* 'jS* S«*4irsta( 3«
 
 (v-^ 
 
 ( n^^K""" 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL BAMFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A R A P I C A I.," ic 
 
 An aged minstrel next was seen, 
 Of rustic garb, and thoughtful mein ; 
 A broken chain beside him hung. 
 And wild and mournful strains he sung, 
 Of beauty's power, of valour's fame, 
 And Freedom's never dxnng name ; 
 And told of days in thraldom pass'd. 
 Till wrong resign'd her bonds at last. 
 
 MANCHESTER: 
 PRINTED FOR & PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, at BLACKLEY 
 
 SOLD BY 
 
 SIMMS & DINHAM, B. WHEELEB, J. FORREST, ABEL HEYWOOD, 
 and other booksellers. 
 
 1843.
 
 mancbbstsr: 
 Bradshaw and Blacklock, 27, Brown Street.
 
 fa 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 In offering this volume of Poems to the public, the author 
 cannot be unaware of some disadvantageous circumstances 
 under which it is put forth. Since his last volume of poetry 
 was published, — which is about eight years ago — the atten- 
 tion of the literati of Manchester, and its neighbourhood, 
 has been justly claimed by the productions of a Swain, a 
 Prince, a Rogerson, inhabitants of the town — of a Festus, 
 the circumstance of whose first surprising essay in poetry, 
 having been printed at Manchester, will one day be esteemed 
 an honour to the town — and of Mrs. Hawkshaw, whose 
 interesting poem, " The Areopagite," has added another 
 name to those destined for immortality. 
 
 Perhaps the author would not — having been thus pre- 
 ceded, and being at present, as it were, shadowed by talent 
 of a high order — have ventured to offer his humble 
 tribute to the public, had he not felt persuaded that his 
 brother bards would welcome it to a place in the records of 
 Lancashire Minstrelsy — that it might add a not altogether 
 discordant strain to their harmonious numbers, — and that, 
 being the expression of a mind of more mature years than 
 
 863157
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 theirs, — of feelings derived from, and springing up with, a 
 soraewhat harsher fate, — it might perhaps compensate, by 
 originality and strong contrast, for want of smoothness of 
 numbers, and exactness of rhythm. 
 
 The progress and tendency of mind amongst the working 
 classes is now becoming every day a subject of deeper 
 interest to the legislator and the philanthropist. Would it 
 had excited their attention earlier ! — let us, however, hope 
 that it is not yet too late. The author was born one of the 
 labouring class — he was brought up a weaver, and to such 
 enquirers he respectfully tenders his volume as an exempli- 
 fication of the growth of mind in one of his condition, and 
 of the direction to which it inevitably tends when nurtured 
 under adverse circumstances — affectedly contemned by igno- 
 rance under the garb of pride, and trampled upon by irre- 
 sponsible power. If the author has detected errors in the 
 enthusiasm of his younger days ; if he has acknowledged 
 them, and endeavoured to counteract them, that wholesome 
 improvement may be imputed rather to the more than 
 ordinary range of information, for one of his class, which 
 he had fortunately stored, than to any circumstance likely 
 to affect, in common, persons of his situation in society. It 
 must not be supposed that the under-current of feeling 
 amongst the working classes is, as yet, sufficiently imbued 
 with reflection to hold itself corrected, if necessary. A few 
 might detect the precipice ere they plunged — they might 
 turn upon their dastardly bounders on, — but many — too 
 many, — would follow any halloo promising free game and 
 plenty of it.
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 It may be said by some, that the tone of these poems is 
 at times too rude or too mournful ; the author cannot be 
 responsible for that — it is an accident of his life — the head- 
 long waters will roar ; the strong winds will speak mourn- 
 fully, or fiercely, when chafed ; so the feelings of the 
 human heart, when deeply excited, will seek utterance in 
 terms which wait not to be measured ; in words too fervid 
 for the ears of the gentle graces. 
 
 In youth the author was as blithe as any ; as wild and as 
 jocund as the wind ; but time has sprinkled hoar on his 
 head, and if some of it has fallen on his heart, it is no 
 wonder. Men call it sternness, coolness, experience; it 
 may be all or any of those, but the result is the same. 
 
 In the author's prose work, " Passages in the Life of a 
 Radical," will be found an account of his sojourn from the 
 years 1816 to 1821 inclusive; some glimpses of his early 
 impressions, and of his subsequent condition, may be 
 gathered from the several poems of this collection, and, to 
 the readers of his first-mentioned work especially, they 
 may, perhaps, be acceptable. 
 
 It may be stated generally, that from a boy, when 
 not at play or at work, he was always reading — 
 reading anything, and everything he could lay his hands 
 on — of poetry, romance, history, travels, biography: in 
 short, whatever book afforded pleasure or instruction, was 
 to him a companion. Separated in early life from his 
 parents — his mother having died when he was a child — he 
 had no one to give bun instruction, and the consequence 
 was, that he read without system, and obtained much less
 
 Tl PREFACE. 
 
 information than he otherwise would have done. Milton's 
 Miscellaneous Poems ; Homer, translated by Pope ; 
 Wesley's Hymns, and pieces from "the Speaker," were 
 the chief books in poetry that he had access to in early 
 life. Homer and Milton he drank in with an almost 
 quenchless enthusiasm, and he could soon recite a great 
 part of their works. At last, Currie's Life of Burns fell in 
 his way ; he opened it with great curiosity, having heard 
 so much of "this Ayrshire bard ;" he read it, and was some- 
 what disappointed at first, in finding that many of the 
 thoughts and feelings were exactly such as he had long 
 been conversant with. But the more he read, the more 
 did he become aware of the beauty and truthfulness of 
 the verse ; he wandered with Burns, in idea, over all 
 his exquisite scenes, enjoyed the humour of his carousals, 
 and, with him, turned to the adoration of divine woman. 
 His romantic "Lass o' Ballochmoyle" was just to the 
 author's taste, and having tried to write a verse of the same 
 stanza, the result was such, as encouraged him to repeat 
 the attempt in other metres, and thus, at intervals, has 
 the present work been produced. 
 
 The allusions, in this volume, to one who has been 
 to him, a solacement in- all adversities, may be deemed 
 by some to be more frequent than called for ; but that 
 also arises from the accidents of a varied, and no very 
 common life. When coldness or repulsion meet us out 
 of doors, what more natural than that we should turn to 
 those who always make us welcome at home ? What more 
 becoming? What more manly or womanly subjects for
 
 PREFACE. TU 
 
 verse, than our own firesides, and their dear and consoling 
 associates ? But affections and home-comforts are not ours 
 alone, they are the common blessings of mankind ; why 
 then should not mankind be allowed to sympathize with us ? 
 
 To those who are conversant with the author's last poet- 
 ical publication, it will be apparent that the subjects of the 
 present volume have been more carefully selected. Many 
 topics of exciting public interest, which the author does not 
 wish to be a means for perpetuating, are either totally 
 omitted or considerably modified. This may disappoint 
 some over pertinacious friends, but neither can that be 
 avoided, except by the sacrifice of a good and rightful feel- 
 ing ; if we learn not to forget and forgive, how can we expect 
 to be forgiven? — how can we pray, "Forgive us our tres- 
 passes as we have forgiven those that trespassed against us ?" 
 
 In addition to improvement from a more strict selection, 
 it will be found that more than one third of these poems 
 have never before appeared in any collection of the 
 author's. The Wild Rider, and La Lyonnaise, which 
 are of this class, are also two of the longest poems 
 he has ever written, and probably they will be deemed 
 none of his worst. Of La Lyonnaise he has to state 
 that a copy of the original appeared in one of the 
 London papers ; a friend of his, who was perhaps as con- 
 versant with French as with his native English, sent him a 
 translation rendered as literally, line for line, as the language 
 admitted ; and this translation the author formed into 
 the verse as it now stands, with the exception of one or 
 two alterations. How far, on the whole, justice has been
 
 vm PREFACE. 
 
 done to the meaning of the French poet, others than the 
 author must determine. His conclusions, however, as to the 
 arguments which result from the poem, are quite the reverse 
 of those arrived at by M. Beranger, as will be seen on refer- 
 ence to Note 1.5, page 155, w^hich he recommends to the 
 attention of the reader. 
 
 It is certainly a fair ground for satisfaction to a working 
 man, that he comes before the public with two volumes of 
 prose, and one of poetry, many parts of which he trusts will 
 be candidly allowed to be calculated to do good, and none 
 tending to positive evil. The two prose volumes have 
 already, so far as the press has expressed an opinion, been 
 favourably noticed, and the author hopes that opinion will 
 be confirmed as the work becomes more extensively known. 
 The poetry remains as yet almost unnoticed, but the author 
 awaits the result of its going forth without much anxiety as 
 to its ultimate reception. 
 
 His greatest regret with respect to these works arises from 
 his inabilty to make them cheap — in the book-buying sense 
 of the word. He has already made presents of his prose 
 works to several libraries and public institutions, besides 
 having complied with all the requirements of the law as to 
 copyright, and he cannot well do more at this time. Had 
 he the means he would place a copy within the reach of 
 every poor reading family in her Majesty's three kingdoms, 
 but that is not in his power. He has done his best for his 
 country so far, and ^-with that he must conclude for the 
 present. 
 
 Blackley, March 21, 1843.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Hymn to Spring . . . . . . . . • • • . • - 1 
 
 The Pass of Death o 
 
 Dialogue with Fame . . . . . . . . . . • • 
 
 The Call of Wallace 12 
 
 Winter's Day and Night .. .. .. .. •■ 1^* 
 
 A View from the Tandle Hills .. .. .. .- 1^ 
 
 The Warrior's Ode to Death 20 
 
 To a Snow-drop .. .. .. .. .. .• '21 
 
 The Wind Unbound 2:i 
 
 Wolsey's Grave . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 
 
 The Rosy Beauty 28 
 
 Song of the Brave . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 
 
 The Labourer's Orison at Sunrise . . . . . . . • 33 
 
 A Head Piece 36 
 
 London, fare thee Well ! . . . . . . • . • • 3^ 
 
 To Samuel Bamford .. .. .. .. .. 41 
 
 Lines addressed to H. . . . . . . • . • • •   14 
 
 The Wild Rider - 49
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 To Jemima . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 
 
 The Song of Freedom 61 
 
 Tim Bobbin Grave . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 
 
 The Weaver Boy . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 
 
 Lament for my Daughter . . . . . . . • . . 67 
 
 Lines occasioned by the Death of Lord Byron . . 69 
 
 Song of the Polish Army .. .. 72 
 
 The Poet's Consolement of his Wife in Adversity .. 74 
 
 The Prediction 77 
 
 Autumn and Winter . . . . . . . . . . 79 
 
 Glenarfon . . . . . . . . . . . • - . . . 82 
 
 Morisa . . . . . . . . • . . . ' . . . . 84 
 
 Brandreth's Soliloquy in Prison . . . . . . . . 86 
 
 Lines written on the Anniversary of my Daughter's 
 
 Decease .. .. .. .. •• •• •• 89 
 
 Hours in the Bowers .. .. •• .. •• 92 
 
 The Voice of Glendour . . . . . . • • • • 95 
 
 The dying Poet to his Dog .. .. .. •• 97 
 
 God help the Poor 101 
 
 A Voice from Spain .. .. .. .. •• 104 
 
 Bright Eyes 107 
 
 Lines written in Lancaster Castle . . . . . . 109 
 
 The Day-storm of Thunder 110 
 
 Lines from the King's Bench Prison .. 112 
 
 A Scene in the same Prison . . 1 14 
 
 Hymn to Hope .. .. .. •• •• •• H'' 
 
 Winter Hf^
 
 INDEX. XI 
 
 FAGK 
 
 Lines addressed to my Wife .. .. .. .. 119 
 
 The Witch o' Brandwood .. .. .. .. .. 123 
 
 A Dialogue .. .. .. ,, .. .. .. i2f) 
 
 Epitaph on a young Man who was drowned .. .. 12(» 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Friend 130 
 
 Epitaph on a Boy .. .. .. .. .. .. 132 
 
 La Lyonnaise .. 133 
 
 Notes 145
 
 POEMS. 
 
 HYMN TO SPRING. 
 
 Thou brill ger of new life, 
 
 Welcome thou hither ! 
 Though with thee comes the strife 
 
 Of changeful weather. 
 Oh ! young and coldly fair, 
 Come with thy storm-blown hair, 
 Down casting snow-pearls fair. 
 
 For earth to gather !
 
 HYMN TO SPRING. 
 
 Approachest thou in sliower? 
 
 Mist hath enroll'd thee, 
 Till, changed by viewless power. 
 
 Bright we behold thee ! 
 Whilst chilling gales do fly, 
 Thou wanderest meekly by 
 Green holm and mountain high. 
 
 Till shades enfold thee. 
 
 By dusky woodland side. 
 
 Silent thou rovest ; 
 Where lonely rindles glide, 
 
 Unheard thou movest ; 
 Wide-strewing buds and flowers. 
 By fields, and dells, and bowers, 
 'Mid winds and sunny showers. 
 
 Bounteous thou provest. 
 
 Though ever changeful, ^till 
 
 Ever bestowing; 
 The earth receives her fill 
 
 Of thy good sowing; 
 And lo ! a spangled sheen 
 Of herbs and flowers between, 
 Blent with the pasture green, 
 
 All beauteous growing !
 
 HYMN TO SPRING. 
 
 Now comes the driven haO, 
 
 Ilattling and bounding ; 
 A shower doth next prevail, 
 
 Thunder astounding ! 
 Until the glorious sun 
 Looks through the storm-cloud dun- 
 And, as the light doth run, 
 
 Glad tones are sounding. 
 
 The throstle tunes his throat, 
 
 On tall bough sitting ; 
 The ouzle's wizard note 
 
 By dingle flitting; 
 The lov'd one, too, is there. 
 Above his snow-plash'd lair— • 
 He sings, in sun-bright air, 
 Carol befitting. 
 
 Come ev'ry tone of joy! 
 
 Add to the pleasure ; 
 Sweet robin's melody 
 
 Joins in the measure : 
 And echoes wake and sing, 
 And fairy-bells do ring, 
 Where silver bubbles fling 
 
 Their sparkling treasure.
 
 HYMN TO SPRING. 
 
 The hazle bloom is hung 
 
 Where beams are shining ; 
 The honey-bine hath clung, 
 
 Garlands entwining, 
 
 For one who wanders lone 
 
 Unto that bower unknown, 
 
 And finds a world, his own. 
 
 Pure joys combining. 
 
 Then, bringer of new life, 
 
 Welcome thou hither ; 
 And welcome, too, the strife . 
 
 Of changeful weather! 
 Oh ! ever young and fair, 
 Cast from thy storm-blown hair 
 Bright drops, and snow- pearls fair. 
 
 For earth to gather !
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH. 
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH."' 
 
 WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE DECEASE OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 GEORGE CAN.VIXG, AND WITH REFERENCE TO THAT EVENT. 
 
 Another's gone, and who comes next, 
 
 Of all the sons of pride ? 
 And is humanity perplex'd 
 
 Because this man hath died ? 
 The sons of men did raise their voice 
 
 And cried in despair, 
 " We will not come, we will not come, 
 
 Whilst death is waiting there!"
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH, 
 
 But Time went forth and dragg'd them on. 
 
 By one, by two, by three ; 
 Nay, sometimes thousands came as one^ 
 
 So merciless was he ! 
 And still they go, and still they go, 
 
 The slave, the lord, the king; 
 And disappear like flakes of snow 
 
 Before the sun of spring ! 
 
 For Death stood in the path of Time, 
 
 And slew them as they came, 
 And not a soul escap'd his hand, 
 
 So certain was his aim. 
 The beggar fell across his staff, 
 
 The soldier on his sword, 
 The king sank down beneath his crown^ 
 
 The priest beside the Word. 
 
 And Youth came in his blush of health. 
 
 And in a moment fell ; 
 And Avarice, grasping still at wealth, 
 
 Was rolled into hell ; 
 And Age stood trembling at the pass. 
 
 And would have turned again ; 
 But Time said, " No, 'tis never so. 
 
 Thou canst not here remain,."
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH. 
 
 The bride came in her weclding robe — 
 
 But that did nought avail ; 
 Her ruby lips went cold and blue, 
 
 Her rosy cheek turn'd pale ! 
 And some were hurried from the ball, 
 
 And some came from the play ; 
 And some were eating to the last. 
 
 And some with wine were gay. 
 
 And some were ravenous for food, 
 
 And rais'd seditious cries ; 
 But, being a " legitimate," 
 
 Death quickly stopp'd their noise! 
 The father left his infant brood 
 
 Amid the world to weep ; 
 And the mother died whilst her babe 
 
 Lay smiling in its sleep ! 
 
 And some did offer bribes of gold, 
 
 If they might but survive ; 
 But he drew his arrow to the head. 
 
 And left them not alive ! 
 And some were plighting vows of love, 
 
 When their very hearts were torn ; 
 And eyes that shone so bright at eve 
 
 Were closed ere the morn !
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH. 
 
 And one had just attain'd to pow'r. 
 
 And wist not he should die ; 
 Till the arrow smote his stream of life. 
 
 And left the cistern dry ! — 
 Another's gone, and who comes next, 
 
 Of all the sons of pride ? 
 And is humanity perplex'd 
 
 Because this man hath died ? 
 
 And still they come, and still they go. 
 
 And still there is no end, — 
 The hungry grave is yawning yet. 
 
 And who shall next descend ? 
 Oh ! shall it be a crowned head, 
 
 Or one of noble line ? 
 Or doth the slayer turn to smite 
 
 A life so frail as mine ?
 
 DIALOGUE WITH FAMEr 
 
 DIALOGUE WITH FAME. 
 
 Who art thou so wondrous faif^ 
 
 All in. glory shining ? 
 Men adore thee ev'ry where — 
 
 Answer my divining. 
 
