uMuunr UNIVEWJTI^^ CALIFCM2NIA t'*M' POEMS CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D. POEMS CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D BRADFORD : PERCY LUND & CO., THE COUNTRY PRESS. G. B. RUSSELL, g, DARLEY STREET. LONDON : TRUBNER & CO. MANCHESTER : JOHN HEYWOOD. LOAN STAOC PERCY LUND AND CO., THE COUNTRY PRESS SAINT JOHN'S STREET, BRADFORD. 1^1 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED TO THE REV. DR. WILKINSON, M.A., CHRIST CHURCH, LEAMINGTON. 772 PREFACE HOUGH most, if not all, of the Subscribers to this work will have read from time to time the author's producTtions in the daily and weekly press, many of them probably only know him as an industrious writer of verse. It may, therefore, be interesting to a few if the preface to the present volume of poems be made to consist of a short biographical sketch. For this purpose the subjoined extradt from *' Popular Poets of the Period," a widel}^ circulated publication which is ostensibty "a series of brief biographies of poets of our time and country," will answer well : — Dr. Forshaw, who has resided in Bradford since childhood, was born at Bilston, StaffoMshire, on the 23rd of January, 1863. He served his apprenticeship as a chemist and dentist, obtained his diploma as a Dodor of Dental Surgery in 1885, and is now the senior partner in a firm of well-known dental practitioners in Bradford. In the intervals of his busy professional life he has found time to write several volumes of poetry and many scientific pamphlets. Dr. Forshaw is about to publish a work, entitled " Yorkshire Poets' Birthday Book," which will contain over one hundred poems and biographies by various native authors. He is at the present time editing a serial publication, " Yorkshire Poets, Past and Present," which is meeting with considerable success, and will form a fitting sequel to Newsam's " Poets of Yorkshire," and Grainge's "Poets and Poetry of Yorkshire." Being the President of the West Riding Literary Club, and an adive correspondent and contributor to many newspapers, he is well known throughout Yorkshire ; and as an author, poet, and ledturer, has many admirers. The Publishers. September, 1889. POEMS THE STOKESLEY CROMLECH. Oh ! rude old Cromlech ! tell, who placed thee here, And for what purpose ? Dost thou hide the bones Of one of Yorkshire's ancient Kings ? Thy stones Must mark the grave of one to memory dear ; Perhaps a prophet or an ancient seer Lies sepulchred, entombed, now turned to dust. And o'er his ashes thou art keeping trust, Till Gabriel's trump shall raise him from his bier. Or was't a warrior strong in truth and bold. Who fighting fell 'fore time had made him old, That thou art here his resting-place to show ? Was he an honoured man of good intent, That thou, his consecrated monument, Should'st tell the spot wherein he lieth low ? lO A SUMMER S DAY. A SUMMER'S DAY.— MORNING. Now, Nature smiles, and decks the radiant earth With beauteous brightness. The sun's glad blaze On verdant hill and rippling streamlet plays, And calls their thousand beauties into birth. All inse(rt life sport round in playful mirth ; In shady glades rare flowers glad the eyes And fill the bosom with a wrapt surprise. For well we love their glory and their worth. The birds send forth their rapture-breathing strains, And fill the groves and all the woodland lanes With their wild minstrelsy. Their music sweet Rings through the soul with balmy influence, ^All earth is clad in gay magnificence. In hallowed grandeur, heav'nly and complete. A SUMMER'S DAY.— EVENING. Sweet shadowy eve, thy calm solitude Steals o'er the heart and soothes the pangs of pain. Brings blissful quiet to the restless brain, And whispers soft to those who pensive brood. Blest eventide, thou are reflecflion's food. Thy gentle breathings, thy soft lulling breast. Tell us of hope, tranquillity and rest. And bringeth peace with fond solicitude. Yon glorious orb — the silvery moon above, Inspires with joy, with holiness and love. The sky bedecked with starry gems of light. The solemn hush, the hour's distant chime, The stilly mildness — plaintive and sublime, Tell us of realms wherein there is no night. JUNE. II* JUNE. Welcome thou leafy month ! thy sister May Is dead and gone. Yet o'er her corse we chant no dirge, nor say Poor lonesome one ! Rather we sing a merry roundelay Her grave upon. Thine are the riper glories, for the glade Holds sweeter flowers : And birds delight us with their serenade 'Mid fairy bowers ; Whilst youth and age thy lengthening day invade Till twilight hours. Thine is the verdure and the sweet perfume, Thou welcome boon. Thine the bright landscape and the mellow bloom Which hearts attune. Oh ! crown of summer, still our breasts illume, Depart not soon ; But dwell with us and banish all our gloom. Blest month of June. 12 A VILLAGE SCENE, A VILLAGE SCENE. A RUINED wall, 'neath sweetly blooming trees, A rough hewn log, where one can take his ease. And sitting on't, a weary man and old, O'er whose bent form some eighty years had rolled ; The sky all round, clear with an azure light ; The hedges, gay with blossoms pure and white ; The ancient church, with ivy overgrown. Its yard, nigh filled with many a cross and stone ; The dear old vicar, with his book in hand ; Three farmers, talking of the price of land ; The little school, where infants learn to sum ; The teacher's voice, the children's busy hum ; The gay green fields, the many pleasant stiles, The landscape, stretching far away for miles ; The little brook, gay, murm'ring on its way ; A cart, heaped up with richly perfumed hay. Above, the trill of the melodious lark. Beyond, the sound of watchdog's honest bark ; The cackle, from the scraping, scratching hens ; The grunt, proceeding from the brood pigs' pens ; The quack, quack, quack, from out the dirty pool. Where ducks and geese alternately hold rule ; The cow's soft low ; the flowers of many a hue ; The scattered houses, only built for two. With roofs of thatch, now overspread with moss, And narrow windows, thickly-barred across ; The postman with his letters — four a day ; The stumbling docflor, bent and worn and grey ; The pump, where housewives meet to talk the news ; The quaint old chapel, with its high-backed pews. THE NEW YEAR. I3 And last of all, the tavern, whitewashed o'er, With spotless tables, neatly sanded floor ; The portly landlord and his robust wife, — How sweet 't must be to lead a village life ! THE NEW YEAR. We speed the old year and welcome the new. And look back apace on the false and the true ; And tho' the New Year seems both balmy and bright, Alas ! 'twill contain both sorrow and blight. Yet we longed for its coming with wishes sincere. And gaily we part from the dreary old year ; Its joys, hopes, and troubles are over and fled, And now, with its comrades, the old year lies dead. Like a glorious meteor shining above It came with its promise of peace, hope, and love ; But with sickness and suffering, storm, wind, and wave. Many friends it has taken where no tempests rave. To some the New Year will bring anguish and woe — Each has a share, both the high and the low ; But we must be valiant, courageous, and strong, Fighting for right and condemning the wrong ; Helping the aged in the battle for truth. Ever aiding the weak and guiding the youth, Kind words to the weary, their spirits to cheer, Trying to give each one a Happy New Year. 14 AN OLD MAN S REVERIE. AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE. I DO not know why tears bedim mine eyes, Nor yet why past days fill my heart with woe I cannot tell the reason of my sighs — I do not know. My spirits always were not sad and low ; But youth, alack, ever too quickly flies ; Time still is onward, there's no ebb or flow, And life's a dream — a spark that always dies. In age the pulse beats laboured, cold, and slow ; But why I'm lonesome, that my spirit cries — I do not know. The sweet sunlight I'm sure is not so strong. For when a child its brilliance was so bright ; I could not gaze on it for very long — The sweet sunlight. Now I can scarcely tell the noon from night ; And that sometimes I hear the wild birds' sou^ Pour forth their thrilling music exquisite. That the kind breeze may'hap will bear alon*; : I should not know whether 'twas dark or light. Ah ! how I loved to linger once, among The sweet sunlight. Life's race is past — life is at best a dream ; Sometimes 'tis sunny, then it flies too fast ; The sun on life gives but a transient beam — Life's race is past. ILKLEY MOORS. I5 If at life's outset we could but forecast The future, as a shadow in a stream — At all our trials we should shrink aghast, For earthly life's a fleeting, troublous theme. We toil for riches, fortune is amassed, And when from darkness comes the bright sun gleam — Life's race is past. ILKLEY MOORS. Here we inhale a breath of heaven-sent air ; Here from the maddening haunts of man we're free To taste the bliss of freedom's purity ; To feel we've vanquished vain deceit and care. There is such grandeur in these moors so bare That never sense of loneliness have we, For most can tell it is our God's decree That they His joyous bounteousness should share. To me, oh moors ! ye're not a barren waste — Rather I call ye " Garden of Our Lord ;" For ye can tune our heartstrings' tenderest chord, And all our thoughts and inmost souls make chaste. And lead our minds from earthliness away To realms beyond — where dwells Eternal Day. l6 SUNRISE IN THE WOODS. SUNRISE IN THE WOODS— AUGUST. The blended beauties of liill, dale, and stream, Are now awake, From o'er the mountain tops the sun's red gleam In ruddy glory, like a glowing beam. Shines o'er the lake. The hallowed haunts of wood and dell, are all Bathed in sweet dew ; The rippling brook, slow-trickling, in its fall, Makes music sweet, and now each wild-bird's call Sounds fresh and new. Their warbled song of gladm ss cheers the heart, And makes the s( ail Thrill with a charm that see. as of life a part. The fresh'ning breeze feels never to depart. Each grassy knoji With gayest flow'rs in many varied hues. Makes the brea'^t fire With sweet emotion. Their perfumes suffuse The air ; and when we on tlieir glories muse. Each poet's lyre Throbs with new rapture an< 1 sings songs of praise Enchanting mirtli. The sunbeam on their gladd'ning beauty plays. And they, cheered by its wai ming halcyon rays, Charm all the eatih. Sweet hour of morn, in mar\ raptures blest, Thou leav'st no r