1 1 - --.- . gtM i . UCSB LIBRARY X-4172.5 NORTH COUNTRY POETS. NORTH COUNTRY POETS POEMS AND BIOGRAPHIES OF NATIVES OR EESIDENTS OF NORTHUMBERLAND, CUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, DURHAM, LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. EDITED BY WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S. (PRESIDENT OF THE HULL LITERARY CLUB,) AUTHOR OF " HISTORIC YORKSHIRE," " HISTORIC ROMANCE," " MODERN YORKSHIRE POETS," ETC., ETC. (MODEEN SECTION) LONDON : SIMPKIN, MAKSHALL & CO. MANCHESTER: ABEL HEYWOOD & SON. HULL : A. BEOWN & SONS, AND J. E. TUTIN. 1888. PREFACE. The aim of the Editor of this work is to bring together the best poems with original biographical sketches of representative poets, who, by birth or residence, are connected with the six Northern Counties of England. In the present volume are included authors who are living, or have died not prior to 1860. It is expected that the Modern Section will be com- pleted in about two more volumes. The Editor is grateful for the kind assistance of several authors who have written biographies, and to the publishers who have been good enough to grant permission for the reproduction of copyright poems. That the work supplies a want is proved by the flattering reception it has received from the press and the public during its publication in monthly parts. The success has far exceeded the expectations of the Editor, and encouraged him to continue his labours. Mr. J. R. TUTIX, of Hull, has kindly prepared the index. WILLIAM ANDREWS. Hull Literary Club, 1st December, 1888. ANDKEWS, WILLIAM, 1, 16, 47, 57, 67, 171. ASHTON, W. A., 207. AXON, WILLIAM E. A., 25, 68, 82, 220. BANKS, MKS. G. LINN^US, 48, 145. BROCKIE, WILLIAM, 72. BRISCOE, J. POTTER, 8. BURNETT, W. H., 233. CLARKE, SIDNEY, 282. CURTIS, J. SIDNEY, 117. DIRCKS, WILL. H., 152. GAUNT, J., 135. GREAME, ANDREW, 202, 216, 263. HONEYWOOD, PATTY, 164. JAPP, MAURICE M., 177. LEGGOTT, JOHN H., 258. LEWIN, WALTER, 187. LISTER, R. J., 93. NOBLE, JOHN ASHCROFT, 122, 197. PARKER, J. OSCAR, 11, 159. PERRIN, JOSEPH, 42. QUAIL, JESSE, 87. READMAN, JOSEPH, 167. SYMINGTON, ANDREW JAMES, 61, 237. THISTLETON, ALF. E., 113. TOMLINSON, W. W., 109. TROWSDALE, T. BROADBENT, 128. WALKER, JOHN, 97, 187. WASSERMANN, LILLIAS, 272. WATSON, AARON, 20, 32, 226. WELFORD, RICHARD, 77. WILDRIDGE, T. TINDALL, 104, 139, 245. NORTH COUNTRY POETS, Mrs. G. Linnceus Banks. RS. George Linnasus Banks is favourably known as a poet and novelist. She was born in Oldham Street, Manchester, March 25th, 1821. Shortly after her birth, which occurred during a thirteen weeks' frost, a smoky chimney it was impossible to repair caused inflammation in her left eye, and imperilled her eyesight, leaving the sixth nerve para- lysed. Her grandfather, Mr. James Varley, a member of a good Yorkshire family of Quaker descent, was a man of mark, as a traveller, a linguist, a scientific chemist, and the discoverer of chloride of lime for bleaching. He lost ten thousand pounds in a Chancery suit in defence of his right to use it in his own bleach works, although Ten- nant, his opponent, was nonsuited. He also discovered in England the fine clay for biscuit china, previously obtained from Germany. Her father also was a man of genius and culture ; artistic, scientific, and literary. The education Mrs. Banks received, in part from a classical master, was largely supplemented by home influences, a good library, and the intelligent, literary, theatrical, and artistic friends who thronged her gifted father's house. At the age of eleven, she wrote a song, and delighted her younger sister and little friends with stories of her own invention. Her first contribution to the press, in the Manchester Guardian, April 12th, 1837, was a sentimental poem entitled " The Dying Girl to her Mother." It was followed at inter- vals by others of a higher order. Later, at the request of Mr. Rogerson, editor of the Odd Fellows' 1 Quarterly Magazine, she sent him a poem called " The Neglected Wife," and gained by it a prize of three guineas, which was her first literary honorarium. She was barely eighteen when she succeeded to a long-established school for young ladies, at Cheetham, Manchester, which she carried on with success. In 1844 was issued her " Ivy Leaves ; a Collection of Poems." Two years later, viz., December 27th, 1846, she was