustic lyre. 
 When friends and home-brew"d drink are met 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fu-e ? 
 
 Sometimes we 're faring low at home, 
 
 Then feasting with a squire ; 
 But we "ve as much as we can wish 
 
 Ai'ound the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 From this warm, happy, cheerful place. 
 
 Old Sorrow must retire. 
 And nought but joy dare shew her face 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire.
 
 172 THE M.VLT-KILX FIllK. 
 
 We talk of friends we long have known, 
 Some fall'n, and some ris'n higher : 
 
 Happy as monarchs on the throne, 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 What means our food ? Ave pass away — 
 
 Of life begin to tire ; 
 But never was a mournful day 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 With snuff", tobacco, and a pipe, 
 
 And all we can desire. 
 Old Care's forgot, and pleasiire shines 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 No wife to scold, none to intrude. 
 
 We laugh until we tire ; 
 With good strong drink as e"er was brew'd, 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 Let blackguards swear, and rage, and fight, 
 
 And scuflfle in the mire ; 
 No angry word, for all is right. 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire 
 
 Had we but spent more evenings there, 
 
 Our spirits had been higher, 
 And drunk less brandy, and more beer 
 
 Ai'ound the Malt-kiln fire.
 
 to 
 
 THE SNOWDEOP. 
 
 Pketty little modest gem, 
 First in Nature's diadem, 
 Press'd Avith snow, the first to rise. 
 Pure as stars that deck the skies. 
 
 With thy croA\Ti of purest white. 
 As the snow that falls by night. 
 Bending down thy modest head. 
 Frost thy pillow, snow thy bed. 
 
 'Mid the hail, the sleet, the frost, 
 In the snow-storm sometimes lost ; 
 But thy beauteous head appears 
 Lovelier with its icy tears. 
 
 So the lovely modest fair 
 Braves the storm Avith truth and care, 
 Tho' not like the roses drest, 
 Virtue blossoms in her breast.
 
 1 74 THE SXOWDROP. 
 
 Blighter than the brightest star. 
 Seen to glitter from afar : 
 Guilt can never hang on thee ; 
 Truth lives through etemitj'. 
 
 He that made the snowdrop knows 
 "\Mien the storm of sorrow blows ; 
 And with all his mightj' care. 
 Will protect the virtuous fair.
 
 17o 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S RETRIBUTION 
 
 Where is tlie ink so sable in its hue, 
 That can pourtray the picture dark and true ; 
 The horrid state which language fails to tell, 
 The dark confusion, and the earthly hell ! 
 In such sad state how often have I thought — 
 
 ! that I could sink backward into nought ; 
 Reason subverted, anguish took its place, 
 
 1 thought myself below the reach of grace. 
 Despair o"erwhelm'd my soul, and keen remorse ; 
 To know I liv'd, became my bitterest curse ; 
 My son-owing friends appeard my greatest foes, 
 And cheerful songs but added to my woes. 
 
 The phantom trumpets, the imagin'd band, 
 
 Mcthought I heard, which summoned me to stand 
 
 High in the pillory — to meet disgrace ; — 
 
 My trembling heart shrunk back from every face. 
 
 Thus swiftly did imagination rove. 
 
 Confusion from her throne my reason drove.
 
 176 THE DKtTNKAKD's r.ETRIBTTTIOX. 
 
 Afraid of poison from my mothers hand, 
 I durst not drink, suspicion fill'd my mind. 
 Eacli trembling leaf, if shaken by the blast, 
 Struck me with terror as I hurried past, 
 ^lyself the cause, I thought, of all the guilt 
 That fills the earth— of all the blood that "s spilt, — 
 That purest heaven would deign on earth to dwell, 
 Were I but hurried to the deepest hell.
 
 177 
 
 THE 
 
 VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. 
 
 The horse, the ass, can crop the grass. 
 And on the dewy mountains sleep, 
 
 Then toil away the summer's day. 
 Nor drop a tear, — they never weep. 
 
 No friends to turn, which make them mourn ; 
 
 No wants but Nature's hands supply ; 
 No souls of fire make these aspire 
 
 Or labour after vanity. 
 
 When tempests rise, and all the skies 
 
 Are shrouded in a stormy vest, 
 "Within the deep the fishes sleep. 
 
 The thunders cannot them mnlcst. 
 
 No silver there is counted dear. 
 O'er rubies carelessly they glide ; 
 
 Tliough diamonds blaze, they never gaze 
 On gems of wealth beneath the tide.
 
 178 THE VAMTV or TTT'MAX AFFAIRS. 
 
 The feather'd fowls, devoid of souls, 
 Sing cheerful on the bending spray ; 
 
 And when oppress" d they go to rest, 
 Or fan the clouds and soar away. 
 
 In ignorance the rustics dance. 
 
 And laugh and sing devoid of care ; 
 
 Though sorrows come, there is no room 
 Within their breasts for dark despair. 
 
 But though the share of anxious care 
 Sinks deepest in the feeling breast ; 
 
 "When raptures rise all sorrow flies. 
 And in my cot I then am blest. 
 
 The fighting hosts, the fancied ghosts. 
 And Nature in its every form ; 
 
 The storm at peace, or when the seas 
 Wave their white mantles to the storm ; 
 
 I see, tho" here, yet from my sphere 
 My spirit soars on rapture's wings ; 
 
 My harp I take, its chords awake, 
 
 And sweep the chorus o'er the strings.
 
 I7n 
 
 MARY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. 
 
 When upon the heather bloom 
 First appears the evening dew, 
 
 When the daisies close their eyes, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 "WTien the Avoodland doves I hear, 
 On the budding birchen bough. 
 
 While the thrush is singing clear, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 When I hear the evening chime. 
 While soft echo answers true, 
 
 Tho' at midnight's solemn time, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 When upon the orient skies. 
 
 Morning spreads her pinky hue, 
 
 When I wake, before I rise, 
 Mary, I will think of you.
 
 180 MAllY, I WILL TIIIXK OF YOU. 
 
 When among the heather bells. 
 Rising up the wild curlew, 
 
 "Where the wildest music swells, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 On the banks of Windermere, 
 'Mid fair scenes for ever new. 
 
 Then I wished my ^lary there, 
 
 Pleas'd with every changing view. 
 
 AMicn my bark must leave the shore, 
 Yet, vmchang'd, my heart is true ; 
 
 Singing to the wcll-tim'd oar, 
 
 I'll drop a tear, and think of you. 
 
 When my bark is far away. 
 
 Nought but seas and skies in view, 
 
 rioughing thro' the Avafry way, 
 :Mary, 1 will think of }ou.
 
 181 
 
 THE ABSENT LOVEll. 
 
 In vain the youths and rosy maids 
 
 All wish me to be gay. 
 For health declines, and pleasure fades, 
 
 While Henry 's far away. 
 
 The birds may strain their warbling throats 
 
 Upon the blossom'd spray, 
 But there 's no music in their notes, 
 
 "When Henry 's far away. 
 
 The sweets of June, the hill, the dale. 
 
 With Nature's beauties gay. 
 Appear to me but winter pale. 
 
 When Henry "s far away. 
 
 The evening moments creep but slow, 
 And dull "s the brightest day ; 
 
 For none my anxious cares can know. 
 When Henry 's far awa}-.
 
 182 THE ABSENT LOVEK. 
 
 My trembling harj) no plciisuvc yields, 
 
 ISIy hands forget to play ; 
 No joy at home, nor in the fields, 
 
 "While Henry 's far away. 
 
 The hours which now I think my best, 
 
 I wish them not to stay ; 
 For nought on earth can make me rest, 
 
 While Henry "s far away. 
 
 Plaaeton, cord afresh thy whip, 
 
 And on thy coursers lay, 
 To make them o'er the azure skip, 
 
 AVhile Henry 's far away. 
 
 And Night, upon thy sable throne, 
 Be scarce an hour thy stay ; 
 
 But bid the weeks be swiftly gone, 
 While Henry "s far away. 
 
 Then, on the wings of rosy Health, 
 
 May he be swiftly borne ; 
 For more to me than worlds of wealth 
 
 Will be his blest return,
 
 183 
 
 ODE TO LAURA. 
 
 Softly sighing will I mourn 
 
 The beauteous blossom, nij)p"d in spring, 
 Hang a chaplet on the urn 
 
 Of lovely Virtue's blossoming. 
 