 I am that which heroes claim, 
 For their deeds of daring ; 
 
 I can raise a humble name — 
 Why art thou despairing ? 
 
 Dost thou yonder warrior see, 
 Weary with destroying ? 
 
 Shall he hope to climb to thee, 
 O'er the dead and dying ?
 
 10 DIALOGUE WITH FAME. 
 
 Waste of life and woe of fight, 
 Nothing do concern me ; 
 
 If the soldier comes in right, 
 Surely he shall earn me. 
 
 One doth heaps of gold amass ; — 
 If his breath should fail him, 
 
 Whither would his mem'ry pass ? 
 Bright one, wouldst thou hail him ? 
 
 If for good he had employ'd 
 That he lays beside him, 
 
 In his life and when he died, 
 I had not denied him. 
 
 One in pulpit prayeth loud, 
 God with things acquainting : 
 
 How shall he become endow'd, 
 For his noisy sainting ? 
 
 If his life be meek and pure, 
 Moral as his preaching, 
 
 Even him I could endure, 
 
 When he had done his teaching
 
 DIALOGUE WITH FAME. 11 
 
 One is mounted on a throne, 
 
 Myriads are admiring ; 
 Canst thou such a king disown, 
 
 Splendid and aspiring ? 
 
 Is he wise, he merits fame. 
 And he too shall share it ; 
 
 If a fool, the greater shame, 
 His actions will declare it. 
 
 Thou canst raise a humble name. 
 Mine indeed is humble ; 
 
 Should I win a meed of fame, 
 I have friends would grumble. 
 
 Strive to climb yon envied path — 
 
 Glory beams above it ; 
 Though the world should howl in wrath, 
 
 Turn and look, and love it.
 
 12 THE CALL OF WALLACE. 
 
 THE CALL OF WALLACE 
 
 Oh ! come from the valley, Oh ! come from the plain, 
 And arise to the hills of your fathers again ; 
 For a chief hath unfurled his banner on high, 
 And the scourge of his country hath dar'd to defy ! 
 
 Our lands are laid waste and our homes are destroy'd, 
 Whilst the ravaging Saxon is dwelling in pride ; 
 Oh ! gather, ye brave ones, in battle array, 
 And the storm of the carnage shall sweep him away, ! 
 
 What ! shall this usurper be lord of our land. 
 Nor the sons of its heroes the tyrant withstand ? 
 And shall it be said that a Scot ever bore 
 The chains which his fathers had spurned before ? 
 
 Then come from the valley, and come from the plain. 
 And arise to the hills of your fathers again ; 
 We will rush like a whirlwind, or burst like a flood, 
 And the sun of his glory shall set in his blood !
 
 A winter's day and night. 13 
 
 A WINTER'S DAY AND NIGHT. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE DESCRIBED BY A LANCASHIRE RUSTIC. 
 
 First comes the white bearded frost at mom, 
 Next comes the red sun, bald and shorn, 
 Then comes the sleet, and then comes the snow, 
 And then, o'er the winter-fields howling doth go, 
 The dark cold wind forlorn. 
 
 ^^^lat do I see at the broad mid-day ? 
 Wild burds a-flocking to fly away ; 
 Brown hare is sitting close under the fern. 
 Pheasants in cover feed, fowls by the bam ; 
 Calf doth in crib lie, the kine in their bay, 
 Dickon is thrashing that weary wet day ; 
 Dame Is at spinning wheel, Msl butter makes, 
 Betty brews Kesmus ale, Dorothy bakes ;
 
 14 A winter's day and night. 
 
 Cross-mark the dough, and the cream, and the malt, 
 So that if witch should come, back she must halt. 
 Heigh then ! for jannocks o' barley and rye ! 
 Heigh ! for a smoking hot potatoe pie ! 
 Heigh ! for the brewing of humming brown ale ! 
 Where there's good meat and drink, work will not fail. 
 
 AVhat do I mark at the waning of day ? 
 Sun, like a truant, goes round-about way, 
 Down by the south he hangs cloudy and shy, 
 As if heaven's mid arch were too wide, and too high. 
 But 'ere he meet the sea's weltering streams. 
 Will he not turn again with his bright beams ? 
 Purple and molten gold 'neath him are spread ; 
 Ruby and amber-light gleam over head. 
 Oh ! what a deluge of splendour he flings, 
 Thousands of miles from his burning wide wings ! 
 
 Now, as I gaze on that glory-lost sky, 
 Shadows of darkness around me do fly. 
 And witches are spanning the dolesome black clouds. 
 To rend into palls, and to shape into shrouds. 
 I'd better home again, lest it should be 
 That some of the hags begin spanning for me. 
 Goodly old psalm tune I'll hum by the way. 
 For strange things do hap at the close of the day. 
 
 Day hath departed, and here cometh night ; 
 Clouds are fast riding, and stars glitter bright —
 
 A winter's day and night. 15 
 
 Some ope and twinkle, like eyes of fair gold, 
 Some are a ruby red, some pale and cold. 
 Oh ! what a strewing of diamonds' sheen 
 Spangles the robe of the night-walking queen ! 
 Oh ! what a path-way the IMaker hath trod ! 
 Stars are but dust in the footsteps of God. 
 
 Hark ! what a sounding adown the broad sky ! 
 From the blue star-regions cometh a sigh ; 
 Voice of the troubled wind 'gins to bewail ; 
 Wings of the mighty wind hitherward saiL 
 Now he comes howling, like ocean's sad roar, 
 On the lone verge of some desolate shore — 
 Now he is calling, both loud and forlorn. 
 For havock to mount and ride with him till morn ! 
 Now he goes crying, like cradle-reft child ; 
 Now whistles shrill, like a night-prowler wild ; 
 Now doth he scream, like an eagle for prey ; 
 Now, like a myriad of steeds, rush away ! 
 
 I'll get me timeously over the moor, 
 Shut close ray casement, and fasten my door. 
 Warlocks and night-hags may come on the blast ; 
 I've a good horse-shoe they cannot get past. 
 Safe there, I'll ponder each notable sight 
 I marked at morning, noon, evening, and night.
 
 16 \ VIEW FROM THE TANDLE HILLS. 
 
 A VIEW FROM THE TANDLE HILLS, 
 
 IN THE MONTH OF MAY. 
 
 The eye of the morning is open wide, 
 And the sun comes up from the heaving tide 
 That rolls at the foot of his burning throne, 
 The girdle of regions that are not known ; 
 And the bright clouds are lying all tranquilly, 
 Like islands of glory far away ; 
 And the wan moon is hung in the deep abyss. 
 Like something lost from the realms of bliss ; 
 She leans on her lurid and waning side, 
 As if she were seeking her face to hide 
 From the light intense, and the amber glare, 
 That flash from the God in the eastern air.
 
 A VIEW FROM THE TANDLE HILLS. 17 
 
 Over the earth as mine eye is cast, 
 The mists of the morning away have pass'd ; 
 The moorlands dark and far are seen, 
 The pastures are mantled all in green ; 
 The trees are adorn'd with spicy buds, 
 Like scattered gems on the sunbright woods ; 
 Whilst down in the dell doth the rindle spring, 
 Glimmering dimly, and murmuring. 
 Where pebbles are dark and waters clear, 
 As a slow black eye and a pearly tear ; 
 And the woodbine is hung over that pale gleam, 
 And the green moss is creeping towards the stream, 
 And the tall oaks are up at the light of day, 
 And waving aloft where the winds do play. 
 
 And lo ! what a world is before me spread. 
 From the fringed dell to the mountain head ! 
 From the spangled turf whereon I stand, 
 To the bend of heaven and the verge of land ! 
 Like an ocean cradle deep it lies ; — 
 To the right, to the left, dark hills arise, 
 And Blackston-Edge, in his sunless pride, 
 Doth York from Lancaster divide ; 
 Whilst, on to the south if away we bear, 
 Oh ! what shall bar our progress there ? 
 Nought, save the blending of earth and sky, 
 Dim, and afar as eternity !
 
 13 A VIEW FROM THE TANDLE HILLS. 
 
 But where the vision begins to fail 
 There seem to be hills of a cloudy pale, 
 And next is a track of level land, 
 As if rolled flat by a mighty hand ! 
 And the kindling smoke of a waking town, 
 And meadows' sheen, and mosses brown, 
 And windows glittering in the light. 
 And a long canal like a streamlet bright, 
 And the park, once famed for bowmen's play, 
 And the lordly dome of the noble Grey, 
 And the vale where Assheton dwelt of vore, 
 And the hall which Radcliffe knows no more ! 
 
 What mountain is yonder so dark and cold ? 
 A spirit hath said, " I am Oai^hin of old, — *"' 
 I am Oaphin of old, erst the dwelling place 
 Of the British as well as the Roman race. 
 I have glens that are deep, I have moorlands wide, 
 Which I give to thy gaze on the Yorkshire side ; 
 I have vallies all shining, and waters dumb, 
 And caverns and rocks where thou darest not come. 
 I can point to the path which the Romans made — 
 To the forts where their summer camps have stay'd ; 
 And altars and symbols are still to be seen, 
 The relics of nations that once have been — 
 That once have been, and that are no more — 
 For one is dust on the Adrian shore,
 
 A VIEW FROM THE TANDLE HILLS. 19 
 
 And of one doth a remnant alone remain, 
 
 In the land where their fathers held their reign. 
 
 Oh, daughter of Cambria ! lone and fair, 
 
 With thine harp that is mute, and thy flowing hair, 
 
 And thy cheek so pale, and thy sad look cast 
 
 Whence freedom and glory for ever have past ! 
 
 It is but a cloud that is floating by — 
 
 Llewellyn's bright banner no more will fly ! 
 
 It is not the shout of thine armed men, 
 
 With Glendower rushing to battle again : 
 
 But from thine ocean that cannot abide, 
 
 Ariseth the roar of the boiling tide ; 
 
 And, 'stead of the song of thine olden day. 
 
 Comes the moan of the winds as they hurry away !"
 
 20 THE WARUIOR's ODE TO DEATH. 
 
 THE WARRIOR'S ODE TO DEATH 
 
 Come not to me on a bed 
 Of pale-faced sickness and of pining ; 
 
 Oh, clasp me close on the battle-field red, 
 Midst warriors' shouts, and armour shining ! 
 
 Let me not have priest nor bell, 
 Sable pomp, nor voice of wailing ; 
 
 The roar of the cannon shall be my knell, 
 And tears with thee are unavailing. 
 
 Then clasp me close in the hottest strife, 
 
 Where the cut, and the stab, and the shot are rife ! 
 
 May I fall on some great day, 
 With Freedom's banner streaming o'er me ! 
 
 Live but to shout for the victory. 
 And see the rout roll on before me, 
 
 And tyrants, from their greatness torn. 
 Beneath the scourge of justice smarting, 
 
 And gaze on Freedom's glorious morn. 
 My soul to cheer before departing ! 
 
 Oh, then my life might melt away, 
 
 In visions bright of libertv !
 
 TO A SNOWDROP. 21 
 
 TO A SNOWDROP/^' 
 
 Welcome, thou little modest flower ! 
 Thou venturest forth in stormy hour, 
 Bending thine head beneath the shower, 
 
 So meek and low ; 
 Smiling at hoary winter's lour, 
 
 Amonfijst the snow. 
 
 Welcome, thou little bonny thing ! 
 Glad are the tidings thou dost bring ; 
 Soon will the grass begin to spring, 
 
 The trees to bud, 
 And feathered songsters sweetly sing 
 
 In yonder wood.
 
 22 TO A SNOWDROP. 
 
 But all ! too short will be thy stay, 
 Lone guest of winter's dreary day ! 
 Scarce will the sun upon thee play 
 
 His beam of light, 
 Ere thou wilt wither and decay, 
 
 And sink in night. 
 
 And so have many sunk beside ; 
 Some dropping from their tow'ring pride- 
 Some in their lowliness have died. 
 
 Perchance I may 
 Look bright upon a stormy world, 
 
 And pass away !
 
 THE WIND UNBOUND. 
 
 THE WIND UNBOUND.* 
 
 God doth unbind the enchained wind ; 
 He bids him go, and he straightway goeth ! 
 
 The m'ghty one from the Lord is gone — 
 O'er ocean wide and o'er land he bloweth. 
 
 From mountain peak doth hg terror shake, 
 'Mid cavern'd echoes he wildly crieth ; 
 
 His wings descend where the pine woods bend- 
 O'er desert plain in thick cloud he flieth.
 
 24 THE WIND UNBOUND. 
 
 On moonles night doth he take his flight ? 
 Star-spangled regions he then exploreth ; 
 
 Flings wide his pinions in heaven's dominions, 
 And towards God's own palace gate he soareth. 
 
 Then back lie bends, and to earth descends — 
 Cloud-rending stormer, the world he shaketh ! 
 
 Pale Fear lies wailing, the brave are quailing, 
 The proud he humbles, the strong he breaketh. 
 
 On shoreless main, when his path is ta'en, 
 Howling he calls on that whelming ocean ; 
 
 The deep sea cleaveth, the billow heaveth. 
 And wind and flood meet in dire commotion ! 
 
 No ship may ride through that dreadful tide — 
 Stark horror yells, every hope denying : 
 
 The fierce wind breaketh, the wave down taketh- 
 Oh, God ! have mercy upon the dying.,
 
 WOLSEY S GRAVE. 
 
 WOLSEY'S GRAVE, 
 
 WraXTEN JiVTEB. VISITING Tilt RUINS OF LUICESTHR ABBEY, 
 SEPTEJIBEK, 1829. 
 
 Now Wolsey was, in olden time, 
 
 A man of high renown ; 
 And I went forth to seek his grave, 
 
 Close by fair Leicester town. 
 I stood beside the ruin'd wall, 
 
 And a damsel passed by ; 
 And I said, " Come, shew me, maiden fair, 
 
 Where doth Lord Wolsey lie ?"
 
 26 wolsey's grave. 
 
 V " Lord Wolsey, Sir ? there is no lord 
 
 Within these Abbey gates ; 
 There's only Master Warner here, 
 
 The land who cultivates ; 
 And Mistress Warner, and the maids, 
 
   And the pretty children dear. 
 And the men that in the garden dig : 
 
 Lord Wolsey is not here." 
 
 An old man labour'd in the ground — 
 
 His locks were silver grey ; 
 I said, " Where is Lord Wolsey's grave ? 
 
 Come, shew to me, I pray." 
 He from his labour ceas'd awhile, 
 
 And rested on his spade ; 
 And when he told me he was deaf, 
 
 I repeated what I'd said. 
 
 " Lord Wolsey? why, I never heard 
 
 Of such a man before ; 
 And I am old enough to know — 
 
 I'm upwards of fourscore. 
 There's Well'sley, — he is still alive, — 
 
 Who fought through France and Spain ; 
 My Jack went with him to the wars, 
 
 But he ne'er returned again !"
 
 WOLSEY S GRAVE, ~/ 
 
 A lady in that garden stray 'd, 
 
 And her I next address'd : 
 " Pray, madam, can you point to me 
 
 The place of Wolsey's rest ?" 
 And she said, neither heap nor sod. 
 
 Nor stone, nor pillar grey, 
 Was left to indicate the spot 
 
 Where the once proud Wolsey lay !""
 
 ~S THE ROSY BEAUTY. 
 
 THE ROSY BEAUTY. 
 
 A little rosy beauty 
 
 I chanced once to spy ; 
 Within the lonely woodlands 
 
 Were only she and I. 
 Oh ! tell me, precious jewel, 
 
 Why strayest thou alone ? 
 She, smiling, said, "I'm not afraid, 
 
 For I have injured none.
 
 THE ROSY BEAUTY. 29 
 
 " I come each mom a-milking, 
 
 I come on ev'iy eve ; 
 But cushy now hath wander'd, 
 
 Till lost, I do believe." 
 " I'll go with thes and find her, 
 
 Each dell and copse I know, 
 And where the grass is sweetest, 
 
 7\jid where the waters flow." 
 
 Where posies gay were springing, 
 
 I led the artless maid, 
 And where the birds were sinffinof. 
 
 Forgetfully we stray 'd ; 
 Where blossoms were the whitest. 
 
 And where the sWard was green, 
 And where the rill was brightest, 
 
 We found a path unseen. 
 
 And there I took occasion 
 
 To speak of sundry things : 
 Of life— its short duration — 
 
 How riches make them wings : 
 That true-love was a duty, 
 
 A wond'rous pleasure too ; 
 And I whisper'd to that beauty, 
 
 " Why may not I and you ?
 
 30 THE ROSY BEAUTY. 
 
 " I know thee, iifiy delighter, 
 
 And thou hast heard my name ; 
 I'm not a maiden's slighter, 
 
 Thou shalt not blush for shame." 
 I took her to my bosom, 
 
 And kiss'd her bonny mouth ; 
 And, Oh ! but it was sweeter 
 
 Than honey from the south. 
 
 Awhile she stood confused, 
 
 The tear was in her eye ; 
 The dove was all unused 
 
 Unto that fearful joy. 
 I sooth'd, and I caress'd her, 
 
 Until she did incline ; 
 And, if my love hath bless'd her, 
 
 That blessed one is mine !
 
 SONG or THE BRAVE. 
 
 SONG OF THE BRAVE. 
 
 Oh, what is the Life of the brave ? 
 
 A gift which his Maker hath given, 
 Lest nothing but tyrant and slave 
 
 Remain of mankind under Heaven. 
 Oh, what is the life of the brave 
 
 When staked in the cause of his right ? 
 'Tis but as a drop to the wave — 
 
 A trifle he values as light.
 
 SONG OF THE BRAVE. 
 
 And what is the Death of the brave ? 
 
 A loss which the good shall deplore ; 
 Who freedom hath striven to save, 
 
 Mankind shall revere evermore ! 
 'Tis the close of a glorious day, 
 
 'Tis the setting of yonder bright sun ; 
 A summons that welcomes away, 
 
 To a heaven already begun ! 
 
 And what is the Fame of the brave ? 
 
 'Tis the halo which follows his day ; 
 The noble example he gave, 
 
 Still shining in splendid array ! 
 The blood of the coward runs cold ; 
 
 The wise and the good do admire ; 
 But in the warm heart of the bold. 
 
 Oh, it kindles a nobler fire ! 
 
 Then who would not live with the brave ? 
 
 The wretch without virtue or worth. 
 And who would not die with the brave? 
 
 The coward that clings to the earth. 
 And who shall partake with the brave 
 
 The fame which his valour hath won ? 
 Oh, he that will fight with the brave. 
 
 Till the battle of freedom is done !
 
 THK labourer's ORISON AT SUN-RISE. 33 
 
 THE LABOURER'S ORISON AT SUN-RISE, 
 
 How pure the air, how sweet the breeze ! 
 
 The dewy grass how vernal ! 
 What being hath created these 
 
 But Thou, the great Eternal ! 
 A world of goodness spreads around. 
 
 A heaven above doth bless me ; 
 But man the foe of man is found. 
 
 And laws unjust oppress me!
 
 34 THE labourer's orison at sun-rise. 
 
 I gird me for another day 
 
 Of labour unrequited ; 
 My Father and my Deity ! 
 
 When shall these wrongs be righted ? 
 Oh ! stretch thine hand out o'er this land, 
 
 A strong, a just redresser, 
 And bid the prostrate poor upstand. 
 
 And humble the oppressor ! 
 
 We ask thee for our daily bread, 
 
 Our feeble lives to cherish ; 
 And lo ! a bounteous feast is spread, 
 
 That none for lack may perish. 
 But king and statesman, peer and priest, 
 
 Whom guile hath made the stronger, 
 Have driven Thy people from the feast, 
 
 Condemn'd to toil and hunger ! 
 
 Oh, Lord ! how long shall this prevail ? 
 
 How long thy judgments linger ? 
 Our little ones for bread do wail. 
 
 Their mothers faint of hunsrer. 
 Afar we stand, a gloomy band, 
 
 Our worth, our wants neglected. 
 The children in their father-land 
 
 Cut off, despis'd, rejected !
 
 THE labourer's ORISON AT SUN-RISE. 35 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! how long," the myriads pray, 
 
 " How long this sore despisement?" 
 " There is no God," the oppressors say, 
 
 " To mete us oiit chastisement." 
 But know, ye proud, ye sordid crowd, 
 
 A storm shall yet o'ertake you. 
 When God's right hand comes o'er the land, 
 
 Like wither'd stems to break you ! 
 
 To humble your obdurate pride. 
 
 To ope your sealed garners, 
 Rough-shod, a mighty cause shall ride 
 
 O'er your uplifted scorn ers ; 
 And change you like the feather'd snow, 
 
 The melting sun hung o'er it ; 
 And whirl you as the wind doth blow 
 
 The desert dust before it !
 
 SQ A HEAD PIECE. 
 
 A HEAD PIECE. 
 
 I'll begin with her hair, — 
 It is comely and fair, 
 And the witch hath wrought her tresses 
 Into many a snare. 
 
 Like a rampart of snow, 
 Her forehead doth show ; 
 And from her arched eyebrows, 
 I look down below.
 
 A HEAD PIECE. 
 
 And what do I see ? 
 Oh ! a bonny wick e'e ; 
 In the language of heaven 
 It is speaking to me. 
 
 Next her nose doth arise, 
 Dividing her eyes ; 
 'Tis just what a nose should be, 
 In form and in size. 
 
 And the lily so meek 
 !May be found on her cheek ; 
 And the blush of the rosebud. 
 It hath not to seek. 
 
 That posy is sweet, 
 Its beauty complete. 
 Where the rose and the lily fair 
 Together do meet. 
 
 I cannot o'erskip 
 Her bonny red lip, 
 All hung with melting kisses^ 
 For her true love to sip. 
 
 37
 
 38 A HEAD PIECE. 
 
 And were it not a sin, 
 I would worship her chin, 
 When it shews that little dimple, 
 And a cupid within. 
 
 To finish my dear. 
 Let me peep at her ear ; 
 Ah ! the lock and the gowden ring 
 Are revelling there.
 
 LONDON, FARE THEE WELL. 39 
 
 LONDON, FARE THEE VvELL. 
 
 Sunny light is breaking 
 
 Over dale and hill ; 
 Nature is awaking 
 
 From her slumber chill : 
 Winds that blow around us 
 
 Whisper softly bland, 
 While the streams that bound us 
 
 Mumiur through the land. 
 Should I for the city 
 
 Leave the vocal dell ? 
 'Twere indeed a pity — 
 
 London, fare thee well !
 
 40 
 
 LONDON, FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 Whilst my heart's contented, 
 
 Let it so remain ; 
 Luxuries unwanted 
 I can yet disdain ; 
 And, should I be gazing 
 
 At the ladies fair, 
 Might not such amazing 
 
 Beauty cause despair ? 
 Rather would I meet one 
 
 Lonely in the dell. 
 And steal a kiss, a sweet one, — • 
 
 London, fare thee well !
 
 TO SAMUEL BAMfORD. il 
 
 TO SAMUEL BAMFORD, 
 
 ^OW PRISONER IN LINCOLN CASTLE, FOR HAVING LED A NUMBER OF HIS 
 FELLOW TOWNSMEN, BEARING A BANNER INSCRIBED, " UNITV AND 
 STRENGTH," TO THE PEACEABLE MEETING OF ENGLISHMEN AT MAN- 
 CHESTER, ON THE SIXTEENTH OP AUGUST, 1819. 
 
 Bamford, an unknown friend would bring, 
 The best he can, his offering 
 
 Of humble verse to thte ; 
 And sure a tribute is thy due, 
 From all who ever lov'd or knew 
 
 The Muse and Liberty !
 
 42 TO SAMUEL BAMFORD. 
 
 My purpose is not to condole 
 With thee ; I know thy noble soul 
 
 Condoling strains would scorn. 
 A lot like thine I rather deem 
 Of 'gratulation is a theme, 
 
 For Freedom's sake when borne. 
 
 'Tis glorious, in a cause like hers, 
 To rank among the sufferers ; 
 
 More glorious than to be 
 A mighty nation's conqueror, 
 Or the imperious arbiter 
 
 Of a world's destiny. 
 
 And none who hath a freeman's heart. 
 Who loves to act a freeman's part, 
 
 Would change his dungeon, where 
 No ray, save innocence, hath shone, 
 For all the splendours of a throne 
 
 Which guilt hath help'd to rear. 
 
 The Patriot, torn by tyranny 
 From every best and dearest tie, 
 
 From kindred, child, and wife; 
 From all the objects of his love, 
 Whose smiles could make an Eden of 
 
 This barren wild of life ;
 
 TO SAMUEL BAMFORD. 43 
 
 Possesses, in the holy thought, 
 
 His country's were the ends he sought, 
 
 Support and peace divine ; 
 And feels within an happiness, 
 Which none, who know not, can express — 
 
 And, Bamford, these are thine ! 
 
 And thine to know that in the time 
 Of freedom's triumphing, sublime, '"' 
 
 Thy wrongs will ever prove 
 The seal of truth upon thy claim 
 To that imperishable fame 
 
 Which high-soul'd patriots love ! 
 
 The God of justice grant it may 
 Be thine to see, to sing that day, 
 
 Magnificent and grand, 
 And thine to write the funeral song 
 Of the base tyranny which long 
 
 Hath cursed our native land ! 
 
 H. 
 
 Manchester, June 5th, 1820.
 
 44 LINES, ADDRESSED TO H- 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO H- 
 
 IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 What bard unknown hath deign'd to bring 
 To such as me an offering 
 
 Of verse, which might not shame 
 The sweetest lyre, the proudest lay, 
 That ever wak'd its melody 
 
 To liberty or fame ? 
 
 Stranger, whoe'er thou art, I know 
 Thy soul hath felt that holy glow 
 
 Of patriotic fire, 
 Which, burning ever bright and pure. 
 Shall to the end of time endure, 
 
 When all things shall expire.
 
 LINES, ADDRESSED TO H . 4o 
 
 Ah, why till now hath not been heard 
 Expression of thy kindly word ? 
 
 How glad should I have been 
 To stray with thee o'er field and flower, 
 To moorland high, or to the bower 
 
 Of shady woodland green ! 
 
 Or where the breezes softly rise 
 In whispers and in gentle sighs, 
 
 Beside that streamlet clear, 
 Where in the twilight I have known 
 The lovelorn beauty steal alone. 
 
 Perhaps to meet her dear. 
 
 We could have pluck'd each flower that grows, 
 The violet and the bonny rose 
 
 Which blossoms on the brier ; 
 And I had listened whilst thou sung — 
 For my hoarse pipe had tuneless hung 
 
 If thou hadst touch'd thy lyre. 
 
 But time and tide roll swift away, 
 And they will usher in a day 
 
 When I may sure be free 
 To rest me at my long lost home, 
 Where, if thou condescend to come, 
 
 Most welcome shalt thou be.
 
 46 LINES, ADDRESSED TO H 
 
 Thou sayest right, 'tis not for me 
 To mourn beneath the tyranny 
 
 Which holds me in a chain ; 
 No ! though awhile its power I brook, 
 Mine heart can feel, mine eye can look, 
 
 Defiance and disdain ! 
 
 I would not change my iron bed 
 For all the downy couches spread 
 
 Around corruption's throne ; 
 Nor would I give my prison fare 
 For all the delicacies rare 
 
 Which pampered wealth doth own. 
 
 And why indeed should I repine ? 
 The crown as well as cross is mine ; 
 
 And if the crown I claim. 
 It must not be when comes the day 
 Which dealeth out adversity. 
 
 That I should shun the same. 
 
 Nor do I feel of aught the want 
 That conscious innocence can grant; 
 
 For she is ever nigh. 
 With healing in her lily wing, 
 Dispelling care and sorrowing, 
 
 And giving peace and joy.
 
 LINES, ADDRESSED TO H . 47 
 
 There was an eye that pour'd the tear, 
 And every drop was doubly dear ; 
 
 And there was one beside. 
 The little nestling of my heart. 
 It clung to me and would not part. 
 
 Nor yet be pacified. 
 
 I heard it cry, I saw them weep. 
 Oh, how did I my full heart keep, 
 
 Amid the agony ! 
 I gave them to that God on high, 
 Who feeds the ravens when they cry, 
 
 And to my country. 
 
 And though, perhaps, their tears are dried, 
 Yet they have deeply ratified 
 
 My wrongs and injuries ; 
 For which I know there is in store, 
 Vengeance a hundred-fold or more. 
 
 Upon mine enemies. 
 
 Oh, let them in their darkness sleep, 
 Wliilst hell doth from her ambush creep 
 
 To snatch her mighty prize — 
 The pimp of power, the venal slave. 
 The trickster-playing fool and knave, 
 
 And all their host of spies.
 
 48 LINES, ADDRESSED TO H 
 
 Then, bloated pride shall bite the dust ; 
 Ojjpression, cruelty, and lust, 
 
 Shall rule the land no more ! 
 And they who slew may look about, 
 For there perhaps may be a rout 
 
 To pay for one before !
 
 THE WILD RIDER. 49 
 
 THE WILD RIDER.'"' 
 
 A LEGENDARY TALE. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Now, unto fair Alkrington tidings there came, 
 And the gallant young knight he soon heard of the same, 
 That a gentle young damsel had passed that morn, 
 And was gone up a-hunting with hound and with horn ; 
 "And oh !" said Sir Ashton, " if that be the case, 
 ]\Iethinks 1 would fain join the maid in the chase, 
 And so, bid my groom-boy, withouten delay. 
 Bring forth my white hunter, — I'll ride her to-day." 
 
 D
 
 iO THE WILD RIDER. 
 
 And soon his white hunter was led to the gate, 
 Where, neighing and pacing, she scarcely would wait ; 
 She champ'd the steel bits, and she flung her head high, 
 As if she would fain snuff the air of the sky, 
 And wist not to breathe the low wind of the plain, 
 Which spread, like a white cloud, her tail and her mane : 
 " And oh !" thought the knight, as he view'd her with pride, 
 . " The game shall be love when my Arab I ride !" 
 
 The knight he rode south, over Blakeley's high land, 
 But tidings he heard not of maid or her band; 
 The knight he rode east, t'wards the uprising sun. 
 But the broad heaths of Moston lay silent and dun ; 
 And then he sped north, but she did not appear ; 
 The cry of the hunter came not to his ear. 
 Till o'er lonely Syddall awoke a far strain, 
 And he rode till he join'd the fair maid and her train. 
 
 And who was the maiden, that, plumed so gay. 
 Went forth with the hounds and good hunters that day ? 
 And why did the damsel make slight of all heed. 
 Or whither she went with her hound and her steed ? 
 And why reck'd she little of all that gay band, 
 But still cast her long-looking gaze o'er the land ? 
 And smil'd not, though often she turned and sigh'd, 
 Till a snowy white courser afar she espied ?
 
 THE WILD RIDER. 
 
 Sweet Mary, twin rose of the Assheton line, 
 Is she who comes forth like a Dian divine ; 
 And often the knight and the damsel, of late. 
 Had met at the hunting, through love or through fate ; 
 And now she bade welcome, with maidenly pride — 
 The knight wav'd his hand, and rode on by her side ; 
 But ere the old woodlands of Bowlee were cross'd. 
 Both knight and fair maid to the hunters were lost. 
 
 For there, whilst the chase hurries on like the wind. 
 The twain of young lovers have tarried behind ; 
 And leaving their steeds, the deep woodlands they pace, 
 His arm round the maid, and his looks on her face ; 
 He whispers sweet words from his heart's inmost core, 
 He would love her through life, and through death, — 
 
 could he more ? 
 And fondly, in tears, she enplighteth her vow, 
 '' In life and in death, I'll be faithful as thou I"
 
 52 THE WILD RIDER. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 Now, unto fair Alkrington tidings there came, 
 And soon was the knight made aware of the same, 
 That Mary, his lov'd one, was held in deep thrall. 
 Close bolted and barr'd, down at Middleton hall ; 
 And that her old father had sworn bv his life, 
 His daughter should ne'er to Sir Ashton be wife ; 
 And that one Sir Morden,* a knight from south-land, 
 Was come down to claim Lady Mary's fair hand. 
 
 Oh ! woe unto true-love, when kindred severe 
 "Would stifle affection, and chill its warm tear ! 
 And woe unto true-love, when trials come fast, 
 And friendship is found but a shadow at last ! 
 And woe to the heart that is reft of its own, 
 And bidden to languish in sorrow alone ! 
 But woe beyond weeping is that when we prove, 
 That one we love dearly hath ceased to love ! 
 
 * TLis is a misnomer, as the monument of the last of the Asslictous in 
 Middleton church testifies. The name should be Harbord.
 
 THK WILD RIDER. .53 
 
 Thus mournful the fate of the maid did appear ; 
 Her sire, though he lov'd her, was stern and austere, 
 And friends who came round her, when bright was her day, 
 Were silent, or doubtful, or kept quite away. 
 But Hope, like an angel, bright visions still drew, 
 And pictured her knight ever constant and true, 
 Till one came and told her he'd ta'en him a bride ; — 
 Her young heart then wither'd, her tears were all dried. 
 
 How sweet is the music of wedding-day bells, 
 
 On sunny-bright uplands, and down the green dells ; 
 
 All gaily melodious it comes in the air. 
 
 As if undying pleasure were carolling there ; 
 
 As if golden-wing'd seraphs had broken astray, 
 
 And were playing on cymbals for bright holiday ! 
 
 E'en such was the music one gay morning time, 
 
 Which the bells of Saint Leonard's did merrily chime. 
 
 And why rang Saint Leonard's that merry-mad tune ? 
 And why was the church path with flowers bestrewn i 
 And who was that marble-pale beauty, that mov'd 
 As nothing she hop'd for, and nothing she lov'd — 
 Who gave her white hand, but 'twas clammy and cold. 
 Who sigh'd when she look'd on her ring of bright gold ? 
 Oh Mary ! lost Mary ! where now is thy vow, 
 " In life and in death, I'll be faithful as thou ?"
 
 54 THE WILD RIDER, 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 It was night, and the merry toned bells were at rest, 
 The cock on his roost, and the dove in her nest ; 
 The bride in her chamber sat weeping apart, 
 For solace was none for her young bleeding heart ; 
 The heavens howl'd wildly, the stars were all pale, 
 The clouds hurried back 'gainst the stream of the gale ; 
 The young knight went riding, no one whither knew, 
 But mournfully silent, he slowly withdrew. 
 
 In a ruinous cottage at Cambeshire barn. 
 
 An old wither'd crone sat unravelling yarn ; 
 
 A few heaped embers lay dusty and white, 
 
 A lamp, green and fetid, cast ominous light ; 
 
 A brindled cat mew'd as it hutch'd by the hob ; 
 
 A broody hen crow'd from her perch on a cob ; 
 
 The lamp it burn'd pale, and the lamp it burn'd blue. 
 
 And fearfully ghast was the light which it threw.
 
 THE WILD RIDER. •'J'-> 
 
 " And who cometh here ? " said the mumbling old crone, 
 " And why comes a gentleman riding alone ? 
 And why doth he wander areawt* such a night, 
 When the moon is gone down, and the stars give no light ; 
 When those are abroad who would stab a lost child, 
 And the wind comes up muttering fearful and wild, 
 And the hen 'gins to crow, and the malkin to mew, 
 And my grave-fatted lamp glimmers dimly and blue?" 
 
 A knocking was heard at the old hovel door, 
 
 And forth stepp'd a dark muffled man on the floor ; 
 
 He threw back his mantle of many a fold. 
 