 O'er her no praise shall marble bear, 
 Those pageants vain of solemn pride ; 
 
 Tho' all on earth I held most dear, 
 Forsook me when my Laura died. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis in vain — I'll cease to try 
 
 To write in characters my sorrow deep, 
 
 For could I write a river dry, 
 
 My eyes another sea could weep. 
 
 But words can never shew the worth 
 Of her who was too fair to stay. 
 
 Mourning on a joyless earth, 
 When fit for everlasting day.
 
 ISl 
 
 ox A CALM SUMMEE'S NIGHT. 
 
 The night is calm, the cygnet's down 
 
 Scarce skims the lake along ; 
 The throstle to the hazel 's flown, 
 
 To trill his evening song. 
 
 The curling woodbine now appears 
 INIore sweet than fragrant gems ; 
 
 The sky a robe of crimson wears, 
 The scale-clad beetle hums. 
 
 What pleasure, walking with my Jane, 
 Earth's truest, best delight. 
 
 Returning to embrace again. 
 And loath to bid good night.
 
 185 
 
 ox 
 
 THE DEATH OF LADY RICKmS.* 
 
 Ye shilling tears ! bright as the diamond's glow, 
 
 Or sunbeams on the Alps' untrodden snow, — 
 
 They fall for one whose beauty and whose worth 
 
 Exceeded all I ever knew on earth. 
 
 Ill vain this mind, which heard her strike the strings, 
 
 Darts thro" the skies as on a seraph's wings ; 
 
 Then to the marble which in silence stands ; 
 
 Then to the harp that trembled to her hands ; 
 
 Then to her tomb, where all that art can give, 
 
 Stands in pure love to make her mem'ry live. 
 
 In vain from orb to orb this spirit flies. 
 
 She shines to far beyond the furthest skies : 
 
 The awful bourn of death my friend hath past, 
 
 And rests beyond dark sorrow's keenest blast ; 
 
 She views no more the changing scenes of earth, — 
 
 She only liv'd to give a cherub birth. 
 
 Then flew away to heaven's most blest abode, 
 
 •' To rest upon the bosom of her God." 
 
 • Daughter ol Col. Tr.MiMisT, of Toiig Ilall, jiiid >\ile of 
 
 i?lH CoUNWALLI.-S IxJCKlTTS.
 
 \H0, 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Nor Skiddaw's top, nor great Helvell}-n"s height, 
 Shew greater grandexxr to the ravish'd sight, 
 Than is upon the crown of Rom'lies' Moor, 
 Where the wide scene is stretch'd to either shore. 
 There we behold the hills of many a shire ; 
 The lofty mountains to the clouds aspire ; 
 ^\^lernside uprears on high his snow-clad crest, 
 While the blue Pendle rises in the west ; 
 The hills of Derbyshire are southward seen, 
 Tho' vales divide, and rivers roll between ; 
 Old Ingleborough shews his time-worn head, 
 And Yorkshire as one spacious map is spread ; 
 Old Ebor's tow'rs and its rich vale appear ; 
 The Cleveland hills their broad blue tops uprear ; 
 Leeds, wrapt in smoke, unto the eastern lies ; 
 But here the air 's untainted as the skies. 
 Far from the noise of all created things. 
 No sound is heard but from the moorcock's wings ; 
 The pomp of human greatness here is lost, 
 Or falls, like mites beneath the winter's frost. 
 A scene like this within old England's coast, 
 ^'or Matlock, Buxton, nor proud Bath can boast.
 
 187 
 
 THE POET'S SICK BED. 
 
 HoAV little looks the world to him in pain. 
 Whose whole estate is sorrow's darkest train. 
 With mind in ruins, and his soul o'erthrown. 
 When friends retire as though they were not known. 
 
 How deep the anguish when his genius wastes. 
 As early, ti-embling, to the grave he hastes ; 
 With quiv'ring pulse — an appetite destroy" d — 
 All pleasure fled which once he most enjoy'd. 
 
 The stars no pleasure give, no orb on high 
 Inspires his soul with highest ecstasy ; 
 The vast unfathom'd sea he views no more. 
 The heav"ns" beauty in his bosom's o"er. 
 
 With landscapes, rocks, and hills, he so much lovM, 
 His trembling anxious bosom is not mov'd ; 
 His vmsubstantial friends, who once were sAveet. 
 The lonclv bard now tread beneath their feet.
 
 188 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 Of all the various volumes in the land — 
 
 In cv'ry language — by whomever plann'd — 
 
 However great or wise the author be — 
 
 However penn'd — Great Book ! there's none like thee. 
 
 There the sublime, with majesty and awe, 
 
 Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law ; 
 
 And there the songs the mighty Prophets sung, 
 
 The masterpieces of both mind and tongue. 
 
 Transcend the reach of any other pen, — 
 
 As farthest stars arc lost to human ken.
 
 189 
 
 TO THE CRITICS. 
 
 Sat down by my wee rusted lyre, 
 And musing which way to get thro". 
 
 Ye quenchers of poets" best fire. 
 How oft have I trembled at you ! 
 
 The vulture may seize the young lamb, 
 The raven may torture the dove. 
 
 And critics may tell what I am. 
 But O let your censures be love ! 
 
 Ye weighers of man's little ^vit, 
 
 WTiich comes in a book to your eye. 
 
 Like spiders on cobwebs you sit. 
 To mangle and murder a fly. 
 
 Write your praise or dispraise for the great. 
 And rail on the muse of a lord. 
 
 Shoot at those who are laughing at fate. 
 And strike ^^•ith vour fame-killinor SMord.
 
 190 TO TTTK fUTTlf'S. 
 
 But come to my cottage, and view 
 What feathers I have for my wings, 
 
 And then you will own there are few 
 
 In my station durst strike at the strings. 
 
 I gaze on my children asleep, 
 
 Assur'd that their lot is but hard ; 
 
 Yes, while I write verses I Aveep, 
 
 "\\nien I think their best friend is the bard.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ON AIREDALE. 
 
 Page 1, Line 14. 
 
 To sing of Gordale — its tremendous source. 
 
 " The approach to Gordale, on the east side of the 
 village of Malham, is through a stony and desolate 
 valley, without a single object to divert the attention 
 from the stupendous scene before it. Gordale is one 
 solid mass of limestone rock, nearly of equal height 
 with Malham Cove, cleft asunder by some great con- 
 vulsion of nature, and opening its ' stony jaws' on the 
 right and left. The sensation of horror is increased by 
 the projection of either side from its base, so that the 
 stupendous rocks admit only a narrow line of daylight 
 from above." Eut to attempt a description of this ro- 
 mantic place would be presumption ; for, after all that can 
 possibly be said, Gordale must be seen to be conceived. 
 " Bishop Pococke, who had seen all that was great and 
 terrible in the rocks of Judea and Arabia, declared he 
 had never seen any place comparable to Gordale." 
 
 Page 3, Line 2. 
 
 Stands, rudely great, old Malham s lofty Cove. 
 
 " The Cove is an immense assemblage of rocks, 268 
 feet in height, stretched in the shape of the segment of 
 a circle across the whole valley, and forming a termi-
 
 192 ^'OTES, 
 
 nation at once so august and tremendous, that the 
 imafjination can scarcely figure to itself any form or 
 scale of rocks, within the bounds of probability, that 
 can go beyond it. In rainy seasons, the overflowings 
 of the Tarn are precipitated from the summit of the 
 Cove in one of the most supendous cataracts that can 
 be conceived." 
 
 Page 3, Line 5. 
 
 Here the brave Percies, foremost in the chase. 
 Were follow d by the sons of Clifford's race ; 
 Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn, 
 Obeijd the cheerful summons of the horn : 
 Malhams and Martons, on their hunters feet. 
 Scatter d the jnoorland moss beneath their feet. 
 
 The Knights of Craven were undoubtedly brave, bold, 
 and resolute followers of the chase ; they not only had 
 tlie fox and hare, but the wolf and w^ild boar were not 
 extinct in Ci'aven at the commencement of the 14th 
 century. A hunter, together with hounds, were kept 
 at Bolton. The Knights of Craven, from the 12th to 
 the loth centuries, were Tempest, Hammerton, Pudsay, 
 I/ister. Marton, IMalham, Hebden, Hartlington, llilston, 
 J»Iiddlcton, and Eshton ; and im.agination sees them 
 and their sons pursuing the chase with many of the 
 illustrious Cliffords. 
 