 And he crossed the wan palm of the sybil with gold. 
 
 " Now, Sir Knight of Alkrington, what wouldst ttou know. 
 
 That, seeking my home, thou entreatest me so ? 
 
 The world-sweeping mower thy heart-wound must cure ; 
 
 And she who lies mourning hath more to endure ! 
 
 " But, warning I give thee, a sign from afar — 
 There's a cloud on thy sun, there's a spot on thy star. 
 Go, climb the wild mountain, or toil on the plain. 
 Or be outcast on land, or be wreck'd on the main ; 
 Or seek the red battle and dare the death wound, 
 Or mine after treasure a mile under ground ; 
 For, sleeping or waking, on ocean or strand. 
 Thy life is prolong'd, if thou hold thine own hand." 
 
 * Areawt — out of doors — iibroad.
 
 5G THE WILD RIDER. 
 
 What further was said 'twixt the knight and the crone 
 Was never repeated, and never was known ; 
 But when he came forth, to remount him again, 
 One, fearful and dark, held his stirrup and rein — 
 His horse it stood shaking and cover'd with foam. 
 It ran with him miles ere he turn'd it t'wards home ; 
 The grey morning broke, and the battle cock crew. 
 Ere the lorn-hearted knight to his chamber withdrew.
 
 THE WILD RIDER. 01 
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 
 And -who hath not heard how the knight, from that day, 
 
 Was altered in look, and unwont in his way ; 
 
 And how he sought wonders of every form, 
 
 And things of all lands, from a gem to a worm ; 
 
 And how he divided his father's domain, 
 
 And sold many parts to the purchasers' gain ; 
 
 And how his poor neighbours with pity were sad. 
 
 And said, good Sir Ashton, through love, was gone mad ? 
 
 But, strangest of all, on that woe-wedding night, 
 
 A black horse was stabled where erst stood the white ; 
 
 The grooms, when they found him, in terror quick fled, 
 
 His breath was hot smoke, and his eyes burning red ; 
 
 He beat down a strong wall of mortar and crag. 
 
 He tore his oak stall as a dog would a rag. 
 
 And no one durst put forth a hand near that steed 
 
 Till a priest had read ave, and pater, and creed.
 
 •'>'^ THE WILD RIDER. 
 
 And then he came forth, a strange beautiful thing, 
 With speed that could lead a wild eagle on wing ; 
 And raven had never spread plume on the air 
 Whose lustreful darkness with his might compare. 
 He bore the young Ashton — none else could him ride — 
 O'er flood and o'er fell, and o'er quarry-pit wide ; 
 The housewife, she blessed her, and held fost her child. 
 And the men swore both horse and his rider were wild ! 
 
 And then, when the knight to the hunting field came, 
 
 He rode as he sought rather death than his game ; 
 
 He halloo'd through woods where he'd wander'd of yore. 
 
 But the lost lady Mary he never saw more ! 
 
 And no one durst ride in the track where he led. 
 
 So fearful his leaps, and so madly he sped ; 
 
 And in his wild phrensy he gallop'd one day 
 
 Down the church steps at Rochdale, and up the same way. 
 
 And sad was the fate which the lady befel ; 
 She liv'd with a husband she never lov'd well. 
 The hall of her fathers was pull'd to the ground, 
 The home of her childhood in ruins she found ; 
 The land was all rack'd to yield hoardings of gold ; 
 And underlings base did authority hold. 
 'Twas said that Sir Ashton his own life destroy'd. 
 And Mary was buried by dead Morden's side.
 
 TO JEMIMA. 5,9 
 
 TO JEMIMA. 
 
 How happy may we be, my love ! 
 
 How happy may we be, 
 If we our humble means improve, 
 
 My wife, my child, and me. 
 Our home shall be a turtle's nest. 
 
 Where duty, peace, and love. 
 Shall make its inmates truly blest. 
 
 And sorrow far remove. 
 
 And if the world upon us frown, 
 
 Still peace serene is ours ; 
 It cannot bear the free mind down, 
 
 With all its tyrant powers : 
 For if they bear me far away, 
 
 And bind me with a chain, 
 Our nestling will beside thee stay — 
 
 Then do not, love, complain.
 
 (iO TO JEMIMA. 
 
 But, virtue only can endow 
 
 With happines's secure ; 
 For virtue learns her vot'ries how 
 
 Each trial to endure. 
 How wretched is the feeble mind 
 
 That shrinks at ev'ry blast ! 
 Whilst virtue is a bulwark kind, 
 
 Enduring to the last. 
 
 There fortified, the storms of fate 
 
 Around us harmless howl ; 
 No coward-terrors they create 
 
 To shake the steadfast soul : 
 We calmly pass through life, my love, 
 
 And many sweets enjoy ; 
 And, when it please the Power above. 
 
 Without a murmur die.
 
 THE SONG OF FREEDOM. 61 
 
 THE SONG OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Tune. — " Sifilian Mariner's Hymn." 
 
 Parent of the wide creation, 
 We would counsel ask of thee ; 
 
 Look upon a mighty nation, 
 Rousing from its slavery. 
 
 If to men our wrongs are stated, 
 We are but the faster bound, 
 
 All our actions reprobated, 
 No redress for us is found.
 
 G2 THE SONG OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Thou hast made us to inherit 
 Strength of body, daring mind ; 
 
 Shall we rise, and in thy spirit 
 Tear away the chains that bind ? 
 
 Chains, but forged to degrade us, 
 Oh, the base indignity ! 
 
 In the name of Him who made us, 
 We will perish, or be free.
 
 TIM bobbin' grave. 63 
 
 TIM BOBBIN' GRAVE.'*' 
 
 I stoode beside Tim Bobbin' grave 
 'At looks o'er Ratchda' teaAvn ; 
 
 An' th' owd lad 'woke within his yerth, 
 An' sed, " \Yheer arto' beawn?" 
 
 " Awm gooin' into th' Packer-street, 
 As far as th' Gowden Bell, 
 
 To taste o' Daniel, Kesmus ale." 
 Tim. — "I cud like o saup mysel'."
 
 G4 
 
 TIM BOBBIN GRAVE. 
 
 " All' by this hont o' my reet arm, 
 If fro' that hole theaw'U reawk, 
 
 Theaw'st have o saup o'th' best breawn ale 
 'At ever lips did seawk." 
 
 The greawnd it sturr'd beneath my feet, 
 
 An' then I yerd o groan ; 
 He shook the dust fro' off his skull, 
 
 An rowit away the stone. 
 
 I brought him op o deep breawn jug, 
 
 'At o gallon did contain ; 
 An' he took it at one blessed draught. 
 
 An' laid him deawn again !
 
 THE WEAVER BOY. G5 
 
 THE WEAVER BOY. 
 
 " Oh stay, oh stay, thou lady gay ! 
 
 And deign to lend an ear ; 
 Fair lady, seekest thou thy love ? 
 
 Thy truest love is here." 
 " And how dost thou presume to love," 
 
 The lady gay replied, 
 " A maid so much thy rank above, 
 
 Both rich and dignified ? 
 Hence, simple hoy, and learn to knov/ 
 That ladies do not look so low."
 
 66 THE WEAVER BOY. 
 
 " Oh stay, oh stay, thou lady gay !" 
 
 With tears the youth did cry ; 
 And the gentle maid once more hath stay'd 
 
 Before the pleading boy. 
 " My station thou art far above. 
 
 That truth too well I know, 
 Since thou hast bought my work of love. 
 
 And yet contemn'st me so." 
 And how is 't that the maid did say, 
 " Speak, for I can no longer stay ? " 
 
 " Fair lady, as at work I sat, 
 
 And wrought that garment fine, 
 A winged child, who lisp'd and smil'd. 
 
 Foretold it should be thine ; 
 He took a fibre from my heart, 
 
 And trac'd that pattern dear. 
 And dy'd it with my love-warm blood, 
 
 And wash'd it with my tear ! " 
 With melting eye the maid did say, 
 " Take comfort till another day."
 
 LAMENT FOR MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 LAMENT FOR MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 My angel child ! my angel child ! 
 Gentle, affectionate, and mild ; 
 Her arms around my neck she coil'd, 
 And look'd, and wept, my angel child ! 
 
 She wept that we so soon must part ; 
 She knew that death was near her heart. 
 We were but three, O, God above ! 
 Couldst Thou not spare that group of love ?
 
 68 LAMENT FOR MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Oh, mournful hour ! oh, anguish deep ! 
 She, weeping, bade me not to weep ; 
 And meekly in her tears she smil'd, 
 Like sunbeam cast on ruin wild. 
 
 Sweet flowers unto her grave 1 bring, 
 To bloom, to die, in early spring ; 
 All pure, and beautiful, and mild. 
 Like my lost dove, my angel child ! 
 
 HER EPITAPH. 
 
 To the gentle and blest, 
 Who hath come to her rest, 
 An offering meet 
 In season appears ; 
 All beautiful and sweet, 
 Flowers, nursed in tears.
 
 LINES. C9 
 
 LINES 
 
 OCCASIONED BV THE JIEATH OF LORD EYROX, AND BY SOMK CIR( CMS TANCES 
 CONXliCTKD THEREWITH. 
 
 I saw the sun go down — 
 
 And in that dark'ning time, 
 From earth to sky uprose the cry 
 
 Of many a tongue and clime. 
 By Valtos, where Botzaris fell, 
 The mailed freeman stood and cried 
 Until his fount of tears was dried : 
 
 And Britain, too, could tell 
 How she had gloried in that daj^ 
 How mourned when it pass'd away !
 
 'LINES. 
 
 And, as I look'd again, behold 
 
 A fearful sight advance ! 
 For up there came the cold, cold moon, 
 That dream'd not of a night so soon. 
 
 I mark'd her placid glance ; 
 Serenely still she kept her sky, 
 Her head unbow'd, her tearless eye 
 Betray'd a mien that might not move 
 At death, or agony, or love. 
 And curl'd around her crested horn, 
 
 I saw a snake of fire, 
 Which utter'd vi^ords of bitter scorn ; 
 
 Interminable ire 
 Dwelt on the tongue of that strange thing, 
 That round and round the moon did cling ! 
 
 Of broken vows, of pride that bled, 
 The scorching reptile ever spoke ; 
 
 Anon, it toss'd its scaly head, 
 That flash'd as if the lightning broke ! 
 When cruel words and passions woke 
 It nurs'd the flame, and kept it burning ; 
 To love, to duty, no returning 
 Was ever known ; — no sigh, no tear. 
 Hath stray'd from that unmelting sphere ! 
 
 The present race of men shall die, 
 
 Before another sun 
 Arise so bright, or soar so high. 
 
 As, lost one, thou hast done !
 
 LINES. 71 
 
 The priest is laughing 'neath his robe, 
 
 The tyrant on his throne ; 
 In hollow phrase they dole forth praise 
 
 Far better let alone. 
 E'en that which "should as air be free," 
 Doth speak in guarded words of thee ; 
 Whilst bigotry and power do stand 
 In dark conjunction o'er the land !
 
 SONG OF THE POLISH ARMY 
 
 SONG OF THE POLISH ARMY ON ITS 
 RETREAT FROM WARSAW. 
 
 We meet at tlie home of our fathers no more, 
 
 But we leave it all red with the Muscovites' gore ! 
 
 They came like the hunger-press'd wolf to his prey, 
 
 Who cannot, who will not, be turned away. 
 
 They came like the waves of the deluging main, 
 
 Their living surmounting their masses of slain ; 
 
 And onward, and onward, they bore to the strife, 
 
 To the gushing of blood, to the gasping of life ; 
 
 Till the trenches were choaked with the thousands we slew, 
 
 And their blood hath descended in rain and in dew. 
 
 And their corses are feeding the fowls of the air. 
 
 At the banquet of death, on the field of despair !
 
 ON ITS RETREAT FROM WARSAW. 73 
 
 Oh, home of our fathers ! the noble and brave 
 Can never lie down in the lair of the slave ; 
 And thou art defiled by a barbarous horde, 
 Who know not a will save the will of their lord ; 
 Who rise at his bidding the lands to oppress, 
 Who come at his calling the bless'd to unbless ; 
 Who, howling and wild from their deserts afar, 
 Bring famine and pestilence unto the war — 
 Gaunt famine subduing the soul and the breath, 
 '^ Wan pestilence bending our heroes to death ! 
 
 lliey dar'd, they endur'd, without murmur or sigh, 
 Though nations stood silent and motionless by ! 
 
 Oh, home of our fathers ! we bid thee adieu — 
 
 To freedom and glory our hearts are still true ; 
 
 Xor yet we abandon the land we adore — 
 
 A battle is lost, but the war is not o'er. 
 
 When myriads surround and approach to devour. 
 
 For refuge we turn to the fortress and tower ; 
 
 And there from a thousand loud cannons we cry, 
 
 " Come die at the feet of the free, come and die ! 
 
 Come on with your phalanx, your courser and spear. 
 
 The sons of Sarmatia are rallying here ; 
 
 Your parley we scorn, and your wratb we defy. 
 
 Come die with the free and the brave, come and die !"
 
 74 THE toet's consolement of his wife 
 
 THE POET'S CONSOLEMENT OF HIS WIFE 
 IN ADVERSITY. 
 
 Now to the wilderness away ! 
 
 Beloved, come with me ; 
 Since yon base lord hath ta'en our home, 
 
 And we are bare and free : 
 For I have found a little nest 
 
 To shelter thee and me ; 
 Love, I have found a place of rest, 
 
 And let us thither flee.
 
 IN ADVERSITY. lO 
 
 What, though our bed be not of down — 
 
 Though moss and fern it be, 
 Shorn by the steep of Tandle-shaw, 
 
 Where the wind blows sweet and free ; 
 The rest of peace, and healthful sleep, 
 
 Shall comfort thee and me : 
 Then stay not love, to gaze and weep, 
 
 But come and happy be. 
 
 What, though our pillow be not down — 
 
 Though heather flowers it be, 
 Shorn by the steep of Gerrard's side, 
 
 Where the rill glents bonnilie ; 
 Thy dreams by night shall be as bright 
 
 As lady gay doth see : 
 Love, take thy rest upon my breast, 
 
 W^hich beats so true for thee. 
 
 I'll bring thee sweet milk from the cow, 
 
 And butter from the churn, 
 And fuel from the dingle side, 
 
 And water from the burn ; 
 And thou shalt be so happy there, 
 
 Thou never wilt return : 
 Love, thou shalt be so happy there, 
 
 Thou wilt forget to mourn.
 
 7(5 THE poet's consolement of his wife in adversity 
 
 We've seen the world, we've known the world, 
 
 Its frown, its promise fair — 
 Its vanities of vanity, 
 
 Its pleasure and its care ; 
 The strife for life, the death-woe rife, 
 
 The hope against despair. 
 The loss, the gain ; oh ! why remain ? 
 
 Our lost one is not there ! 
 
 Then come, my wife, my only love, 
 
 Bright hours are yet unflown ; 
 Come home unto the solitudes, 
 
 Afar from tower and town. 
 Like birds we have been wandering. 
 
 Where storms have rudely blown ; 
 Now let us rest our weary wing. 
 
 Before the sun goes down.
 
 THE PREDICTION'. ' / 
 
 THE PREDICTION.'^' 
 
 Babbler of St. Stephen's hall, 
 
 Hear a Bard's prediction ; 
 Ponder on his warning call, 
 
 Deem it not a fiction. 
 Sure the day, and sure the doom, 
 
 Sure his prophesying. 
 Frightful horror, thickest gloom, 
 
 Darkeneth thy dying.
 
 78 THE PREDICTION. 
 
 Hated as thy deeds have been, 
 
 Fearful be thy ending ; 
 Mutes and mourners are not seen, 
 
 Child nor wife attending. 
 Rend away the plume and pall. 
 
 Coffin, scarf, and shroud, too ; 
 Ravens to the feast may fall, 
 
 Dogs may be allow'd too. 
 
 Not respected is thy life — 
 
 Die then, unlamented ; 
 Pistol, dirk, or whetted knife. 
 
 Take thee unrepented. 
 Death shall pluck thee from thine height 
 
 Of unblest ambition ; 
 Gripe thee with resistless might. 
 
 And dash thee to perdition !
 
 AUTUMN AXD WINTER. 79 
 
 AUTUMN AND WINTER. 
 
 Autumn blythe is come again, 
 With her brown and merry train ; 
 
 I caught a sweet glance of her face — 
 With a sickle in her hand, 
 She came o'er the gowden land, 
 
 And reapers came shearing apace. 
 
 Low, they bend as they step. 
 
 And they hook, and they grip, 
 Cut and carry Avith hook and with hand ; 
 
 Merry gleaners sing behind, 
 
 Sweet as viol of the wind, 
 For the poor still have joy in the land.
 
 so AUTUMN AND WINTER. 
 
 " Blessed one is he •\vlio leaves 
 By his furrows and his sheaves, 
 
 A handful to comfort the poor ; 
 Winter thorough shall he rest, 
 With his harvest hous'd and bless'd. 
 
 And no wail shall be heard at his door." 
 
 Now the cherry-lipped maid 
 Unto orchard bower hath stray'd, 
 
 Where the plums are all dropping adown, 
 And the apple, bright as gold, 
 On the soft green sward hath roll'd , 
 
 And the sweet pear so melting and brown. 
 
 Bonny Bess and rosy Kate 
 Are gone down through the gate, 
 Twain fairer are seldom afield ; 
 And with each a handy fork, 
 They set cheerfully to work 
 * At the drills which the potatoes yield. 
 
 There's Red-farmer, dusky Sweep, 
 (That's a famous sort to keep), 
 
 And Pink Eye, and rough-coated Rad, 
 Food for ladyship or Queen, 
 Bacon slice, or beef between, 
 
 And a jack of good ale let them add.
 
 AUTUMN AND WINTER. 81 
 
 Now the carrots should be dug, 
 
 Up with turnips by the lug, 
 And earth them withouten delay ; 
 
 Whate'er weather then betide, 
 
 We can shelter or abide, 
 And let Winter come on as he may. 
 
 Hark ! the old ruffian's shout. 
 
 Leading storm and wassail rout, — 
 !Maiden Frost stepping crisply before. 
 
 Strewing hoar on fallen leaves, 
 
 Painting windows under eaves, 
 Warning Autumn to linger no more. 
 
 Fuel stack is huge and round, 
 
 Cottage roof is thatch'd and bound ; 
 There are brown ale and bread on the board. 
 
 Winter ! bring thy wassail band. 
 
 Clog on foot, and glove on hand, 
 Hearty welcome art thou as a lord !
 
 GLENARFON. 
 
 GLENARFON. 
 
 Tune. " Y' Gadlkss," " The Camp of the Palace," or, " Of 
 
 WHAT A NOBLE EACE WAS ShENKInI" 
 
 Awake the voice of Arfon's praise — 
 Glenarfon, son of ancient days! 
 Descending from the depth of Time, 
 Behold Glenarfon's race sublime ! 
 Proclaim their deeds ; — they come ! they come '. 
 In glory o'er the clouded tomb ; 
 For though in death their ashes lie, 
 The fame of heroes cannot die.
 
 GLENARFOX. 
 
 Awake the voice of Arfon's praise, 
 And give his fame to other days ! 
 When strangers came our land to spoil, 
 Glenarfon, where was he the while ? 
 Oh ! where was he ? — where should he he .'' 
 Amid his dying foes was he ! 
 Glenarfon's scythe the field did sweep, 
 Glenarfon's sword the ground did keep. 
 
 Awake the voice of Arfon's praise, 
 And let his wisdom have our lays I 
 When the rude spoilers he had spoil'd, 
 Glenarfon as a dove was mild ; 
 And where he dwelt was safety felt, 
 And even justice forth he dealt. 
 Shall happy days like Arfon's reign, 
 To Cymru e'er return again ? 
 
 Awake the voice of Arfon's praise, 
 And let his bounty have our lays ! 
 To feast within his banquet hall, 
 His bards and warriors he would call ; 
 And there they drank the honey wine, 
 And there was sung the lay divine. 
 But song of bard, and freedom's host. 
 Oh, Cymru ! are thy glories lost ?
 
 84 MORISA. 
 
 ]\I O R I S A . 
 
 Ah me ! that Morisa I never had seen, 
 The fairest of mortals, of beauty the queen ! 
 I'd then remain'd free as the bird in the air. 
 But now I am held in the bonds of despair ; 
 And the chains of her thraldom I cannot resign. 
 Though I know that Morisa must never be mine. 
 
 The eye of Morisa doth pierce like a dart ; 
 
 I caught but a glance and it wounded my heart ; 
 
 The throb of my bosom is bleeding away ; 
 
 My morning is darken'd before it be day ; 
 
 Would she look on her victim, with mercy benign, 
 
 I could die for Morisa and,never repine !
 
 MORIS A. 85 
 
 ilorisa tlie beauty, I saw her sweet smile ; 
 That look miijht an an<jel from heaven bejruile : 
 A radiant loveliness beam'd in her face, 
 Expressive of dignity, goodness, and grace ; 
 I then became captive and did not repine, 
 Though I knew that INIorisa must never be mine! 
 
 Morisa the lovely, I once heard her sigh ; 
 
 There was thousrht on her brow, and a tear in her eve : 
 
 The spirit of sadness a shadow had thrown 
 
 Where the sun-light of beauty so lately had shone ; 
 
 But the sigh of her soul had a fragrance divine ; 
 
 It was meant for another — it could not be mine I 
 
 She is fair as the snow that on Alphian lies ; 
 She is pure as the ether of heaven's own skies ; 
 She is modest as innocent beauty can be, 
 And chaste as the white-bosom'd maid of the sea. 
 To bow and adore her I could not decline. 
 Though I knew that Morisa must never be mine !
 
 so brandreth's soliloquy in prison. 
 
 BRANDRETH'S SOLILOQUY IN PRISON.''"' 
 
 I must die — but not like a slave, 
 To his tyrant in penitence bending ; 
 
 I shall die like an Englishman brave, 
 I have liv'd so, and so be my ending ! 
 
 I must die — and my doom is my pride ; 
 
 The death that awaits me is welcome ; 
 The daemon's last pang is defied, 
 
 But a day of deep vengeance there will come.
 
 brandreth's soliloquy in prison. 87 
 
 How shall my blood-sliedders repent, 
 
 When the nations hot wrath is out poured ! 
 
 The freed world shall hail the event, 
 
 And the pride of its despots be lowered. 
 
 They shall howl like the yell of the storm ; 
 
 They shall flee like the deer-herd affrighted : 
 They shall, weeping, lie down with the worm ; 
 
 They shall pray, and their prayers shall be slighted- 
 
 Whilst vengeance, and guilt, and dismay, 
 Their blood-scented footsteps pursuing. 
 
 Shall cliase ev'ry comfort away. 
 And leave but affliction and ruin ! 
 
 Their children shall then be like mine. 
 No father's fond arm to protect them ; 
 
 Their ladies in sorrow may pine. 
 
 For none will be found to respect them. 
 
 What wealth would they freely give then. 
 For the sleep that I soon shall be sleeping ! 
 
 To never feel sorrow again — 
 
 To know not its watching and weeping !
 
 88 BRANDRETh's SOLILOaUY IN PRISON. 
 
 What wealth would thej' freely give then 
 
 For the grave that poor Brandreth will cover ; 
 
 To hide from the hatred of men, 
 
 From the terrors which fearfully hover ! 
 
 And what is the gem they would give 
 
 For that conscience this firm heart supporting ; 
 That when they no longer could live, 
 
 They might die with a Brandreth's comporting ! 
 
 But conscience can never be bought, 
 Courage can never be sold : 
 
 The villain will die as he ought ; 
 The good man may always be bold !
 
 LINES OX THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DAUGHTER'S DECEASE. 89 
 
 LINES, 
 
 TTRIITKN OCr. loTH, lS3t>, BEINO THE ANNIVLRSARY OF ?1Y DAUGHTERS 
 DECEASE, AND TWO YEARS AFTER THAT EVENT. 
 
 Dark is the day, 
 Dun twilight only wakes upon the hill ; 
 
 Pale is the ray 
 Of sunbeam slanting through the wind-gust chill : 
 
 Dim comes the morn, 
 Cloud-bound and gloomy hangs the brow of noon ; 
 
 Evening, down-borne. 
 Brings o'er us darkness vast, — no star, no moon !
 
 90 LINES ON THE ANNIVERSARY 
 
 Hark I to yon sound 
 By gleam-lit clough, shorn slope, and dusky plain ; 
 
 The winds unbound, 
 Like unseen hunters, hurry past again. 
 
 Hark ! to their moan. 
 Like note of deep-mouth'd hound, afar away ; 
 
 Now wilder tone 
 Is heard, — shrill cry, and wailing of dismay ! 
 
 Cold is the air — 
 The burden'd clouds are bow'd with chilly rain ; 
 
 Hedges are bare. 
 And cheerless birds from notes of joy refrain. 
 
 The forest stems, 
 Storm-swept, are waving in the wintry sky ; 
 
 Their summer gems 
 Lie strewn and perishing where mine doth lie. 
 
 The dearest gem 
 That e'er was treasur'd near a parent's heart ; 
 
 Too pure a gem 
 For human life, to heaven she must depart ! 
 
 Oh ! child of love, 
 Let us behold thee, earth-ward if thou stray ; 
 
 Come from above 
 On radiant wing, come in thv bright arrav !
 
 OF MY daughter's DECEASE. 91 
 
 Oh ! blessed one, 
 Could we behold thee even as thou wert, 
 
 Call thee our own, 
 And press our angel unto mortal heart ! 
 
 Then would these tears 
 "Which oft have flowed since thy dying hour, 
 
 Dark months and years. 
 Be stay'd, — thou still would'sthave that soothing pow'r!
 
 92 HOURS IN THE BOWERS. 
 
 HOURS IN THE BOWERS. 
 
 Hours more dear than drops of gold 
 Come when the tender buds unfold ;- 
 Then do I wander to field and glen, 
 Far as 1 may for the gentlemen. 
 Over the blade of em'rald sheen, 
 Over the herb that creeps between ; 
 Odours inhaling that sweetly smell, 
 As I scather the cresses beside the well. 
 
 Spring moves on as glad I gaze, 
 
 Callins the flowers wherever she strays : 
 
 " Come from the earth, ye dwellers there. 
 
 To the blessed light and the living air ; 
 
 Eor the snowdrop hath warned the drift away, 
 
 And the crocus awaiteth your company. 
 
 And the bud of the thorn is beginning to swell, 
 
 And the waters have broken their bonds in the dell.
 
 HOURS IN THE BOWERS. 93 
 
 And are not the hazle and slender bine 
 Blending their houghs where the sun doth shine ? 
 And the willow is bringing its downy palm, 
 Garland for days that are bright and calm ; 
 And the lady-flow'r waves on its slender stem, 
 And the primrose peeps like a starry gem ! " 
 
 In sunny nook, Avhere the grass is dry, 
 
 Reading I sit, or I musing lie. 
 
 Then he '^^' who was lost in the ocean main, 
 
 Returneth perhaps to my thoughts again ; 
 
 Or the twain who fell "-' for that "right divine," 
 
 Which hath fully been prov'd in the battle-line ; 
 
 Or the noble bard too soon who died, 
 
 Too late for wounded love and pride ; 
 
 Or Burns, who only ask'd for bread, 
 
 And hath gotten a marble tomb instead ! 
 
 Or, casting a thought towards sorrows past, 
 
 I hope that the last may remain the last ; 
 
 Or counting the good which hath fall'n to my share, 
 
 I thank the Great Being who plac'd it there ! 
 
 Hark ! from the heavens yon trill of joy ! 
 
 Child of the sward, art thou up so high ? 
 
 " I can sing on the wing," the warbler cries, 
 
 " There is life in the gale — I arise, I arise ! 
 
 Up as I soar it is deep and clear ; 
 
 Whilst the earth brings forth, and the germs appear,
 
 94 HOURS IN THE BOWERS. 
 
 Plenty I gather and freely fly — 
 How happy am I, how happy am I ! " 
 
 By bending dales where groves are seen, 
 
 By waters clear, and mai-gins green, 
 
 In dim-shed light or open glade, 
 
 I wander — or in sunless shade. 
 
 Through hoary woods where moss abounds, 
 
 By springs and wells with silver sounds, 
 
 To pastures where the shamrock grows, 
 
 And bowers which none beside me knows. 
 
 And often as I lonely Avalk 
 
 I hear the mighty Spirit talk, 
 
 From cloud above, from earth below, 
 
 Where winds do roll, where waters flow ; 
 
 From topmost wave of wildest sea, 
 
 To stillest land and inmost lea. 
 
 It bids me live, and life to spare ; 
 
 It bids me love, and wrath forbear ; 
 
 It tells me, justice is not blind ; 
 
 It shews me mercy, oh how kind ! 
 
 It says, if I would happy be. 
 
 Virtue must point the way for me !
 
 THE VOICE OF GLENDOUR. 05 
 
 THE VOICE OF GLEN DOUR. 
 
 " Come to glory, come with Glendour, 
 Freedom sheds immortal splendour ! 
 Owain's battle-flag is flying, 
 Maids and wives are wildly crying, 
 Warriors' souls are cheering o'er us, 
 Shame behind, and death before us — 
 Shame, if basely we surrender, 
 Die or conquer then with Glendour !
 
 96 THE VOICE OF GLENDOUR. 
 
 Ye of ancient race, and purest, 
 Freedom is your guardian surest ; 
 Could ye bear to live degraded, 
 Scorn'd as covrards and upbraided ? 
 Have ye love, and would ye lose it, 
 If the lordly Saxon chose it ? 
 Count your treasures worth defending, 
 All are on your arms depending. 
 
 As the sullen thunder breaketh, 
 Now the roar of war awaketh ; 
 From unclouded hills and vallies, 
 All the pride of Cymru rallies. .''^' 
 See her mailed army shining, 
 Like a scaly serpent twining ; 
 Gripe the pard within thy folding, ^'^' 
 Till his death unlocks thine holding !"
 
 THE DYING POET TO HIS DOG. 97 
 
 THE DYING POET TO HIS DOG. 
 
 !My old companion, Rover ! 
 More true than human lover, 
 Our cares are nearly over — 
 
 My tried friend ! 
 Thy life with mine is vi^asting, 
 And welcome death is hasting; 
 Our poverty and fasting 
 
 Are at an end ! 
 
 G
 
 '■}^ THE DYING POET TO HIS DOG. 
 
 I have sung of Britain's glory, 
 Of battles fierce and gory, 
 Of lovely lady's story 
 
 In bow'r so gay ! 
 But the soldier's gone a-fighting. 
 The lady is delighting, 
 The poet coldly slighting — 
 
 Ah, well a day ! 
 
 My wife away hath wander'd, 
 My children, they are squander'd. 
 My reputation slander'd ; 
 
 Ah, woe to me! 
 My bloom of life is blighted, 
 My days, how soon benighted! 
 My love, my friendship, slighted 
 
 By all but thee ! 
 
 When plenty round me shower'd. 
 And blessings on me pour'd, 
 Ere grim misfortune lour'd ; 
 
 Ah, happy day ! 
 Thou ever wert contented, 
 And more thou never wanted ; 
 Intrusion thou prevented 
 
 With watchful bay !
 
 THE DYING POET TO HIS DOG. 99 
 
 And M'hen stern ruin rushing, 
 My airy castles crushing, 
 Each tone of pleasure hushing, 
 
 Bore me a-down ; 
 Thou never seemedst coyer. 
 Thou never playedst shyer, 
 Thy tail was held no higher, 
 
 My bonny brown! 
 
 And when my heart was breaking, 
 When faithless friends, forsakino-. 
 Were evil of me speaking, 
 
 Where then wert thou ? 
 I found thee still beside me ; 
 Though poor, thou could'st abide me ; 
 And death shall not divide me 
 
 From Rover now ! 
 
 And when disease o'ertook me, 
 When pains and palsies shook me. 
 Thou never once forsook me, 
 
 My truest friend ! 
 Thou never didst neglect me. 
 Thou always wouldst protect me ; 
 And shall not I respect thee, 
 
 E'en to the end?
 
 100 THE DYING POET TO HIS DOG. 
 
 The poet's eye was closing, 
 His dog beside him dozing, 
 And heaven, interposing, 
 
 Clos'd the sad scene ! 
 The primrose groweth over 
 The bard, and faithful Rover, 
 Beneath a fragrant cover 
 
 Of broom so green !
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 101 
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 
 
 God help the poor, who on this wintry morn 
 Come forth of alleys dim, and courts obscure ! 
 God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, 
 And meekly her affliction doth endure ! 
 God help the outcast lamb ! she trembling stands, 
 All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands ; 
 Her sunken eyes are modestly down cast ; 
 Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast ; 
 Her bosom, passing fair, is half reveal'd. 
 And, oh ! so cold, the snow lies there congeal'd; 
 Her feet benumb'd, her shoes all rent and worn : 
 God help thee, outcast lamb, who stand'st forlorn ! 
 
 God help the poor !
 
 102 GOD HELP THE POOR. 
 
 God help the poor ! An infant's feeble wail 
 Comes from yon narrow gate-way ; and behold, 
 A female crouching there, so deathly pale, 
 Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold ! 
 Her vesture scant, her bonnet crush'd and torn ; 
 A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold : 
 And there she bides the ruthless gale of morn, 
 Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold ! 
 And now she sudden darts a ravening look. 
 As one with new hot bread comes past the nook ; 
 And, as the tempting load is onward borne, 
 She weeps. God help thee, hapless one forlorn! 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God help the poor ! Behold yon famish'd lad ; 
 No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect : 
 With limping gait, and looks so dreamy-sad, 
 He wanders onward, stopping to inspect 
 Each window stor'd with articles of food. 
 He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal ; 
 Oh ! to his hungry palate, viands rude 
 Would yield a zest, the famish'd only feel ! 
 He now devours a crust of mouldy bread ; 
 With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn. 
 Unmindful of the storm which round his head 
 Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn ! 
 
 God help the poor !
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 
 
 God help the poor ! Another have I found, 
 
 A bow'd and venerable man is he ; 
 
 His slouched hat with faded crape is bound ; 
 
 His coat is grey, and thread-bare too, I see. 
 
 " The rude winds" seem to " mock his hoary hair ;" 
 
 His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. 
 
 Anon he turns, and casts a wistful eye. 
 
 And w'ith scant napkin wipes the blinding spray ; 
 
 And looks again, as if he fain would spy 
 
 Friends he hath feasted in his better day : 
 
 Ah ! some are dead, and some have long forborne 
 
 To know the poor; and he is left forlorn! 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, 
 Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow ! 
 Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell ; 
 Yet little cares the world, and less 'twould know 
 About the toil and want they undergo. 
 The wearying loom must have them up at morn ; 
 They work till worn-out nature will have sleep ; 
 They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep 
 Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door ; 
 The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor. 
 And shall they perish thus, oppress'd and lorn ? 
 Shall toil and famine hopeless, still be borne ? 
 No I God will yet arise and help the poor !
 
 104 A VOICE FROM SPAIN, 
 
 A VOICE FROM SPAIN. 
 
 WRITTKX PRKVIOLf.SLY TO THB INVASION OK THAT COLNTRV, BV THE PRKNCH ARMi' 
 
 UNDER THE DUKK OF ANGOULEME, FOR THE PURPOSE OF RESTORING 
 
 THE "legitimate POWER" OP THE ATROCIOUS FERDINAND. 
 