 Page 3, Line 25. 
 
 As ivhen the sons of Garyrave sallied forth 
 To meet the fierce invaders from the north. 
 
 " After the fatal battle of Bannockburn, the Scots 
 ovciTan the North of England ; and Craven, abounding 
 with cattle, was oft the scene of their depredations. 
 In the year 1316, and three or four following ones, 
 they often repeated their unwelcome visits. In 1320, 
 they so completely ruined the Priory of Bolton, that 
 the prior and canons dispersed. The next year, these
 
 NOTES. 19;3 
 
 marauders paid a third visit, wlien the moveables of 
 Bolton were carried to Skipton Castle. In one of 
 these invasions, the men of Gargrave, near Skipton, 
 met a party of the plunderers, on the north-west side 
 of Coniston Moor, at a place called Sweet-Gap, and 
 were almost cut off to a man." 
 
 Page 4, Line 3. 
 
 Death thro" Northumbrla s fields had inarltd their icaxj. 
 
 "In the year 1138, while David, king of Scotland, 
 was engaged in the seige of Norham, he detached the 
 Plots, and part of the Scottish army, under the com- 
 mand of William, son of Dmican, his nephe-w, into 
 Yorkshire. There they laid waste the possessions of 
 a celebrated monastery, and the province called Craffna, 
 (now Craven,) with fire and sword. In this work of 
 devastation, no rank, nor age, nor sex was spared. 
 Children were butchered before the face of their parents, 
 husbands in sight of their wives, and wives in the 
 presence of their husbands ; matrons and virgins of 
 rank were can-ied away indiscriminately with other 
 plunder ; they were stripped, bound together with 
 ropes, and goaded along like cattle, with the points of 
 swords and lances." 
 
 Page 4, Line 6. 
 
 Their dwellings jdimderd, and their churches fir'' d. 
 
 "• Not content with plunder and death, the Scots set 
 fire to their cluu'ches, though they had dearly paid for 
 their depredations at the Battle of the Standard, fought 
 near North- AUerton, Yorkshire ; at which place, David, 
 king of Scots, was completely routed. The real Stan- 
 dard was there displayed. — This was a huge chariot 
 upon wheels, with a mast of prodigious height fixed in 
 it, on the top of which was a cross, and underneath a 
 banner. This was a signal used only in the greatest 
 expeditions, and was looked upon as a sacred altar."
 
 194 XOTES. 
 
 Page 5, Line 24. 
 
 Led to the altar Cicily the fair. 
 
 The fee of Skipton before the Conquest, was the pro- 
 perty of the Earl Edwin, the son of Leofwine, and 
 brother of Leofric, earls of Mercia. After Edwin had 
 forfeited the estates, the family became possessed of 
 them again, by the marriage of Wm. de Meschines with 
 Cicily de Romili. The history of the Romilis, their 
 founding Bolton Priory, and the untimely fate of the 
 boy of Egrcmont, are so well known that they need not 
 be copied here. — See Dr. Whitaker s History of Craven. 
 
 Page 6, Line 9. 
 
 Ija?2)iers, which icav'd tchen shields and helmets rung. 
 Were all to Skijjtoii brougld, and safely hung 
 High in the tow'r. 
 
 It was customary, in the days of chivalry, to deposit 
 shields, banners, helmets, &.C., in the strong towers of 
 castles. 
 
 Page 6, Line 1G. 
 
 And silver d rohes the ancient Cliffords wore. 
 
 For an account of the splendour of the dresses of 
 the Cliffords, see Dr. A\Tutaker"s Hist. Craven, p. 291, 
 et seq. 
 
 Page 6, Line 21. 
 
 Upon each dish the dragon was pour tray d. 
 
 See the valuation of the plate at Skipton Castle, in 
 Dr. Whitaker"s Craven, from which the following is an 
 extract : — 
 
 " Item, XX silver plates, some with dragons, and 
 the rest with lyberds" heads. One standyng cup, with 
 a like image of a boy standing upon three eagles." 
 There were likewise other pieces of plate, with the 
 portcullis, &c., engraven upon them, of which we can 
 now form no conception.
 
 XOTES. 195 
 
 Page 8, Line 4. 
 
 The valley shone in robes of golden hue. 
 
 The wild ranunculus grows in such profusion in the 
 valley above and below Skipton, that it appears clothed 
 in a beautiful robe of yellow during the months of May 
 and June. 
 
 Page 15, Line 17. 
 
 Where winding Aire, enamour d of the place. 
 Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze. 
 
 The fall in the course of the Aire, from Gargrave_ to 
 Bingley, is so little, that the river seems to labour with 
 difficulty in pursuing its course ; in many places creep- 
 ing slowly in the opposite direction, as if it wished to 
 return to its source. This has a very beautiful effect 
 in a morning or evening, w^hen the rays of the sun are 
 thrown upon it. The resplendent reflections are seen 
 in a variety of ]ioints, so as to make the valley appear 
 as though it was filled with various small lakes. 
 
 Page 16, Line 6. 
 There once a castle stood, tho' lost to fame. 
 
 Dodsworth, who visited Bingley in 1621, says there 
 was a park there, and a castle on a hill, called Bailcy- 
 HiU, of which nothing more than the name and tradi- 
 tion now remain. 
 
 Page 16, Line 16. 
 
 Since on its banks the ancient Druids rang d. 
 
 To give the history of the Druids would swell the 
 volume beyond its intended limits, and only be super- 
 fluous. They had, undoubtedly, an altar west of Bing- 
 ley. The rocks which still retain the name of " The 
 Altar," situated upon a lofty eminence, deeply marked 
 with the fire of sacrifice ; the beautiful valley beneath.
 
 19G XOTES. 
 
 favoural)lc to the growth of the oi;k. and eligible for 
 their saered groves, place it beyond all doubt that the 
 valley of Bingley was once the residence of the ancient 
 priests of the Britons. — For full particulars respecting 
 the Druids, see Toland's History of the Druids, and 
 the notes to Mallet's Northern Antiquities. 
 
 Page 16, Li^'e 17. 
 
 'The fords, tchich once the Roman cohorts cross' d. 
 
 These must have been, according to the line of the 
 Roman road from Olicano to Mancunium, (Ilkley and 
 Manchester of the present day,) between lliddlesden 
 Hall and Marley, in the parish of Bingley ; as the two 
 remaining fragments, one on Romili"s Moor, and the 
 other near Cullingworth, are in that direction. Portions 
 of Roman strata are only to be found on the unculti- 
 vated wastes ; they are long since destroyed in the 
 inclosurcs. 
 
 Page 18, Lixe 12. 
 
 As tJio' a far more dulcet i^ecd teas there. 
 
 Few peals in the West -Riding of Yorkshire are 
 placed among so many different points of echo as that 
 of Bingley. A stranger, not seeing the tower of the 
 church, would often be at a loss to know from whence 
 the sounds proceeded. 
 
 Page 19, Line 9. 
 
 Your fathers met their Maker to adore, 
 Dcvouthj read the ]''id(jate verses o'er. 
 And from the priest, icords of affection flow" d — 
 Jle praifd, he icept — ^miil the list'ning crou-d 
 Melted to tears ; and tears that were not feirjn'd. 
 Like crystcd drops, from all the audience rain'd. 
 
 As an instance of the exceeding humility and un- 
 feigned piety of some of the ablDOts of Kirkslall in
 
 NOTJiS. 197 
 
 the 13th century, I here msert a copy of a letter, 
 written by John de Birdsall, abbot, to the prior and 
 convent of the monastery of Kirkstall, about the year 
 1^00, from Dr. Whitaker's History of Craven. — 
 
 " To his reverend brethren, the prior and convent of 
 
 the monastery of Kirkstall, John, styled abbot of 
 
 the same, wishes health and grace, and that they 
 
 may labour more earnestly after the things which 
 
 concern religion, peace, and charity. 
 
 " Beloved, we have written tliis letter in haste from 
 
 Canterbury, knowing that an accoimt of the success of 
 
 our journey will be pleasing to you. 
 
 " In the first place, our dear brother, who was pre- 
 sent, will inform you, that on the morrow of St. Law- 
 rence we were met by letters from the King, in a very 
 threatening style ; that we were apprized of robbers 
 who laid wait for us in the woods, under a rock ; and 
 that we were bound, under the penalty of forfeiting all 
 our goods, to abide the king's pleasure. However, 
 having been at length dismissed from his presence with 
 honour, we proceeded on our way, and, notwithstanding 
 the delay in London, arrived at Canterbury on INIonday 
 evening, ourselves, our servants, and horses, being all 
 well. We are not without hope, therefore, that our 
 feeble beginnings \vill be followed by better fortune. 
 On Wednesday morning, the wind blowing fair, we 
 put the horses on board a shiji * ''•' ••■ "''' "' ''"' 
 
 " For the time to come we commend you, dear 
 brethren, to God, and our bodily safety to your prayers. 
 But especially pray for the salvation of our soul ; for 
 we are not greatly solicitous if this earthly part of us 
 be delivered into the hand of the wicked one, so that 
 the spirit be saved in the day of the Lord, which we 
 hope for, through the assistance of your intercessions : 
 yet we should wish, if it be the will of God, to be 
 committed to the earth by your hands, wherever you 
 shall dispose. 
 
 " But know assuredly, that, if we return, whosoever 
 appears to have been most humble in conversation, and
 
 198 NOTES. 
 
 active in business, during our absence, shall receive an 
 ample measure of grace and recompence from God, and 
 shall every hour be more affectionately regarded by us. 
 
 "We entreat and enjoin brother E,. Eckisley to pre- 
 pare himself for the duty of preaching on the Nativity 
 of our Lord, unless we return in the mean time, that 
 so great a festival may not pass without a sermon, a 
 thing which hath never yet happened, nor, by the 
 gi-ace of Gou, ever shall do. 
 
 " We wrote unto certain persons, ' abstain from every 
 appearance of evil, and avoid it beforehand, whatever 
 is, or can be pretended in its behalf.' 
 
 " God shall give you the knowledge of these things. 
 
 " We adjure you, brethren, by the bowels of mercy 
 in Jesus Christ, that, if ye hear of our departure, ye 
 will pray for us faithfully, remembering the labours 
 and distresses which we have endured in the beginning 
 of our creation, and of which ye are now reaping the 
 fruits in peace. 
 
 " We know, dearly beloved, that worldly occupations, 
 such as we have long been entangled in for your sakes, 
 are not without danger to the soul. But we derive 
 great hojies from your compassion, seeing that we aim 
 at no earthly advantage, nor consume the revenues of 
 the monastery without cause. 
 
 " Salute our dear friends : '"•" ''•' •' ■••' * •" ■^'' '^- ''' * * 
 and especially our dearest companion,--' to whom we 
 would have some one interpret this letter. When he 
 hears it, he will scarcely be able to refrain from tears, 
 which he shed abundantly at our parting. 
 
 " We commend our poor mother to your compassion. 
 
 " The salutation of me, John, your minister, such 
 as I am, and studying to do every thing in my power 
 for your advantage and honour. 
 
 " We commend you again and again to God and 
 the B. V. 
 
 " Written at Canterbury with many tears." 
 
 ♦ Some illiternte but affectionate friend whom he does not name.
 
 NOTES. 199 
 
 Page 21, Line 21. 
 
 And sloichj as their clouds of incense roll. 
 
 The fragrant grateful scent 'perfumes the whole. 
 
 " The use of perfumes," says Dr. "Whitaker, " is a 
 pleasing and elegant part of the Catholic ritual ; which 
 if it could be adopted in our congregations, without 
 offending the bigotry of Puritanism, might have a 
 pleasing and wholesome effect in correcting- the effluvia 
 arising from crowded congregations. 
 
 " The power of show in religion, the pomp and pa- " 
 geantry of the Romish church, steal insensibly upon 
 the imagination, in defiance of enlightened reason and 
 Protestant principle ! How easy then must it have 
 been to bribe the senses of rustics, who saw no other 
 splendid scenes but those of earth and heaven, heard 
 little music but that of birds, and inhaled no other 
 perfumes than those of the field, especially when it is 
 considered that natural charms can only be enjoyed by 
 cultivated minds, while the artificial and gorgeoiis 
 strike with greater force upon the rudest.*" 
 
 It is stated that Lord Bolingbroke, in defiance of 
 his infidelity, was highly aflected by attending high 
 mass. 
 
 Page 21, Line 25. 
 
 Beholds the abbot in his robes array d. 
 
 The altar wet, lohere once Turgesius prayd. 
 
 Turgesius was the fourth abbot of Kirkstall. He was 
 a severe chastiser of his body ; constantly clad in hair 
 cloth, and frequently repeating to himself, " Those who 
 are clothed in soft raiment are in kings' houses." His 
 clothing was alike in all seasons, being only a tunic 
 and a cowl. His body was so habituated to this disci- 
 pline, that he appeared equally insensible to the heat of 
 the dog-days and the cold of January. In the severest
 
 200 NOTES. 
 
 weather, he endured the night-watches without shoes ; 
 and when his well-chid brethren were almost stiff with 
 frost, he gave himself to the praises of God, and re- 
 pelled the cold without by the heat of devotion within. 
 Yet none was more mild and affable than Turgesius. 
 His abstinence was extreme. He never tasted vdne 
 nor flesh. Fish he permitted to be set before him for 
 his friends, not for himself. His compunctions knew 
 no bounds ; in common conversation he scarcely re- 
 fi'aincd from weeping. At the altar, he never celebrated 
 without such a profusion of tears, that his eyes might 
 be said rather to rain than weep ; insomuch, that the 
 sacerdotal vestment he officiated in could not be used 
 luitil it Avas dried. After nine years' presidency, he 
 retired to Fountains' Abbey, where he died. 
 
 Page 22, Lixe 2-5. 
 When aiicient records, kept ivith pious care. 
 
 Had it not been for the religious houses, what would 
 have become of the works of antiquity, or even of the 
 Scriptures themselves ? Had thej' been in the hands 
 of the illiterate in the dark ages, scarce a line of the 
 Greek and Roman authors would have been now 
 beheld ; and no doubt a gi"eat many valuable works 
 were destroyed at the dissolution of the religious houses 
 in this disti'ict. 
 
 Page 25, Line 13. 
 
 When Toioton s plain 
 Was crimson d o'er icifh thirty thousand slain. 
 
 " The true English Pharsalia was between Caxton 
 and Towton. Here was the greatest engagement, and 
 the strongest army that was ever seen in England ; no 
 fewer than one hundred thousand men, under the com- 
 mand of two daring and furious generals, engaged here
 
 NOTES. 201 
 
 on Palm Sunday, in the year 1461. The victory con- 
 tinued for a long time doubtful, but at last the Lan- 
 castrians proved the weakest by being too strong, for 
 their numbers proved cumbersome and unwieldy, which 
 first caused disorder and then flight ; the York party 
 pursuing them. The fight was so bloody that 36,000 
 men were cut off, among whom were a great many of 
 the nobility." 
 
 ON THE POACHER. 
 
 Page 27, Line 3. 
 
 T}ie;/ art such deech us make e'en harons swear. 
 Break down their fine park walls and take the deer. 
 
 The poachers in the southern parts of Craven, a few 
 centuries ago, seem not to have meddled with the hare, 
 pheasant, grouse, &c., but to have stolen the deer out 
 of the parks, and nothing seems to have given the 
 lords greater offence. 
 
 Page 28, Lixe 10. 
 A better icorhnan seldom took the field. 
 
 Whether as husbandmen, or em^iloyed in manufac- 
 tures, there are few better or abler workmen than 
 poachers, who are used to hardships and great bodily 
 exertion, and can perform their labour with the greatest 
 expedition.
 
 202 K0TE3. 
 
 Page 38, Line 12. 
 
 How oft have /, with cxidtat/'o/i ffreat. 
 Stood Ust'nimj to the shiijhuj of his feet. 
 
 Some dogs never bark when in pursuit of game, and 
 can only be heard by the noise which they make with 
 running, styled by poachers, " Singing at the feet." 
 
 Page 39, Line 19. 
 
 Not to the ale-house did the group retire. 
 
 But drank and stnoh'd around the poacher' s fire. 
 