 Beneath the mighty span of heaven, 
 
 And o'er the pathless water, 
 A voice was heard, a warning given 
 
 Of outrage and of slauj^hter ! 
 To Britain's sons it call'd aloud, 
 
 " Arise ! for none are braver ; 
 Whilst Freedom die, will you stand by, 
 
 And not attempt to save her?
 
 A VOICE FROM SPAIX. 3 05 
 
 Yon crowned foes of human kind * 
 
 Have been in consultation, 
 How they might forge a chain, to bind 
 
 The noble Spanish nation. 
 And now the tyrant of the Gaul 
 
 Proclaims the battle gory ; 
 And shall the conflict pass away, 
 
 And you not share the glory ? 
 
 Oh! w^hat is life, unless it be 
 
 For noble actions noted ? 
 And what is death unto a life 
 
 So worthily devoted ! 
 It takes away the mortal clay ; 
 
 But He who ruleth o'er us, 
 High deeds hath placed where they dwell 
 
 Eternally before us. 
 
 And is there not in ail your isle 
 
 One band of hearts undaunted. 
 Who, hateful of oppression vile. 
 
 Would fight when they were wanted ? 
 Come on, ye brave! — come on, ye brave! 
 
 The time is now or never; 
 If Freedom fall before the slave. 
 
 Her fall may be for ever ! 
 
 * The Holy Alliance.
 
 106 A VOICE FROM SPAIN. 
 
 Oh ! leave the sordid wretch behind 
 
 To tremble o'er his treasure ; 
 And the effeminate in mind, 
 
 To roll in pride and pleasure: 
 For heroes true have more in vievi^ — 
 
 A higher hope they cherish ; 
 To rest, amid a splendid fame 
 
 Until creation perish! "
 
 BRIGHT EYES. 107 
 
 BRIGHT EYES. 
 
 Bright eyes ! ye fatal ones, 
 
 Turn ye away ; 
 Have ye not slain enow 
 
 Before to-day ? 
 He of the pallid brow, 
 
 So much admired ; 
 He with the gowden hair, 
 
 Saw and expir'd ! 
 He of the gentle mein ; 
 
 One free and bold ; 
 Twain in their downy youth, 
 
 Twain grey and old : 
 Still you another would 
 
 Take for your prize ; 
 Turn away, lady, those 
 
 Fatal brisjht eves !
 
 108 BRIGHT EYES. 
 
 Sweet lips! ye tempting ones, 
 
 What would you say ? 
 Have ye not spoken guile 
 
 Oft ere to-day ? 
 Have ye not whisper'd love, 
 
 j\Ieaning bright gold ? 
 SufFer'd delusive hope, 
 
 Heart being cold ? 
 Set forth your winning smiles 
 
 But to allure ; 
 Wounded, and left the wound 
 
 Never to cure ? 
 Still you another do 
 
 Seek to decoy ; 
 Take, then, your victim, — I'll 
 
 Kiss vou and die !
 
 LINES. 109 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN' IN LAXCASTER CASTLE, DURING Mr CONFINEMENT THERE, 
 AUGUST, 1819. 
 
 Oh ! here is no repining, 
 Every heart is true and steady ; 
 
 Here is no declining. 
 Still for England's service ready ; 
 
 Here is not a tear shed — 
 Such a weakness, we disdain it ; 
 
 Here is not a bow'd head — 
 Sign of sorrow, we refrain it. 
 The more the cruel tyrants bind us, 
 The more \mited they shall find us !
 
 110 THE DAY SrOUM OF THUNDER. 
 
 THE DAY STORM OF THUNDER. 
 
 The black clouds hover ; 
 
 Frowning masses crowd 
 
 Before the sullen wind ; 
 
 Darkness spreads around ! 
 
 A flash doth sever 
 
 That impending shroud, 
 
 And light gleams forth behind ! 
 The loud, long, thunder sound 
 Booms o'er the world with crash and dread rebound
 
 THE DAY STORM OF THUNDER. Ill 
 
 Now, where yon clouds are blending, 
 Like rolling mists descending, 
 
 The winds awake ! 
 The rain in torrents poureth, 
 The frozen hail down show'reth, 
 
 The lightnings break. 
 The pine, which waved to heaven, 
 Is smitten down and riven ; 
 
 The firm earth shakes ; 
 Whilst darkening and brisht'nins. 
 Now roaring, and now light'ning, 
 
 The thunder speaks ! 
 
 What saith that shout of thunder, 
 In words of awe and wonder ? 
 
 It saith, " I come ! 
 From God's eternal throne, 
 W ho doth the kingdoms own 
 Of earth and heaven ample, 
 
 I come, I come ! 
 His chariots are unbound ; 
 Ten thousand thousand trample 
 
 The starry dome 
 Of creation around. 
 The wind and rain, 
 
 The fire and snow. 
 Move in Jehovah's train, 
 
 And with his armies sol "
 
 112 LINES ADDRESSED TO MY WIFE 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDKESSEn TO MY WIFE FROM THE KINGS BENCH PRISON, 
 
 MAY 15th, 18-20. , 
 
 I never will forget thee, love ! 
 
 Though in a prison far I be ; 
 I never will forget thee, love ! 
 
 And thou wilt still remember me ! 
 
 I never will forget thee, love ! 
 
 When wakes on me the morning light ; 
 And thou shalt ever present be, 
 
 When cometh down the cloud of night !
 
 FROM THE king's BENCH PRISON. 113 
 
 I never will forget thee, love ! 
 
 When summer sheds her golden ray ; 
 And thou shall be my comforter 
 
 Amid the winter's cheerless day ! 
 
 Oh ! they may bind, but cannot break, 
 This heart, so full of thine and thee ; 
 
 Which liveth only for your sake, 
 And the high cause of Liberty !
 
 114 A SCENE IN THE KINg's BENCH PRISON. 
 
 A SCENE IN THE SAME PRISON, 
 
 ox THE NIGHT OF THE 16th OP MAY, 1820. 
 
 " Good night," the brave man said, 
 
 As to the door we passed ; 
 
 And then he took my hand 
 
 And held it very fast. 
 And he look'd on me with a steadfast eye ; 
 And there was neither tear nor sigh. 
 
 " Good night, sir," I replied, 
 And did his hand detain ; 
 " Good night, but. Oh, my friend. 
 When shall we meet again ? " 
 And then I felt a tear would stray. 
 And so I turned and came away.
 
 A SCENE IN THE KINg's BENCH PRISON. 115 
 
 They took him on the morn, 
 
 Unto a prison sure; 
 
 Where the arch enemy 
 
 Might hold her prey secure : 
 But the Patriot's God is with him gone, 
 And he will not be left alone !
 
 116 HYMN TO HOPE. 
 
 HYMN TO HOPE. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LINCOLN CASTLE. 
 
 Tune — "The God of Abraham pkaise." — Hebrew Melody, 
 
 When Freedom bade adieu, 
 
 And for a while withdrew, 
 There was a light of heavenly hope that kept in view ; 
 
 Afar it faintly shone, 
 
 As might some star alone. 
 That rode amid the storm when all the rest were gone. 
 
 And as I gaz'd, its light 
 
 Grew brighter and more bright, 
 Until it seemed to triumph o'er the shades of night ; 
 
 And then 'twas like a day 
 
 Arising far away. 
 And bringing back the golden hours of liberty!
 
 HYMN TO HOPE. 117 
 
 No dark'ning cloud was there, 
 
 But all was bright and fair : 
 Ee'n brighter seem'd chains which hung around my lair. 
 
 Ah ! though the great combine 
 
 The lowly to confine, 
 They cannot darken out the ray of hope divine ! 
 
 And though unfeeling might 
 
 Affections dear may blight, 
 And though beneath the arm of pow'r doth bend the right, 
 
 This cannot always be, — 
 
 The millions will be free, 
 Oh ! they will rise to vindicate humanity. 
 
 To God my thanks ascend. 
 
 Who doth my steps attend. 
 For He hath ever been to me a mighty friend ; 
 
 His wing hath been my shield, 
 
 His hand hath been my stay, 
 As through a dark and stormy world I sought my way !
 
 118 WINTER. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 How fearful, yet how mournful, is the tone 
 
 Of Winter, howling in his stormy zone ! 
 
 O'erwhelming pow'r, from night-bound realms afar, 
 
 Who lead'st the wrathful elements to war ; 
 
 Whose voice is heard when storms in chorus sing ; 
 
 Whose breath doth icy desolation bring ; 
 
 Who piles the clouds, or rends them as he goes, 
 
 Melts into floods, or freezes into snows ; 
 
 O'er wither'd regions doth the Giant stride. 
 
 Lifts his dark hand, and turns the sun aside !
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MY AVIFE. 119 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRKSSED TO :»IY WIFE DURING HER RECOVERY 
 FROM A LONG ILLNESS. 
 
 The youthful bard doth chant his lay- 
 To nymph or goddess fair ; 
 
 The thirsty bard doth Bacchus pray 
 For wine to drown his care ; 
 
 And some have sung of olden time, 
 And feats of chivalrie; 
 
 And shall not I address a rhyme, 
 My dear own wife, to thee ?
 
 120 LINES ADDRESSED TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Full thirty years have o'er us pass'd 
 
 Since thou and I were wed, 
 And Time hath dealt us many a blast, 
 
 And somewhat bow'd thine head, 
 And torn thy hair, thy bright brown hair, 
 
 That stream'd so wild and free ; 
 But oh ! thy tresses still are fair 
 
 And beautiful to me I 
 
 5fes, Time hath ta'en thy lily hand, 
 
 And chill'd thy stream of life ; 
 And scor'd some channels with his wand. 
 
 As envying thee, my wife : 
 But let not sorrow make thee sigh, 
 
 Nor care thy heart distress ; 
 Though health do fail, and charms do fly. 
 
 Thy husband will thee bless ! 
 
 Aye, bless thy cheek, all worn and wan — 
 
 With beauty once beset ; 
 The red rose leaves, my love, are gone ; 
 
 The pale ones linger yet : 
 And bless thy care be-clouded brow. 
 
 And bless thy dimned sight ; 
 Can I forget the time when thou 
 
 Wert my young morning-light ?
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MY WIFE. 1^1 
 
 Oh, morning light ! — Oh, early love ! 
 
 Oh, hours that swiftly flew ! 
 Oh, love ! the sun was far above 
 
 Before we miss'd the dew. 
 "We rang'd the bow'rs, we cull'd the flow'rs. 
 
 All heedless of the day ; 
 And, love-beguil'd, to wood and wild, 
 
 We wander'd far awav. 
 
 We rang'd the bow'rs, we cull'd the flow'rs, 
 
 By upland and by dell ; 
 And many a night, by pale moonlight. 
 
 We sought the lonely well. 
 And many a night, when all above 
 
 Shone not one star-lit ray ; 
 And was not I thy Wizard, love ? 
 
 And wert not thou my Fay ? 
 
 One arm was o'er thy shoulder cast ; 
 
 One hand was held in thine ; 
 , Whilst thy dear arm, my youthfiil waist 
 
 Did trustfully entwine : 
 And through the night, all still and stark, — 
 
 No other footsteps near, 
 We stray'd, and, love, it was not dark, — 
 
 My light of life was there !
 
 122 LINES ADDRESSED TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Oh, light of love ! — Oh, early born ! 
 
 Love-born, and lost too soon ! 
 Oh, love ! we often thought it morn. 
 
 When it was early noon ; 
 And, love ! we thought it still was noon, 
 
 When eve came o'er the land ; 
 And, love ! we deem'd it wondrous soon 
 
 When midnight was at hand. 
 
 And when at length we needs must part. 
 
 And could no longer stay ; 
 Still hand in hand, and heart by heart. 
 
 We homewards took our way : 
 The wild flowers lav'd our ling'ring feet, 
 
 The woodbine shed its dew ; 
 And o'er the meads and pastures sweet, 
 
 The night- wind freely blew. 
 
 The rubies from thy lips may fade. 
 
 Thy cheek be pale and cold ; 
 But thou wert mine, a youthful maid, 
 
 And I'll be thine when old ! 
 1 see those tears that grateful start, 
 
 Oh ! turn them not aside ; 
 But, dear One ! come unto my heart, 
 
 As when thou wert mv bride.
 
 THE WITCH O' BRANDWOOD. 123 
 
 THE WITCH 0' BRANDWOOD. 
 
 A SKETCH FOR A STATUE. 
 
 A beldame came to lofty Scout,* 
 What time the old year dwindled out ; 
 She was the last of all that race 
 Whose deeds our Northern stories grace ; 
 And in her youth had join'd the crew 
 Which Walsden Clough and Wuerdale knew, 
 Much to the good folks' dread and woe, 
 Some threscore years and ten ago. 
 
 * Scout Edge, near Duerden Moor, in the township of Shuttleworth.
 
 124. THE WITCH O BRANDWOOD. 
 
 The night was dark, the wind was high ; 
 
 There was a tumult in the sky ; 
 
 As if amid the ferial space 
 
 Some mighty change was taking place. 
 
 O'er wintry Holcome, t'wards the west, 
 
 The elements were ill at rest. 
 
 And, mingled with the troubled air, 
 
 Were sounds of lamentation there ; 
 
 And mournful, over hill and dell, 
 
 Were heard the words " Farewell! farewell !" 
 
 Then flash'd athwart th' abyss of night, 
 Through startled heaven, a stream of light; 
 And winds were heard with fearful howl, 
 T'wards Rooly Moor, and cheerless Knowl ; 
 And darkness for a while gave way 
 Before that ghast and lurid ray ! 
 
 The beldame's cloak of seam and shred 
 Flew back, and to the wind was spread ; 
 The hood, her face was muffled round. 
 Her brow with striped kerchief bound ; 
 Nor did the wind her bosom spare — 
 One Avither'd pap hung cold and bare : 
 Her outstretch'd arms were long and thin, 
 The great veins crept beneath her skin
 
 THE WITCH O' BRANDWOOD. 125 
 
 Like worms, that had begun to glide 
 Around her carcase, ere it died : 
 And thus, with unaverted eye. 
 She gaz'd towards that howling sky, 
 And, with storm -piercing shriek, she cried, 
 "New year, I hail thine early tide. 
 And hither come I to demand. 
 What weal or woe for Spodden-land ? "
 
 12() A DIALOGUE. 
 
 A DIALOGUE 
 
 BKTWEEN PETER SPINTHREED, A COTTON MANUFACTURER, AND ZEKIl. 
 LITHEWETUR, A HAND-LOOM WEAVER. 
 
 Written on the coming in of the Canning Administration. 
 
 Peter — Well, Zekil, hasto' yerd o' th' reawt, 
 
 'At's takken place at Lundun ? 
 King George has turn't hissel' obeawt, 
 
 An' Ministers are undun ; 
 Sin' Liverpool laid by his shoon, 
 
 O' nailt wi' gowden clinkers, 
 The growl has to a battle groon, 
 
 A' Cannin's bitten th' blinkers. 
 
 Zekil — An' what by that ? he'r nere a friend 
 
 To my poor hungry belly ; 
 An' though he shift, unless he mend 
 
 He's still a nowty felley. 
 " No honest mon," sed Billy Pit, 
 
 " Con ston i' sitch a station ;" 
 An' he who creeps or flies to it, 
 
 Mun sacrifice the nation.
 
 A DIALOGUE. 127 
 
 Peter — Pshaw ! none o' thy reformin' slang, 
 
 Suspicious an' despondin', 
 I tell thee, things win goo none wrang 
 
 When Cannin' gets his hond in. 
 He'll make the Yankees an' the Dons 
 
 Buy cals an' calimancos ; 
 Put th' Kurn-bill i' the divel's hons 
 
 'At it no moor may dank * us. 
 
 Zekil — O' that may be I dunna deawt. 
 
 He's thick enoof wi' Sooty ; 
 He'll bring moor marrokles obeawt 
 
 I'th' way o' wage an' booty. 
 But con he satisfy the debt, 
 
 An' staunch thoose drainin' penshuns ? 
 Till then, a trade we ne'er shall get 
 
 For eawr " sublime invenshuns." 
 
 Peter — He'll geythur reawn'd him o' the peaw'r 
 
 An' patronage o' th' nation ; 
 Ther's Lord MacCringe, and Lord MacKeaw'r, 
 
 Mun each fill op a station ; 
 Whilst Sir John Cop' f mun sit at top, 
 
 Upon a seek o' clippins ; J 
 Eh ! Zekil, that's a glorious shop — 
 
 Wot carvings an' wot drippins ! 
 
 * Dank or Donk ; damp, depressing. t Sir Jotin Copley, now Lord Lyndhurst. 
 J Clippins; wool — the wool sack.
 
 128 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 Zekil — He geythur ought! he'll geythur nowt : 
 
 Hooa tanies to be groated ! 
 These Tories are like summer brids, 
 
 Wi' him they'n not be sawted. 
 An' Wellinton has laft the drill, 
 
 An' Lowther's off i' anger ; 
 An' Pee) has bowt a spinnin' mill, 
 
 An' Eldon deawts no langer. 
 
 Peter — An' wot cares he, if o' that swarm 
 
 Desart his cause, an' hate him ? 
 One jink o' gowd will theawsuns arm 
 
 Prepar't to vindicate him. 
 O'er brucks an' briggs dun gallop Whigs, 
 
 Wi' whip an' spur unscanted, 
 An' Brougham up to Lunnun trigs 
 
 To see if he be wanted.* 
 
 So Zekil, go to th' kitchin door, 
 
 To-day theawst hav' a treatin'. 
 An' presently wur Zekil poor. 
 
 Beside the window waitin' ; 
 When forth coom Miss, all don'd i' silk, 
 
 Enoof to captivate us — 
 Hoo gan poor Zeke some buttermilk, 
 
 An' a plate o' cowd potatoes ! 
 