 It is well known that there are two distinct classes 
 of poachers, one of a desperate description, who, having 
 been fined or imprisoned several times, are determined 
 to be revenged, knowing that if they again be taken, 
 they need not expect anything else but a heavier pe- 
 nalty or a longer imprisonment. The other class are 
 those who are afraid of every bush, and will fly even 
 at their own shadow. These, in general, commit their 
 depredations in tlieir own neighbourhood ; while the 
 other range perhaps in a circuit of twenty miles, — to 
 whom rivers are no obstacle, nor are they hindered by 
 the most stormy nights ; they can obtain game in such 
 quantities, that they have sometimes even a superfluity 
 of money, which they spend in the poacher's lonely cot. 
 It not unfrcqucntly happens, that to make money, the 
 veteran poachers sell their tackling to the junior ones, 
 at much above what it really cost, and, in the charac- 
 ter of game-keepers, take it from them the next night. 
 
 Page 43, Line 9. 
 
 Here stands the tree to lohich the cord is tied, 
 And there my (jame across the river ride. 
 Then I the bridge securehj travel o'er. 
 And none take oath that murder d game I lore. 
 
 Suppose three are in a gang, who are going into a 
 gentleman's grounds, between them and which there
 
 XOTES. 203 
 
 is a river which cannot be forded, and they have to pass 
 over a brid^re which is guarded. Being provided with 
 a large oil-case, and a string which will go three times 
 over the river, they tie a leaden ball to the end of it, 
 an(;i throw it over the stream. Their implements are 
 then put into the oil-case, and fastened to the cord, 
 while one goes over the bridge, to the place where the 
 ball is thrown, and draws the oil-case over, containing 
 shot, powder, nets, &c., which, by this means, are all 
 kept perfectly dry. In the same manner is all the game 
 they get drawn over, though the river should be swol- 
 len to a great degree. In passing the bridge, should 
 they be searched, nothing suspicious is found upon 
 them. 
 
 ON THE OLD OAK TREE. 
 
 Page 128, Line 12. 
 And liept the tree ivhile Bradford heeps its crest. 
 
 There is a tradition, that, some centuries ago, the 
 wood which then surrounded the church at Bradford, 
 was infested with a furious wild boar, which was the 
 terror of the nciglibourhood. A reward was offered by 
 government for the head or tongue of this animal ; 
 and it is asserted that it was shot while in the act of 
 drinking at a well near an oak tree, w'hich was, not 
 long since, standing. The hero who accomplished the
 
 204 XOTES. 
 
 feat, stationed himself bcliiiid this identical tree, — and 
 as soon as he had despatched the monster, he proceeded 
 to cut out its tongfue, with which he hastened to receive 
 the reward. In the mean time, tlie animal was found 
 dead by another person, who immediately cut off its 
 head, and would have succeded in obtaining the reward, 
 had not the hero who actually killed the aniiual arrived 
 with its tongue. From this circumstance it is supposed 
 the arms of Bradford originated, the crest of which is 
 a boar's head. — See Jmnes's History of Bradford. 
 
 THE EXD. 
 
 C. STAKFIcLD, PRINTUR, BRADFORD.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 His Grace tlie Archbisliop of York 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Rutland 
 
 Tlie Right Honourable Earl Fitzwilliam . . 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Harewood 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Morton 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Zetland 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Mexbrough 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Scarborough 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Lonsdale 
 
 The Lord Bishop of Ripon 
 
 The Right Honourable Lord Wharncliffe . . 
 
 The Right Honourable Lord Howden 
 
 The Right Honourable Lady Howden 
 
 The Right Honourable Lord Stourton 
 
 The Right Honourable Lord Viscount Morpeth. 
 
 Lord Francis Egerton 
 
 Lady Frederick Bentinck 
 
 Lady Charlotte Fitzwilliam 
 
 Lord Hotham ... 
 
 Ackroyd George, Bradford 
 
 Ackroyd R. S., Legrams 
 
 Ackroyd Cowling, Great-Horton 
 
 Adamson E., Bradford 
 
 Addison G. W., Esq., Hall Field House, Bowling 
 
 Ainley AVilliam, Esq., Bingley 
 
 Aked Richard, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Alderson George, do. 
 
 Allen Robert, Skipton 
 
 Allison William, Bradford . . 
 
 Cop. 
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 T-rsT OF st'Biscimnnts. 
 
 Cop 
 
 Ambler Thomas, Manningliam 
 Ambler H., Esq., Greenock 
 Anderton S., Bradford 
 Arthington R., Esq., Hunslet 
 Armitage John, Esq.. Mills Bridge 
 Askam Stephen, Bowling . . 
 Aspin Hargreaves, Bradford 
 Atkinson Ed\Yard. do. 
 Atkinson Samuel. do. 
 
 Bailey J. S., Bradford 
 
 Baile}- Christopher, Harden 
 Bailey Joseph, do. 
 
 Bailey William, Shipley 
 Bairstow Paid, Eittle-Horton 
 Bair.stow Amos, Calverley 
 Bairstow Thomas, Bingley 
 Bannister John. Bradford . . 
 Barber Rev. John, Bierley 
 Barber Thomas, Bradford . . 
 Barkham John, Bowling Hall 
 Barnes Rev. T., Castleford 
 Barraclough Francis, Wikc 
 Barraclough Francis, Bradford 
 
 Barrans John, do. 
 
 Barrett E., do. 
 
 Bathurst Rev. W., Barwick in Elmct, Aberford . . 
 
 Battv James, Bradford 
 
 Batty John, do. 
 
 Baxter Charle.s, do. . . 
 
 Baxter Thomas, do. 
 
 Bcanland Joseph, do. 
 
 Beanland John, Bingley 
 
 Beaumont Thomas, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Beaver J., do. .... 
 
 Beavers William, do. 
 
 Beckett AV., Esq., M. P.. Kirkstall Grange, Leeds 2 
 
 Beckett C. Esq., Meanwood Grange, Leeds . . 3 
 
 Beckett Miss, do. . • 3 
 
 Bennett — , Bingley . . . • • • . . 1 
 
 Bentley A., Bradford . . . . . • . . 1 
 
 Berry H.. Bowling . . . . • • . . 1 
 
 Berwick John, Cottingley . . . . . . . . 1
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Best A., London 
 
 Best Samuel, Bradford 
 
 Best Joseph, do. 
 
 Bigland J., Esq., Bramham 
 
 Binns Elijah, Bradford 
 
 Bmns James, do. 
 
 Blackburn M., Bradford 
 
 Blackburn John. do. 
 
 Blackburn H. W., do. 
 
 Blackburn John, do. 
 
 Blackburn Bailcv, do. 
 
 Blackburn Samuel, do. 
 
 Blackburn W. P., do. 
 
 Bland T. D., Esq., Kippax Park 
 
 Bland Misses, Hund Hill, Pontefract 
 
 Bolton John, Bradford 
 
 Booth Matthew, Bowling 
 
 Bottomley David, Bradford 
 
 Bower Isaac, do. 
 
 Bower John. Harden 
 
 Bower Miss Amelia, do. 
 
 Bradley William, Huddersfield 
 
 Brandling C. J., Esq.. Middlcton, Leeds 
 
 Brayshaw John, Bradford . , 
 
 Briggs Elijah, Shelf 
 
 Broadbent Samuel, Bradford 
 
 Broadbent Sutcliffe, do. 
 
 Brook William, Esq., Huddersfield 
 
 Brook Joseph, Esq., do. 
 
 Brook J. H., Esq., Green Head, Huddersfield 
 
 Brook James, Esq. , Thorp Arch . . . . 
 
 Brook W. L., Esq., do. 
 
 Brook C. H.. Esq., do. 
 
 Brooksbank Stamp. Esq., Hermitage, Henham 
 
 Brotherton Lieut. General. York 
 
 Brown A., Esq.. Beilby Grange, Wetherby 
 
 Brown John, Bingley 
 
 Brown H., Bradford 
 
 Brown Adam, do. 
 
 Brumfit William, do. 
 
 Buckland Professor, Oxford 
 
 Burron John, Bradford 
 
 Cop. 
 
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 2 
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 LIST OV SVBSCBIBEES. 
 
 Cop. 
 
 Busfeikl J. A., Esq., Bradford . . . . . . 3 
 
 BusfeUd Walker, Esq., Cottingley Bridge, Bingley 2 
 Buttei-field Francis, Esq., Bingley . . . . 2 
 
 Carroll George, Esq., Boston, Tadcaster . . • • '^ 
 
 Casson E., Esq., Bradford . • v - • • ' 
 
 Cawtlira W., do. 
 