 * It was stated in tke Newspapers, that Sir. Brougham had left the North in post- 
 haste for London, on hearing of the change in the Administration.
 
 r.piTAPH. 129 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 (IN A lOUNG MAN WHO WAS DKOWNED.* 
 
 Not human speech nor human wail can tell 
 The grief of heart for one beloved so well : 
 In strength of life he left his home at morn, 
 And back, at noon, a pallid corse was boriu-. 
 Humid and cold, they brought him from the deep, 
 To breaking hearts, to eyes that could not weep. 
 Oh, cease to mourn ! in life we are in death, 
 And life is but a shadow and a breath. 
 Oh, cease to mourn ! learn meekly to obey ; 
 The Lord who gave, might surely take away ! 
 
 * The lines, after being written at the instance of a relative of the deceased, 
 were submitted to the revision of a cobbler of rhymes, at Royton, and, as 
 might be expected, a sad botch of them appears on a stone in the (•hapelrard 
 of that place. 
 
 I
 
 1,'jO LINtS OX THE DEATH OF 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THK DKATH OK MV I'RIEND, JOSEPH TAYLOU, OF OLDHAM- 
 
 Oh Death, how placid is thy sleep ! 
 
 The seal of a long dreamless rest ; 
 No breath to sigh, no tear to weep, 
 
 No trouble to disturb that breast : 
 The music of thy voice is o'er. 
 Thine eye shall wake to light no more ! 
 
 Death comes, and none may linger then ; 
 
 The great one from his throne descends, 
 And mingles with his fellow men. 
 
 And all his pomp and splendour ends ; 
 And with the lowest lieth he, 
 Forgetful of his dignity.
 
 JOSEPH TAYLOR, OF OLDHAM. 131 
 
 And he, who in a low estate 
 
 Hath mourn'd beside that guilty throne, 
 Is on a level with the great, 
 
 Whose grave shall be as dark and lone ; 
 For when a tyrant bows the head. 
 What tears of grief are ever shed ? 
 
 O ! may we live a worthy life. 
 And may we die a worthy death ; 
 
 Whether we fall in freedom's strife, 
 Or calmly we resign our breath, 
 
 There is a voice of truth to tell, 
 
 Of him who hath deserved well.
 
 1S2 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 ox A BOY, WHO, HAVING SUFFERED UNDER A LONG AND WASTING 
 SICKNESS, WAS FOUND UNEXPECTEDLY DEAD. 
 
 '* Lie low, and thou shalt have good rest, my cliild," 
 Spake his fond mother, as she sraooth'd his bed ; 
 
 The long-enduring sufferer meekly smil'd. 
 At morn, his corse was there, his spirit fled ! 
 
 And so, indeed, the patient child found rest, 
 
 His dust with dust, his soul with angels blest !
 
 LA LYONNAISE, 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 FRENCH OF BERANGER. 
 
 RKSPECTFL'LLV INSCRIBED TO EBEXEZER ELLIOTT, Wao, OF ALL TH?; 
 
 BVOLISH BARDS, HAS PLEADED MOST ELOQUENTLY AXD 
 
 PERSEVERINGLY THE CAUSE OF THE LABOURING 
 
 MILLIONS.
 
 This Poem was first published in April, 1839; it was inscribed, as at pre- 
 sent, to the before-mentioned bard, and was addressed to " The Hand-Loom 
 Weavers of Lancashire, and the Persons styled Chartists," in the hope 
 that the reading of the piece, with the accompanying introductory remarks, 
 and the post-scriptum (for which see note 15), might have some effect 
 in counteracting the baneful influence of the Chartist demagogues, who, 
 having wickedly devised the plan of "a National Hohday," or "Sacred 
 Month," as they called it, were then urging their followers to attempt car- 
 rying it into effect. 
 
 Whatever of an exciting tendency was to be found in the Poem, brought 
 with it, in the same pages, a counteracting admonition ; and the author 
 hopes it was not then, nor has been since, altogether forgotten, either by 
 the employers or the employed.
 
 LA. LYONNAISE. 
 
 135 
 
 LA LYONNAISE.''-' 
 
 Misery our cup hath filled ; 
 Our workmen have not hread to nourish ! 
 
 Their breath, by cold and hunger chilled ; 
 They faint, and at their looms do perish. 
 
 Yet they are sons of France, the noble ; 
 For three long years their cries resounded ; 
 Was nothing due to faith unbounded ? 
 But, kings were listless of their trouble. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose !
 
 13Q LA LYONNAISE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Noble and industrious city, 
 Thy chiefs regard not thy complaining ; 
 
 Tliy traitor chiefs, remorse nor pity 
 That felt, when tears of thine were raining. 
 Unseen thy tears, unheard thy prayers; 
 Unto the bayonet they gave thee, 
 With none to succour, none to save thee ; 
 The sufF'ring thine, the guilt is theirs. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose. 
 
 III. 
 
 i'eople, and soldiers, silence ! silence ! 
 In camp, and crowded neighbourhood : 
 
 The boon of food — the doom of violence, 
 Is bread, is bread ! — is blood, is blood ! 
 
 You hear these words ; who hath them spoken ? 
 They are the words of your elected ; 
 Your traitors, chosen and protected : 
 
 Then, die I or be your fetters broken. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose !
 
 LA LYOKKAISE. 15/ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Elected you those chieftains savage ? 
 Insensible to your afflictions ; 
 
 What votes have they, by bribes and ravage ? 
 What votes have you, with all restrictions ? 
 
 They scarce, two hundred thousand counted ; 
 To talk of rights, is but a fable : 
 Uplift your heads now, whilst you're able. 
 
 Nor longer crouch, to be surmounted. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The public will, in ascertaining, 
 Each Frenchman's voice should have expression. 
 
 Oh man ! cast off thy bonds restraining ; 
 Arise! and claim thy lost possession. 
 
 For forty years our steps were tending 
 Towards that noble consummation, 
 When lowest and the highest station 
 Were citizen, all orders blending. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose!
 
 138 LA LYONNAISE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where suffrage is not universal, 
 There is no freedom for the nation ; 
 
 The Wight of tyranny doth curse all 
 Exceptive modes of legislation. 
 
 The wish of all should be construed, 
 Whate'er results from their opinion ; 
 Free Sparta gave two kings dominion, 
 
 And kingless Venice was subdued. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 By tame submission, sacrilegious, 
 What fruits do Frenchmen hope to gather ? 
 
 Proud deputies and laws outrageous, 
 To bind and keep them in a tether. 
 
 In brutish silence they would hold us, 
 Forbiding e'en our just complaining ; 
 Whilst hunger, more and more constraining, 
 Our reason scarcely hath controll'd us. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or perish mid your foes : 
 Soldiers, before the people, your colours low depose
 
 LA LYONNAISE. 159 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lo ! pale with fury, Lyons trembles ! 
 The steel is pointed, deep to wound her ; 
 
 Her voice a myriad brave assembles, 
 And war awakes within, around her. 
 
 Five days — five horrid days of burning. 
 Carnage, insatiate and untiring, 
 Walk'd blood-shod o'er the pale expiring : 
 
 Not even at the altar turning, 
 -live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 loldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes 
 
 IX. 
 
 Are these men from a land of strangers .' 
 These men who form the middle classes ? 
 
 With fire and poinard as avengers. 
 Their hatred of the poor surpasses. 
 
 They are not from the Tartar regions, 
 For Paris Tartar chiefs respected ; 
 But Lyons, ruin'd and dejected, 
 
 Encounter'd more vindictive legions, 
 jive citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 loldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes !
 
 14(5 LA LYONNAISE. 
 
 X. 
 
 Kill is the word, till all have perish'd — 
 Seven thousands fall of wrath ferocious ! 
 
 From dreams of glory, fondly cherish'd, 
 We wake to massacre atrocious. 
 
 Those standards, which so proudly floated 
 When Napoleon led to glory, 
 With blood of Frenchmen now are gory ; 
 No longer unto fame devoted. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes ! 
 
 xr. 
 
 Of the Republic unsubdued 
 Be silent — speak not of its fury ; 
 
 Although its track was steeped and strewed 
 With tears, and blood, and deep injury ! 
 
 Its brave defence was ever glorious, 
 And back it drove the fierce invaders. 
 None daring to become degraders 
 
 Of a Republic so victorious. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes!
 
 LA LYONNAISE. 141 
 
 XII. 
 
 But, in these days, where is the glory 
 By which we might have been consoled ? 
 
 Not soldiers, marching to victory, 
 Base gens d' armes have our rights controlled. 
 
 From giant splendour, how estranged I 
 Our accents wake but tones of sorrow ; 
 A night is come that knows no morrow — 
 
 Pure gold to bloody bullets changed. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A wailing comes from Lyons, woeful ! 
 France echoes by her lamentation ; 
 
 Fright! horror! hatred! fierce and awful 
 Awaken the astonished nation. 
 
 The private orders now are ready ; 
 All is foreseen, but nought prevented ; 
 A tempest sweeps the discontented — 
 
 A tempest, horrible and bloody ; 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes !
 
 1 1 - LA LYONNAISE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In Paris, the heroic city, 
 Behold the gens d' armes quickly flying, 
 
 Alert for strife, averse to pity ; 
 They thirst for blood, they scent the dying. 
 
 The army joins them, hesitating : 
 They vanquish, but the child, the mother — 
 They will not in that carnage smother 
 Those tender ones, whilst supplicating. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose : 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Alas ! to their retreats they follow, 
 The stripling and the grandsire hoary ; 
 
 The wounded, as in blood they wallow, 
 The wife, that weeps beside them gory ! 
 
 The feeble dame, devoutly praying. 
 The angel virgin, o'er them bending, 
 A few brave hearts are still defending ; 
 
 An army, mercilessly slaying. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose : 
 Soldiers, your chiefs have slaughter'd the people as their foes
 
 LA LYONNAFSE. 143 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thev are slain ! the tumult hush'd I 
 The people prison-dens encumber ; 
 
 The vengeance which a king hath wish'd, 
 His peers will not permit to slumber. 
 To read, to meet, we are denied — 
 The oppression is beyound our bearing ; 
 Our tyrants more and more unsparing. 
 To arms ! be tyranny destroyed. 
 Live citizens and freemen, or life with freedom lose ; 
 Soldiers, come join the people ; and cursed be our foes !
 
 NOTES
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Ts'oTE 1, Page 5. 
 
 In idea and expression, there is considerable similarity betwixt this 
 poem and the " King Death" of Barry Cornwall. The Pass of Death 
 was published in the Morning Herald very soon after Mr. Canning's 
 decease, probably before his funeral took place. " King Death," if the 
 author mist<ike not, made its appearance long aftervrards. 
 
 Note 2, Page 18. 
 
 Oaphin, as pronounced by the inhabitants of the district, or Alphian, 
 as spelled by some authors, is a high, and when clear from snow, dark- 
 looking hill, in the parish of Saddleworth, and the West Riding of the 
 county of York. It is a prominent object in nearly all the elevated 
 views of the Eastern and Southern parts of the county of Lancaster ; 
 and is distant from the borders of the county about four miles. There 
 are many reasons for supposing that this mountainous district was an 
 occasional retreat, if not a permanent residence, of the Britons, ere they 
 disappeared before their Saxon and Danish invaders. At the foot of 
 the Northern and most elevated part of Oaphin, runs the small river 
 Tame, watering a fertile valley, beautiful when smiling in the calm 
 sunshine ; and further again to the North, opposite to Oaphin, rises 
 the crag of Oaderman — " The giant snouted crags, ho ho !" 
 
 Here is, or recently was, a remarkable upright stone called " Th' owd 
 Mon," said to have been an object of worship with the Britons, pro- 
 bably also with the Pagan Saxons ; as its name, as well as that of the
 
 148 NOTES. 
 
 bill on which it stands, is derived from their language. At a short 
 distance, on the same ridge of hills, is a rock called " the Pancalse ;'' 
 supposed to have been a Druidical altar. In the third volume of " The 
 Memoirs of the Literary and Philosophical Society of Manchester," it 
 is described as " of an irregular square form, with obtuse angles," hav- 
 ing " on its surlace fuur basons hollowed in the stone; the largest, 
 being nearly in the centre, is capable of holding eight or ten gallons." 
 There is also a hollow, or trough upon it, called " Robin Hood's bed," 
 probably used for the reception of sacrificial victims ; whilst the four 
 hollows were calculated to contain either fire or liquids. Possibly on 
 this altar, sacrifices were ofiered by the Druids. In the vicinity are 
 vestiges of British and Roman roads, and their fortifications at Melan- 
 dra, Buckton, and Castle Shaw may still be traced. 
 
 NoTK 3, Page 21. 
 
 This was the first of my printed productions, and appeared iu 
 Harrop's Manchester Volunteer, with the signature of " Jefkeey." 
 
 Note 4, Page 27. 
 
 I have been informed, since the verses referred to were written, that 
 I was mistaken as to this point, and that there is, amongst the ruins of 
 Leicester Abbey, an inscription commemorative of the death and burial 
 of the great Cardinal. 
 
 Note 6, Page 39. 
 
 It was about the year 1827 that, being employed as a correspondent 
 to tlie Morning Herald, the worthy and amiable proprietor of that 
 paper expressed a wish to sec mc in London, when the verses to which 
 this note refers were transmitted as containing some of my reasons for 
 prefering to remain at home at that time. On the invitation being 
 repeated, I visited London iu 1S2S, and the reception I experienced
 
 NOTES. 149 
 
 from Mr. Tliwaites fthe gentleman alliuleil to) formed a striking con- 
 trast to the questiouablf. kindness of others connected with the estab- 
 lishment. He was, indeed, to me an estimable friend — a man A\ithoiit 
 guile — and so remained until a year or two afterwards, when paralysis 
 laid prostrate his bodily and mental powers. Peace be to his shade 
 and honour to his name! 
 
 The Poem has been set to music by Mr. W. C. Ridings, of Middle- 
 ton. Music composed by a working man ! to words written by a 
 fellow labourer ! This is somewhat new, and indicates what may be 
 expected from '' the labouring classes" in times to come. The music 
 is, I believe, published by Hime, of St. AnnVsquare, Manchester; and 
 is certainly sold by the talented composer at Middleton. 
 
 Note 6, Page 43. 
 
 I may say that I have indeed lived to see somewhat of " Freedom's 
 triumphing sublime," and hope to see more ; not of dagger and torch, 
 and Chartist mob-freedom, but of the freedom which allows all right 
 and no wrong — all good, and no evil — freedom founded on truth and 
 justice, and carried out according to those piinciples. The Reform 
 Bill was a beginning towards this noble end ; it struck at, and cut off, 
 too, the root of the boroughmongering system. It has been often said 
 '' the Whigs never did anything," but assertion is not proof, and 
 those who deny that the Whigs, supported by the people, made a gi-eat 
 step there, and a right one, are either incapable of reasoning, or un- 
 willing to admit its conclusions. The Reform Bill, besides its im- 
 mediate object, was the charter of a fresh principle, which, in after- 
 times, will be called into action for the annihilation of others — of all 
 monopolies — and may God speed it! 
 
 As to the " Fame," which my even until now, unknown friend 
 awarded me, I have also obtained a portion of that. But, what is 
 Fame— what its practical result? Get thee up to Burns' monument 
 in Scotland, and beliold it there. Try to cut thee a cake from it if 
 thou be hungry, or mantle thee in its shadow for warmth if thou 
 be cold. Try that, and then thou shalt know what Fame has done
 
 150 NOTES. 
 
 for one of the greatest of nature's nobility, as well us what she has 
 not done. Such is Fame! Alas, how many have followed, adoring 
 her through the world, and at last have perished, frozen in her 
 embrace ! 
 
 Note 7, Page 49. 
 
 This story, as intimated, is mainly founded on traditionary remini- 
 scences, many of which are current amongst the old people cf the 
 district. Sir Ashton Lever, of Alkrington, is still represented in these 
 old stories as the accepted lover (accepted by the lady) of Miss 
 Assheton, eldest daughter, and with her sister Eleonor, co-heiress of 
 Sir Raphe Assheton, lord of all the lands of Middleton, Thornham, 
 Pilsworth, Unsworth, Radcliffe, Great and Little Lever, and Ains- 
 worth. Sir Ashton Lever was the first Knight of his name, and the 
 last. He was of a line not as anciently titled as the Asshetons, and 
 consequently, as is supposed, his attentions were not quite agreeable 
 to the proud old baronet. Some stories impute his rejection to a 
 persona! difference betwixt the two families. However, it was the 
 breaking off of the match has always been considered by the 
 residents of the district as unfortunate to both the properties ; that of 
 Middleton might certainly as well have been annexed to Hanover as 
 to Gunton. Sir Ashton Lever in after years expended vast sums in 
 establishing the Leverian Museum. He was an excellent bowman, 
 and a fearless rider, and tradition has handed down stories of feats of 
 horsemanship analogous to those recited in the ballad, accompanied 
 with sage insinuations that no horse could have carried him, save one 
 of more than earthly breed, or human training. That he performed 
 the daring feat of riding at full gallop down the long and precipitous 
 flight of steps leading I'rom Rochdale Church-yard into Packer-street, 
 and up again, is still considered as doubtless as is the existence of the 
 steps which remain there. He latterly sold many farms and plots of 
 land, for sums to be paid yearly during his life, and soon after died 
 suddenly at the Bull's Head Inn, at Manchester. Rumour said at the 
 time, that he died by his own hand.
 