 Cheadle Rev. James. M. A., Bingley 
 
 Cheesebrough Alfred, Bradford 
 
 Cheesebrough Miss, do. 
 
 Clapham W., Morton, near Bingley 
 
 Clapliam Miss Mary, Bingley 
 
 Clark John, Bradford 
 
 Clark James, do. 
 
 Clark Samuel, do. 
 
 Clark William, Bingley 
 
 Clayton T. G., Esq., Bierley Hall 
 
 Clayton Matthew, Bowling 
 
 Clayton Robert, Bradford . . 
 
 Clayton Jeremiah, do. 
 
 Cliffe Joseph, do. 
 
 Cockshott William, Bingley 
 
 Couldwell William, Berks . . 
 
 CoUinson Joseph, Allerton 
 
 Collinson E., Bradford 
 
 Cooper J. A., do. 
 
 Cooke Sir W. B.. Bart., Wheatley Park, Doncaster 
 
 Colton James, Bingley . . 
 
 Cordingley J. R., Bradford 
 
 Corless George, Keighley . . 
 
 Corson Thomas, Esq., Dobcross 
 
 Cousen J. R., Bradford 
 
 Cox Joseph, do. 
 
 Crabtree Joseph, Lidget Green, near Bradford 
 
 Crabtree William, Bradford 
 
 Crabtree John, do. 
 
 Crabtree Joshua, do 
 
 Craven John, Bingley 
 
 Craven Joseph, Bradford 
 
 Craven Joseph, Esq., Keighley 
 
 Creyke R., Esq., Rawcliffe Hall, Snaith . . 
 
 Crompton Misses, York , , 
 
 Crossley H. W., Bradford
 
 M. P.. Doncaster 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCKIBJiUS. 
 
 C'rowthcr John, Harden 
 
 Crowther William, Bradford 
 
 Crowther Thomas, Harden 
 
 Crowther Thomas, Bradford 
 
 Cryer W., M. D., do. 
 
 Cudworth "William, do. 
 
 Cutler William, do. 
 
 Davison Joseph, Dudley Hill 
 
 Dawson C. H., Esq., Royds Hall 
 
 Daw'son Daniel, Bradford . . 
 
 DajTell Rev. T., Marston Rectory, York . 
 
 Day M., Bradford . . 
 
 Dean of Manchester, SpofTorth, Wetherby 
 
 Dean John, Bingley 
 
 Dearden W. L., Huddersficld 
 
 Denby John, Bradford 
 
 Denby M., do. 
 
 Denby Thomas, do. 
 
 Denby W., Shipley 
 
 Denison E. B., Esq. 
 
 Denison R., Esq., Bramham Biggin 
 
 Denton William, Bowling . . 
 
 Dickenson Joseph, Bradford 
 
 Dixon George, do. 
 
 Dowling Michael, do. 
 
 Driver Peter, do. 
 
 Dryden G., Esq., Bingley 
 
 Duckit Charles, Bradford 
 
 Duffield F., Esq., Town-hill House, Bradford 
 
 Dunbar M., Plalifax 
 
 Duncan Philip, Esq., Werton Cottage, Bath 
 
 Dunn John, Bingley 
 
 Dunn Firby, Bradford 
 
 Dyson George, Esq.. Halifax 
 
 Eamonson Rev. B., Wetherby 
 
 Earnshaw John, Bradford . . 
 
 Edgar Thomas, do. 
 
 Edmondson Chris., do. 
 
 Egan William, do. 
 
 Elgey James, do. 
 
 Ellerton John, Esq., Aberford 
 
 Ellis William, Esq., Bingley 
 
 Cop.
 
 LIST 01' SfBSClllDEKS. 
 
 Ellis James, Esq., Gieenliill Hcill. near Binglcy 
 
 Ellison Samnel, Bradford . . 
 
 Emmet Emanuel, GomersaD 
 
 England William, Bingley 
 
 Fairbank Thomas, Bradford 
 
 Ferrand W. Busfeild, Esq., M. P., Harden Gran 
 
 Ferrand Mrs., St. Ives, Bingley 
 
 Farrar Squire, Bradford , . . . 
 
 FaiTar Joseph, do. 
 
 Field John, Dudley-Hill . . 
 
 Fieldhouse Abraham, Horton . . * . 
 
 Firth Daniel, Bradford 
 
 Futh Henry, jun., Bradford Moor 
 
 Fisher George, Bradford 
 
 Fison T. S., do. 
 
 Foster Joseph, do. 
 
 Foulds Thompson, do. 
 
 FothergiU Thomas, Bowling 
 
 Fox G. L., Esq., Bramham Park . . 
 
 Fox S. L., Esq., M. P., Bramham, Tadcaster 
 
 Fox Miss, Barnsley 
 
 Garforth W., Esq., Wiggenthorpe, Melton 
 
 Garforth James, Halifax 
 
 Garnett James, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Garnett William, Esq., do. . . . ^ 
 
 Garnett Richard, Esq., do. 
 
 Garnett James, Esq., Headingley . . 
 
 Garrett William, Bradford . . . . « . 
 
 Gamble Ilobert, do. 
 
 Gascoigne Misses, Parlington Park, Aberford 
 
 Geldart Rev. Dr., Kirk Deighton, Wetherby 
 
 Geller W. O., London 
 
 German William, Bradford 
 
 Gibson M. J., do. 
 
 Gill Hugh, do. 
 
 Glydc W. E., do. 
 
 Goldsborough Jonathan, do 
 
 Goodman G., Esq., Leeds 
 
 Goodall John, Bradford 
 
 Gordon John, do. 
 
 Gott Benjamin, Bingley 
 
 Go\enior E., Bradford 
 
 ge 
 
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 LIST Oi' SLCSCKIBEKS. 
 
 131 
 
 Clifton 
 
 Graham Sir ilcUing-hain, Bart., 
 
 Loudon 
 Grainge James, Bradford 
 Green Joseph. Bingley 
 Green Henry, Bradford 
 Greenhough Joseph, do. 
 Greenwood Cliarles, Esq., 
 Greenwood W.. Bradford . . 
 Greenwood G. O., do. 
 Greenwood Jonathan, Baildon 
 Griffiths James, Bradford . . 
 Gummersal B., Tyersall Hall 
 Hager Thomas, Morton 
 Haigh Thomas, Esq., Bradford 
 Hainsworth Daniel, Farsley 
 Hainsworth William, Bradford 
 Ilaldenby H., Bradford 
 Haley Elisha, do. 
 Hall James, do. 
 
 Hammerton James, Esq., Hellifield 
 Hammond H. John, Bradford 
 Hammond Thomas, do. 
 Hammond John, Turf Tavern, near 
 Hanson Francis Forrest, Bradford 
 Harcourt Rev. W. Vernon, Bolton Percy, 
 Hardcastle Thomas, Undercliffe 
 Hardcastle Joseph, do. 
 Hardy John, Esq., M. P., London 
 Hargreaves Richard, Bingley 
 Hargreaves — , do. 
 
 Harker John, Bowling 
 Harrison James, Bradford . . 
 Harrison Miss, do. 
 Harrison M., do. 
 
 Hartley John. do. 
 
 Harrop \Mlliam. Culling worth 
 Hattcrsley Frederick, Bradford 
 Headley — , Halifax 
 Heaton Edward, Keighlcy 
 Hemingway John, Low-^Ioor 
 Hepper Christopher, Bradford 
 Hick M. B.. Loudon 
 
 Park-Street, 
 
 Peel 
 
 Bradfoi 
 
 d 
 
 Tadcast 
 
 Cop, 
 10
 
 LIST 01' SUBSCIUBEKS 
 
 Hill Joseph, Bradford 
 
 Hill Thomas, do. 
 
 Hill John, Little-Horton 
 
 Hill Charles, Bowling 
 
 Hillary G., Beck, Binglcy . . 
 
 Hillary James, Greenhill 
 
 Hinchcliffe Josiah, Bradford 
 
 Hird James, do. 
 
 Hird Isaac, Keighley 
 
 Hodgson Richard, Bradford Moor 
 
 Hodgson John, Esq., Norton Conyers, Rij: 
 
 Hodgson — , Bingley 
 
 Holder Thomas, Bradford . . 
 
 Holdsworth Robert, Bailiff Bridge 
 
 Holds worth — , Bradford 
 
 Holdsworth Jonathan, Little-Horton 
 
 Holdsworth William, Bradford 
 
 Holdsworth James, do. 
 
 Holgate Joseph, do. 
 
 Hollings Matthew% Bingley 
 
 Hollingworth John, Little-Horton 
 
 Holmes Richard, Bowling . . 
 
 Holmes Richard, Bradford 
 
 Holmes Abraham do. 
 
 Hook Rev. Dr., Leeds 
 
 Horncl James, M. D., Bradford 
 
 Horsfall J. G., Esq., Bolton Royd 
 
 Horsfoll T. IL, Esq., Mount St. John, 
 
 Horton Rev. J., Orniskirk, Tadcaster 
 
 Hough G., Keighley 
 
 Hudson William, Esq., do. 
 
 Hulbcrt .fames. Vicarage, Bingley 
 
 Hustler John, Esq., Bolton 
 
 Hustler Isaac, Bradford 
 
 Humphreys Jolm, do. 
 
 Hutton John, Ecclcshill 
 
 Illingworth J. A., Esq 
 
 Illingworth H., 
 
 Illingworth Thomas, 
 
 Illingworth John, 
 
 Illingworth John, Bingley 
 
 Ingham Joseph, Allcrton 
 
 Cop. 
 
 Thir 
 
 Bradford 
 do. 
 do. 
 do. 
 
 on
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Ingle John B., Bradford 
 
 Ingle James, do. 
 
 Ingram H. Meynell, Esq., M. P., Temple Newsam 
 
 Iveson Edward, Bingley 
 
 Janes David, Bradford 
 
 Jarratt Wilkinson, Bingley 
 
 Jennings William, Bradford 
 
 Johnson Thomas, do. 
 
 Jowett E., Esq., Eltofts, Leeds 
 
 Jowett Joseph, do. 
 
 Jowett James, Bradford 
 
 Kaye E. C. L., Esq., Manningham House, Bradford 
 
 Kaye Sir John Lister, Bart., London 
 
 Kell T., Esq., Rramham Park 
 
 Keighley David, Bradford . . 
 
 Kemp Thomas, Huddersfield 
 
 Kersley George, Bradford . . 
 
 Kershaw Isaac, do. 
 
 Kirkton William, do. 
 
 Knapton James, do. 
 
 Knowles Thomas, Harden . . 
 
 Laird Robert, Esq., Leeds . . 
 
 Lambert Thomas, Bradford 
 
 Lancaster Miss, do. 
 
 Landon Rev. J., Aberford . . 
 
 Lascelles Hon. Edwin, Harewood 
 
 Law James, Bradford 
 
 Lea John, do. 
 
 Lea William, do. 
 
 Leach John, do. 
 
 Leach George, do. 
 
 Leach George, do. 
 
 Learoyd William, Esq., Huddersfield 
 
 Lee R., Esq., Grove, Ferrybridge 
 
 Lee William, Baildon 
 
 Lee James, Bradford 
 
 Leeming Samuel, do. 
 
 Leeming James, do. 
 
 Leyland J. B., Halifax 
 
 Light Jeffrey, Bradford 
 
 Lilly John, Esq., 3rd Battalion Grenadier Guards 
 
 Lister Joseph, Bowling 
 
 Coj).
 
 LIST Ol' SUBSCHIBKKS. 
 
 Lister Da^id, Shipley 
 
 Longbottom Kobert, Binglcy 
 
 Longbottom John, do. 
 
 Langdalc Hon. C, Hohne, Market Wcighton 
 
 Lowtlior Sir John, Bart. 
 
 Lupton Joshua, Bradford 
 
 Lumb J. S., do. 
 
 Mann John, Esq., do. 
 
 ]\Iarkham Colonel. Becca Hall, Tadcaster 
 
 ISIarten \V illiani, Esq., 
 
 Mason Joseph, Esq., Gargrave 
 
 ]\Iasser Thomas, Bradford . . 
 
 Mawson George, do. 
 
 Maxwell W. C., Esq., Everingham Park . . 
 
 Maxwell J. C, Esq., Boston, Tadcaster 
 
 Maxwell Mrs. C, do. do. 
 
 Maxwell H., Esq., Crake Hall, Bedalc 
 
 INIcKean J., Bradford 
 
 Meclianics' Institute, do. 
 
 Medhurst Miss, Cottingham, Wetherby 
 
 Medley David, Bradford 
 
 Meokeson H., do. 
 
 Mellor James, do. 
 
 Milbank M., Esq., Thorpe Pennon, Bedale 
 
 Milner Su- W. M. S., Bart., Nunappleton, Tadca.^ 
 
 Milnes Robert, p]sq., Eryston, Ferrybridge 
 
 Micklethwaite J., Esq., Wakefield . . 
 
 Middlcton Thomas, Bradford 
 
 Midgley G., do. 
 
 MiUigan R., Esq., Harden 
 
 Milligan E., E^sq., Leeds 
 
 Milligan R., Escp, Rawden 
 
 Milner A. H., liradford 
 
 Milnes Thomas, do. 
 
 Milnes Thomas, do. 
 
 Milnes Thomas, Horton-Lane, Bradford 
 
 Mitchell Thomas, Bingley . . 
 
 IMitchell Miciiael, Bradford 
 
 Monckman T. ^L, do. 
 
 Morgan Rev. William, do. 
 
 ?»rortimer W. J)., do. 
 
 M'jiddcn Jolui, do. 
 
 Vop. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBsCKlfiKKS. 
 
 Moulden John, Bint^lcy 
 
 Morton Matthew, Bradford 
 
 Morrell John, do. 
 
 INIuruatroyd — , 
 
 MurL!;atroyd William, Cottingiey 
 
 Naylor Henry, Keighley 
 
 Newbery Richard, Bradford 
 
 Ncwby llichaid, do. 
 
 Ncwsome VV illianr, Shipley 
 
 Nicholson H. W., Esq., Bradford . . 
 
 Nicholson llobert, Esq., do. 
 
 Nicholson Thomas, do. 
 
 Nicholson Thomas, Jan., do. 
 
 Nicholson Richard, do. . . 
 
 Nicholson John, do. 
 
 Nicholson William, do. 
 
 Oddy Benjamin, Oporto 
 
 Oddy John, Bradford * . 
 
 Oddy Samuel, Windhill 
 
 Operative Conservative Society, Bradford 
 
 Ostcn, Baron. Bramham Park 
 
 Outerside John, Bingley 
 
 Outerside John, Junior, do. 
 
 Patchett Joseph, Bradford 
 
 Pawson Richard, do. 
 
 Pennant Hon. Col., Penrhyn Castle, Bangor 
 
 Peel John, Bradford 
 
 Petty Thomas, do. 
 
 Phillips John, Bowling 
 
 Phillips Thomas, Bradford 
 
 Pickles Thomas, Town Hill, Bradford 
 
 Pilling William, Bradford .... 
 
 Pilling Joseph, do. 
 
 Pollard John, do. 
 
 Poppleton J. W., Esq., do. 
 
 Priestley James, do. 
 
 Pyrah Samuel, Buttershaw 
 
 Quinsey George, Bradford 
 
 Ramsden The Hon. Lady, Byram, Ferrybridge 
 
 Ramsden Miss, do. 
 
 Ramsden Charles, Esq., Bawtry 
 
 Ramson William, Bradford . . 
 
 Cor.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBErvS. 
 
 Rand John, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Rand NYilliam, Esq., do. 
 
 Rapcr John, do. 
 
 Raper Joseph, do. 
 
 Rastrick Joshua, Allcrton 
 
 Rawnsley James, Bradford 
 
 Rcddings, Edward, do. 
 
 Redman Joseph do. 
 
 Rennie James, do. 
 
 Rhodes Rev. J. A., Roundhay, Leed 
 
 Rhodes Capt., Kirskill, Otley 
 
 Rhodes Manoah, Bradford 
 
 Rhodes Timothy, do. 
 
 Rhodes Abraham, do. 
 
 Rhodes Miss Mary, do. 
 
 Rhodes J., do. 
 
 Rhodes Charles, do. 
 
 Rhodes Samuel, Bowling 
 
 Richardby J., Bradford 
 
 Riley John, Bowling 
 
 Ripley Edward. Bradford 
 
 Ripley G. B., Bowling 
 
 Roberts J. J., Bradford 
 
 Roberts \Villiam, do. 
 