 NOTES. 151 
 
 The lady was married to Harbord Harbord, Esq., nephew and heir 
 of Sir William Morden, of Gunton, in Norfolk, and afterwards the 
 first Lord Suffield ; who took with her the estates of Middleton and 
 Thomham. After the connexion the lady seldom visited the Hall of 
 her fathers, and the ancient portion of it was levelled with the ground. 
 It was one of the finest old relics of the sort in the county ; built of 
 plaster and frame-work, with pannels, carvings, and massy black 
 beams, strong enough for a mill floor. The yard was entered through 
 a low wicket at a ponderous gate, the interior was laid with small 
 diamond-shaped flags, a door on the left led into a large and lofty hall, 
 hung round with match-locks, swords, targets, and hunting weapons, 
 intermixed with trophies of the battle-field and the chase. But all 
 disappeared before the spirit of vandalism which commanded the 
 annihilation of that most interesting relic of an ancient line. 
 
 With respect to the other personages and accessories to the story, 
 it may be mentioned that " the wither'd crone" was in being in the 
 author's days. " Owd Mai o' Canibeshur" was a name of terror to the 
 children, and of questionable import to their elders. The " ruinous 
 cottage" at Cambeshire has fared better than the bride's chamber at 
 the lordly hall ; it has been improved, and is now inhabited by the 
 family of a weaver ; a '' cunning woman," or fortune-teller, may, how- 
 ever, still be found on the spot, or near it. The place is at Cambe- 
 shire, on the top of Bowlee, in the township of Heaton. Sometimes 
 it is called Katty Green. 
 
 " The old woodlands of Bowlee" have long since disappeared before 
 the axe ; and all the best timber of the two townships of Middleton 
 and Thomham has shared the same fate ; the country has, in fact, been 
 pretty well swept out. 
 
 It may be supposed that the idea of the " black horse" was derived 
 from the horse " Darkness" in the splendid and surpassing poem of 
 Festus. But though there never was an author who wrote in the 
 English language from whom I should feel less humbled by borrowing 
 a stray gem, — he having plenty to spare, thickly strewn, and brilliant 
 as stars also, — yet, as such was not the case, I should be wrong in
 
 1^ 
 
 NOTES, 
 
 letting it be so supposeil. I have never, to my knowledge, had the 
 poem " Pestos" in my hand, and I certainly never heard the passage 
 referred to read, nor had any idea of its eiistence, until the evening of 
 the 4th of the present January, 1843, which I had the pleasure of 
 spending, with other friends, in company with the author of that im- 
 perishable prodiu'tion, " Fkstus." 
 
 Note 8, Page 03. 
 
 A singular instance of the extent to which ignorance will sometimes 
 carry impudence was, a year or two ago, exhibited in connexion with 
 this poem. A young fellow named Milne, a book-keeper, residing at 
 Rochdale, laid claim, with the most grave assurance, to the authorship 
 of the lines. The circumstance was made known to me, and when I 
 met him shortly after, he seriously repeated what he had previously 
 asserted. Amused at his easy manner, but nearly out of patience with 
 his unconscionable falsehood, I asked him " Did he ever write a line of 
 poetry before he produced ' Tim Bobbin Grave ?' " The answer was 
 " No." " Had he ever written one line since ?" " No." " Could he 
 tell me in what publication it first appeared?" "No.'' "Could he 
 tell me the month or tlie year when it was written ?" " No." I then 
 told him in unmistakable terms what he was ; and left him the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the company. 
 
 Note 9, Page 77. 
 
 The Prediction was first published in a small work of mine 
 called " The Weaver Boy," printed in 1817, and sold at the office 
 of the Observer newspaper in " Market-street Lane,'' Manchester. 
 I lay not any claim to the inspiration of a prophetic bard — 'but by 
 one of those coincidences for which we cannot account. The Predic- 
 tion was singularly verified in several of its main points, by the 
 death of Lord Castlereagh ; who, however, notwithstanding what 
 I had written, had long been clear of any ill wish of mine before 
 be went.
 
 KOTES. 153 
 
 Note 10, Page 86. 
 
 Jeremiah Brandreth, William Turner, and Liuliam, wcro 
 
 executed at Derby, in November, 1817, after having been tried, with 
 fifteen others, and found guilty of High Treason. The whole were 
 victims of a plot proposed and matured by the villain Oliver, the 
 paid and protected agent of the Sidmouth and Castlereagh adminis 
 tration. The conduct of Brandreth, both in prison, and on the 
 scaffold, was represented in the public prints as being such as would 
 have done honour to any sufferer, and it required not any great 
 exercise of the imagination to picture such a man, so circumstanced, 
 as expressing all the sentiments of the soliloquy. The Turners 
 were most unfortunate ; William was executed, and his brother and 
 nephew, a youth of nineteen years of age, were transported for 
 life. 
 
 There are some harrowing details connected witli the event. Their 
 mother died shortly after, it is said, of a broken heart. The fifteen 
 others were transported for life ; five have since died, and it has 
 been said the remaining ten have, through the interferenoe of 
 humane friends, each received a free pardon. 
 
 Note 11, Page 93. 
 
 This passage refers to the fate of an early play-mate, who went to 
 sea and was lost. For years he was before the author, both in hi.s 
 sleeping dreams and waking reveries. He could not believe that 
 his friend had ceased to exist, but consoled himself by the persua- 
 sion that he had only disappeared for a time in captivity, and would 
 certainly return. Alas ! he has never returned. 
 
 Note 12, Page 93. 
 
 Two brothers, James and Samuel Bamford, young men, distant 
 relatives of the author, and both Serjeants in the 6th regiment of
 
 154 NOTES. 
 
 foot, fell at the battle of Orthes, in France. The following copy of 
 a letter from Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell to their aged and afflicted 
 mother, does himself nearly as much honour as the two brothers. 
 
 " Kingston, Upper Canada, 10th August, 1814. 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 I regret that the circumstance of the 1st battalion Cth regiment 
 being eternally in motion, has prevented my communicating with 
 you on the subject of your worthy, and by me, lamented sons, since 
 they fell in their country's service at the battle of Orthes, on the 
 27th of last February. The eldest died, on the field of action, the 
 death of a gallant soldier ; the younger, in consequence of a severe 
 wound received on that day, died in the hospital on the 12th of 
 March following. They were both Serjeants ; both bore excellent 
 characters, and their loss has been severely mourned by every one 
 that knew them. The only consolation you can have, or I can con- 
 vey to you for their loss, is the conviction that they lost their lives, 
 bravely maintaining their country's rights and national character. 
 (Signed) "A.CAMPBELL, 
 
 " Lieutenant-Colonel, commanding 6th Regiment. 
 
 " Mrs. Ann Bamford, Middleton." 
 
 Major J. Thomas Robertson, of the same battalion, bore still 
 higher testimony to the merits of these two heroes " unknown to 
 fame." In a letter to the managers of the Patriotic Fund, dated 
 Chippawa, 10th Dec, 1814, he begged, in the strongest manner, 
 to '' recommend the case of the Widow Bamford, of Middleton, in 
 the county of Lancaster, the mother of the two Serjeants Bamford, 
 who were killed in the battle of Orthes, on the 27th February,'' 
 and added, " as the Commanding Officer of the corps they so 
 lionourably served in, he has to repeat that the conduct of these 
 two individuals was unexceptionable in their respective situations. 
 Their zealous attention to their various duties had long marked 
 them for promotion ; and their gallantry and bravery on the day in 
 which they unfortunately fell, was the admiration of every man in 
 the regiment who witnessed it.'' And to his own honour he goes
 
 NOTES. 155 
 
 on : — '' Under these circumstances, it is but the duty of the ofBeer 
 in command of their regiment to request attention to their unfor 
 tunate mother ; and if any relief can be afforded her from the 
 patriotic fund, he conceives no person can liave so strong a claim 
 to it." The widowed and heart-broken mother never received a 
 single farthing from the fund. 
 
 Note 13, Page 90. 
 
 Cymru, Wales, is pronounced Kumry, and is probably either the 
 root of, or a derivation from Gomery, the county of Gomer, which 
 might lead to the supposition that Gomer was the founder of the 
 ancient Britons. 
 
 Note U, Page 96. 
 
 The cognizance of the ancient kings of England, was — Threo 
 Leopards en passant on a Field Or. 
 
 Note 15, P.\ge, 135. 
 
 TO THE HAND-LOOM WEAVEKS OF LANCASHIKE, AND TO THE 
 PERSONS STYLED CHAETISTS. 
 CoUXTRVMEfJ, 
 
 This Poem, which is a translation of one of the songs of Beran- 
 ger, the French Poet, is presented to you in the hope, that a 
 picture so truthful of your own condition and fate, should you 
 tempt the latter, may excite in your minds a train of sober reflec- 
 tion, and induce you to pause in the career you have undertaken. 
 The last sad catastrophe of the Poem has not yet been enacted upon 
 you ; and it remains to be seen whether some English Beranger, 
 if such may be found, shall have to record your appeal to arms, and 
 the terrible retaliations of war and laws. 
 
 The story of the Poem in prose, may be necessary to some of 
 you. 
 
 The Weavers of Lyons, in 1831, I believe it was, turned out 
 against some trade regulations supposed to bear heavily on their
 
 156 NOTES. 
 
 domestic comforts and political rights. Terms were mutually 
 proposed and rejected ; the worlmien took arms, and the laws 
 were broken by individuals of their body. The police, and gens- 
 d'armes, (military constables,) were repulsed ; troops of the line 
 were called in ; the workmen barricaded streets and fortified 
 houses ; and after a series of contests during five days — "five horrid 
 days,"'" — the workmen were overpowered, and seven thousand of 
 them being slain, the insurrection was put down. The labourers 
 of Paris rose to avenge their brethren of Lyons ; troops of the line 
 were marched against them ; the labourers were beaten in every 
 direction ; they fled ; they were hunted to their retreats ; and, 
 with their wives, children, and parents clinging around them, all 
 were slaughtered ; the inhabitants of nearly whole streets were mas- 
 sacred ; the innocent, the guilty, the young, the aged, the women 
 with the men ; and the result of this horrible sacrifice was, as 
 described in the last verse ; — 
 
 " The ouprcssion is beyond our bearing ; 
 " Our tyrants more and more imsparing." 
 
 Unfortunately for the too brave French, their common appeal 
 against all grievances has been, "To arms!" And their indomi- 
 table Poet naturally falls in with the sentiment of the nation. By 
 arms, in three days, (the glorious ones), they obtained freedom ! and 
 they lost it in one ! ! — a lessoii to make the heart bleed, were it not 
 perhaps sternly necessary to aitmonish manT;ind, that, without 
 high wisdom and entire self-devotion, mere valour is helpless, as a 
 blind man without his guide. 
 
 When the Greeks sent out Diomedes, their //rarest, they sent with 
 him Ulysses, their zvisest : our neighbours, the French, have^too 
 often depended on bravery alone, and we have seen their misfor- 
 tunes in consequence. Warned by their sufferings Englishmen 
 should take care that wisdom accompanies their valour. 
 
 Happily for you, my Countrymen, there is not any necessity for an 
 appeal to arms. You have better means in hand ; if reason and right 
 are on your side, they will prevail. Turn, then, from the pre- 
 cipice to which you have been led blindfolded, by men worse than
 
 NOTES. 157 
 
 blind. Tear off your bandages ; look around, and retrace your \ 
 steps. Be not ashamed to do so ; 'tis creditable to renounce error. 
 Come back with lightened hearts to your own firesides, as yet un- 
 darkened by crime ; endearments are still awaiting you ; know 
 their value ; husband the few comforts yet remaining to yourselves 
 and families ; buy food, clothing, such as you may ; Twt arms ! they / 
 will be at hand when uothing else will suffice ; and, do not forget, that 
 he is the best reformer amongst you, who, in proportion to his 
 means, best nurtures his family and instructs his children. 
 
 In such a course you would become superior to all oppression ; 
 you would have the sympathy of the good of all mankind on your 
 side ; and you would assuredly triumph. But, one day of outrage 
 would cover you with honor ; all would be against you ; and the 
 freedom which is now brightening in your horizon, would be dark- 
 ened during another twenty years. 
 
 It is true, the middle and upper classes have not dealt justly 
 towards you ; they have not cultivated that friendship of which you 
 are susceptible, and more worthy than they ; had they done so, 
 you would not have beeu in the hands you now are. But you can 
 look above this misdirected pride, and pity it. The rich have been as 
 unfortunate in their ignorance of your worth, as you have in the 
 absence of their friendship. All ranks have been in error as it respects 
 their relative obligations ; and prejudice has kept them strangers and 
 apart. But the delusion is passing away like darkness before the 
 sun ; and, knowledge, against which gold is powerless, comes like the 
 spreading day, raising the children of toil, and making their sweat 
 drops more honourable than pearls. 
 
 Away, then, with the dagger and the pike, ere you become brigands 
 and outlaws ! Turn from those who are hallooing you on to havock I 
 Let your dream of rapine be dispelled 1 and the proud ones of the land 
 shall soon kuow that yon are more nobly proud than themselves. 
 
 With respect to the Government it would appear as if 
 " All were foreseen, but not prcTented."
 
 158 NOTES. 
 
 Does it also wait until 
 
 '" A tempest sweeps the discontented ; 
 "A tempest horrible and bloody?" 
 I wish it may not be so ; but if the surmise should be prophetic — if the 
 government, for its own inscrutable reasons, seemingly averts its atten- 
 tion from the public welfare ; if it apparently ceases to care for the 
 people ; the more should the people care for themselves. Stand aloof 
 then, ye well disposed of my Countrymen, that if peace be outraged 
 until justice retaliates, it may smite those only who have provoked 
 the blow. 
 
 I ara, 
 yours truly, 
 
 SAMUEL BAMFORD. 
 Apkil 20th, 1S39. 
 
 POSTSCRIPTUM. 
 
 There is more of romance than of philosophy in the exhorta- 
 tion of the poet, " To arms !" and it might be taken for a cruel 
 sarcasm did we not feel assured that the ardent and sincere 
 Beranger could mean no such thing. There is somewhat how- 
 ever, of a strange feeling in the battle cry to the dead ; to the 
 expiring, and the dungeon-bound people ; and not less incon- 
 sistent is the invitation for the Soldiers to come and join them; 
 join the people they had butchered or taken captive ! But this 
 apart ; was it ever known that the army of a state joined a class, 
 and that class the poorest, against the order of society ? The 
 French array did not, and it was imbued with liberal opinions. 
 Neither the English army, or any portion of it, ever made cause 
 with the working classes against the rich ; nor would it now,
 
 NOTES. 159 
 
 tliough some persons pretend to believe othenvise ; a cruel and 
 atrocious pretence. But why should it now, more than at 
 another time ? What is there in the position of the working 
 classes now that could offer security to the army ? They could 
 not find it a basis to rest upon ; they have no move cohesion of 
 numbers, or concentration of will or action, than had the 
 masses which time has swept away ; no more adherence than the 
 dust of the plain scattered by the wind. They attend meet- 
 ings certainly, and hear speeches, foolish ones for the most 
 part, (saying nothing of the other sort), they pass resolutions; 
 shout when they are asked to shout, and groan when they are 
 bid to groan ; they buy portraits of men, whom they follow 
 instead of principles; and are amused with hopes delusive as 
 the base of the rainbow, never to be found. From the 
 heart of their chartist convention to the^r smallest group 
 they are weakened by envy, jealousy, doubt, and personal 
 dishkes; on two points only are they agreed, namely, the 
 chartists, that they will have the charter ; and their leaders 
 that they must have the rent ! ! 
 
 The salvation of a people must come at last from their own 
 heads and hearts; souls must be matured, giving life to health- 
 ful minds. Hands may be learned to use weapons, and the feet 
 to march, but the warriors who take freedom and keep it, 
 must be armed from within. 
 
 S. B.
 
 In two neat volumes, post octavo, price Eight Shillings, 
 PASSAGES 
 
 IN THE 
 
 LIFE OF A RADICAL. 
 
 BY SAMUEL BAMFOKD. 
 
 " We are persuaded that its existence only requires to be made known 
 to ensure its success. It tbrows new ligbt on a very important period 
 «f our history; it explains events which can never lose their interest in 
 a commercial community." — Athenmum. 
 
 " He was tried at York — not for hij;h treason, but for misdemeanour 
 in his share of the great day"s work at Peterloo. To this be pleaded not 
 guilty; and he got off with an additional twelve months' imprisonment 
 in Lincoln Castle." — " H e has been confined in more prisons for the cause 
 of freedom than any other Englishman living. Some of his best poetry 
 was written in these prisons."- -Tu/i's Magazine. 
 
 " Instead, however, of being the production of a disappointed or soured 
 politician, it is the work of an imaginative and even poetic mind; we 
 have rarely met with a more agreeable writer." — Anti-Corn-Laio Cir- 
 cular. 
 
 " His arrest, and that of his comrade — their journey, and examination 
 before the Privy Council — are told with an effect which gives to this 
 narrative far more interest than would be felt in reading the most 
 amusing work of mere fiction." — Boltua Free Press. 
 
 " We cannot conclude this simple, manly, and evidently truthful his- 
 tory, without i^resenting to our readers the remarks upon Chartism, and 
 the folly of the people blindly committing their welfare and conduct to 
 paid or interested advisers." — Manchester Adcertiser. 
 
 " No person can lay down these two volumes without earnestly pon- 
 dering upon the many lessons contained in their unpretending pages. 
 If this wurk had been carefully perused by the hundreds who have taken 
 a prominent, and, for themselves, unfortunate part, in tiie political 
 events of the last two or three years in this district, how many homes 
 would have escaped desertion ? how manv families penurv and woe ?" 
 —Ibid. 
 
 '■ There are descriptions of thrilling interest, and which attest the 
 high talent of the w:iter.'' — ManclwsleT Tiiues. 
 
 " We want more men like this Lancashire Radical — devotees of 
 principle, rather than those who merely profess it. We have had too 
 much of man-worshi'), and its bitter fruits already — and, oh I how its 
 nature and its bitter fruits are shown in the volume before us." — .S/ie^/kW 
 Jris . 
 
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