 Roberts Joshua, do. 
 
 Roberts James, do. 
 
 Robertshaw Jeremiah, do. 
 
 Ro1)ertshaw Solomon, do. 
 
 Robertshaw Joseph, do. 
 
 Robinson James, do. 
 
 Robinson Thomas, do. 
 
 Robinson Daniel, do. 
 
 Robson John, do. 
 
 Rogerson M., do. 
 
 Roper Abraham, Bowling 
 
 Rouse David, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Rouse Francis, Esq., do. 
 
 Russell Alexander, do. 
 
 Sales Christopher, do. 
 
 Salt Titus, Esq., do. 
 
 Salt Edward, do. 
 
 Sawley John, Harden 
 
 i.'op.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCUIBLRS. 
 
 Scott Mrs., Moor Town, 
 
 Scaifc Joshua, Bradford, 
 
 Sewell William, do. 
 
 Seed Jonathan, do. 
 
 Selby Samuel, do. 
 
 Sample George, Esq., Shipley 
 
 Shann George, Esq., Tadcaster 
 
 Sharp William, Bingley 
 
 Sharp Jonas, do. 
 
 Sharp Wilkinson, do. 
 
 Sharp Moses, Wakefield 
 
 Sharp Joshua, Bradford 
 
 Shaw William, do. 
 
 Sherwood Thomas, Esq., London . . 
 
 Sherwood Rev. W., Bradford 
 
 Simes F., Esq., do. 
 
 Simpson William, do. 
 
 Simpson Joseph, do. 
 
 Skelton Thomas, Halifax 
 
 Smith Christopher, Bradford 
 
 Smith William, do. 
 
 Smith Alfred, do. 
 
 Smith Mrs., do. 
 
 Smith Joseph, do. 
 
 Smith John, Bingley 
 
 Smith William, do. 
 
 Smith Thomas, do. 
 
 Smith John, Bradford 
 
 Smith Frederick, Keighley . . 
 
 Smithies John, Bowling 
 
 Smithies Charles, Bradford . . 
 
 Spawforth Thomas, do. 
 
 Spence William, Calverley . . 
 
 Spencer Thomas, Keighley . . 
 
 Stansfield W. R. C, Esq., M. P., Esholt Hall 
 
 Stansfield Mrs., do. 
 
 Stead William, Bradford 
 
 Steel John, Esq., do. 
 
 Stott Miss L., do. 
 
 Stott Miss E., do. 
 
 Stourton Hon. C, Allerton Park. Wetherby 
 
 Stouxton Hon. Mrs. C, do. 
 
 f'o)).
 
 LIST OF sri;sc];ii!Ki{>;. 
 
 Siigdcn John, Bradford 
 
 Siigdcn Joseph, do. , . 
 
 Siigden Alfred, do. 
 
 Sugden James, do, 
 
 Sugden Henry, do. , . 
 
 Sugden James, do. 
 
 Sutcliffe Joshua, Esq., Leeds 
 
 SutclifFe John, Bradford 
 
 Sutcliffe Richard, Jjowling . . 
 
 Sutcliffe Jh-oadbent, Braclford 
 
 Sutcliffe James, do. 
 
 Sutcliffe ]\Irs., Cullingworth 
 
 Swailes Joseph, Rodley 
 
 Swain William, Eccleshill 
 
 Swaine William, Bradford 
 
 Swale William, do. 
 
 Swallow David, do. 
 
 Tate John, Cottingley 
 
 Tate Richard, Bradford 
 
 Taylor W. A., do. 
 
 Taylor Edward, do. 
 
 Taylor George, do. 
 
 Taylor F. J., Leeds 
 
 Taylor Thomas, Bowling 
 
 Tempest Colonel P., Tong Hall 
 
 Tempest Mrs., do. 
 
 Tempest ^liss, do. 
 
 Terry William, Rowling 
 
 Tetley Benjamin, do. 
 
 Tetley Bury, do. 
 
 Tctlow James, do. . . 
 
 Thomas H., Esq., Binglcy 
 
 Thornton Bury, Bradford 
 
 Thomson A. W., do. 
 
 Thorald Sir James, Bart., Syston Park, Gr 
 
 Tindal John, Esq., Huddcrsfield 
 
 Tillotson John, Esq., Halifax 
 
 Tolson Richard, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Tordoff Mr., do. 
 
 Troughton James, Drighlington 
 
 Vavasour Hon. Sir E., I5art., Ilazlewood, 
 
 Wade James, Br;tdf(jrd 
 
 Cop. 
 
 antham 
 
 Tadcaster
 
 LIST OF ST'BSCRin 
 
 Wade John, Bradford 
 WagstafF J. 11., Esq., do. 
 Walker William, Esq., do. 
 Walker CJiarles, do. 
 
 Walker Thomas, Bowling . . 
 Walker John, Bradford 
 Walker Edward, do. 
 Walker William, do. 
 Walker — , do. 
 
 Walker J5ooth, do. 
 Walker Richard, do. 
 Wallace Sir M., Bart., Chesmit Gr 
 Walmsley Isaac, Bradford 
 Ward Thomas, Leeds 
 Watmough Samuel, Keighley 
 Watson John, Bradford 
 Waud Christopher, do. 
 Waud Robert, do. 
 
 Webster Isaac, do. 
 Webster P., do. 
 
 West Samuel, do. 
 
 Wetherhead Samuel, Esq, Bingley 
 Wharton John, Esq., Aberford 
 Wharton Henry, Baildon 
 "Wheatley Ralph, Bradford 
 Whitaker J., Esq., Bramham 
 Whitaker William, Esq., North De 
 Whitaker William, Bradford 
 Whitaker John, do. 
 
 Whitaker Thomas, Bingley 
 White Thomas, Northowram 
 Whitehead John, Bradford 
 Whitehead C. T., Halifax 
 "Wliitley Thomas, l^ingley . . 
 
 Whitley 
 
 Edward, 
 
 do. 
 
 Whitley 
 
 James, 
 
 do. 
 
 Whitley 
 
 David, 
 
 do. 
 
 AVhitleV 
 
 Francis, 
 
 Micklethwaite 
 
 AMiitley 
 
 James, 
 
 do. 
 
 Whitley 
 
 Richard 
 
 Bingley 
 
 Whitley Joseph, 
 
 Thornton 
 
 Wilcock 
 
 Jonathan. Bowling 
 
 c< 
 
 op. 
 
 e, Tadcaster 
 
 iton,Wetherby 
 
 2 
 2 
 o
 
 LIST OF SlTBSCUIliKUS. 
 
 Wlltlman Abraham, Keighlcy 
 
 ^Vilkins Frederick, do. 
 
 Wilkinson G. C, Bradford , . 
 
 ^Vilkinson Christopher, do. 
 
 ^Vilkinson M. H., Harden 
 
 Wilkinson John, Binglcy 
 
 Wilkinson John, Micklethwaite 
 
 ^Vilkinson Edward, do. 
 
 Wilkinson William, do. 
 
 Wilkinson Rev. C, Hope Hall, Wetherby 
 
 W'illiamson J., Bradford 
 
 Wilson Mrs., Tadcaster 
 
 Wilson R. F., Esq., Melton, Doncaster 
 
 W^ilson George, Northowram 
 
 Wilson John, Bradford 
 
 W^ilson John, do. 
 
 Wilson John, do. 
 
 W^ilson Henry, do. 
 
 Wood John, Esq., Theddon Grange, Hants 
 
 Wood John, Bingley 
 
 W^ood James, Esq., Bradford 
 
 Wood James, do. 
 
 Wood John, White Abbey, Bradford 
 
 Wood John, Horton 
 
 Woodhcad Samuel, Bradford 
 
 Wortley Hon. John Stuart, M.P., W^ortlcy Hall 
 
 ShcfHeld 
 
 Wormald Henry, Esq., Sawley Hall, Ripon 
 
 Womerslcy Joseph, Yeadon 
 
 Wroe Thomas, Wibsey 
 
 W^roe Thomas, Bradford 
 
 W^right Josei)h, do. 
 
 Wright John do. 
 
 Wright W^illiam, Hirst Mill 
 
 Wright Simeon, Bingley 
 
 Coj). 
 
 0^ Several Lists of Subscribers liaue iiol been received in time 
 to be printed.
 
 1 
 
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