married at the Collegiate Church, Manchester, to George Linnaeus Banks, of Birmingham, a many-sided man, poet, orator, and journalist. She greatly assisted her husband in his literary labours, and conjointly with him produced a most favourably received volume of verse under the title of " Daisies in the Grass." Many of their songs have been set to music, and are extremely popular. Mrs. Banks's first publication after marriage was a " Lace Knitter's Guide," followed, after a long interval, by " Light Work for Leisure Hours," a quarterly brochure still in progress with the aid of a daughter. It was not until June, 1865, that she published her first novel, " God's Providence House " (Bentley). It established her North Country Poets. reputation. Next in turn appeared a North Country story, " Stung to the Quick " (1867) ; " The Manchester Man " (1876) ; a Wiltshire story entitled " Glory " (1877) ; a Lancashire novel entitled " Caleb Booth's Clerk " (1878) ; " Wooers and Winners," a Yorkshire story (1880) ; " For- bidden to Wed " (1883) ; and " In His Own Hand " (1885). A cheap and uniform edition of her novels was commenced in 1881 by Abel Hey wood & Son, Manchester, and Simpkin, Marshall & Co., London. In addition to the fore- going novels, excepting" God's Providence House," the series includes the story "More than Coronets," a number of weird stories entitled " Through the Night," and a second volume of short tales under the title of " The Watchmaker's Daughter, and Other Stories," and a third volume entitled " Sybilla, and Other Stories." In 1878, a collection of Mrs. Banks's later poems was published under the title of " Ripples and Breakers," and entitled the writer to a high place amongst the poets of the period. The volume received many favourable reviews. The Athenteum said, " Mrs. Banks writes with fluency and animation. Her view of sentiment is pure and earnest." Other leading critical journals welcomed the work with words of praise. Mrs. Banks has written much for the leading magazines, including All the Year Round, Argosy, Gentleman's Magazine, Temple Bar, Belgravia Annual, CasselVs Family Magazine, Quiver, GirVs Own Paper, The Fireside, Odd Fellows' Quarterly, Once a Week, Country Words, many of the Christmas Annuals, Holiday Numbers, &c., &c. During her residence at Harrogate she lectured on " Woman as she was, as she is, and as she may be," with considerable success, but her preference for privacy has been the means of keeping from the platform one who might have done a good work. She, however, baptized the Shakespeare Oak, planted by Mr. Phelps, the tragedian, on Primrose Hill, at Shakespeare's tercentenary, and delivered " an eloquent address " on the occasion. Several of her books have been illustrated in part by her son, George Collingwood Banks, a gentleman also of literary gifts as well as artistic skill. Two daughters are also living out of a family of eight children. Her life has had its sorrow and its sunshine, her writings are always ennobling, and her actions kind. WILLIAM ANDREWS. INDUSTRIA ET PROBITATE.* (TO MY SON.) Our ancestor at Hastings fought, A Norman baron, clad in mail ; And on his shield and scarf were wrought A motto ne'er by bloodshed bought ; Yet valour had its spirit caught, * The motto of the Varley family, to which the writer belongs. Mrs. G. Linnccus Banks. And in the fight That armed knight Felt every blow was for the right, And being right could never fail ; It nerved his arm for victory By " Industry and Probity." Scorn not the motto as unmeet For feudal times and battle-cry ; For fields where fiery foemen greet The ringing axe with iron sleet, And tread out lives with bloody feet Intent to slay ! Sure in such fray Some consciousness of right must sway The leaders who thus dare to die ! And golden spurs to victory Are " Industry and Probity." Those feudal times have passed away, Earldom and barony are gone, Castle and lands own other sway Forfeit for treason, so they say ; Not e'en to us remains to-day The right to bear Their 'scutcheon fair, For rights like these with wealth decay ; And even my birth-name is gone. Yet cling I with tenacity To " Industry and Probity." We fight far other battles now, No kingly quarrels ask our aid ; Yet every manly heart and brow Is scarred in fight as fierce, I trow ; And whether pencil, pen, or plough Be ours to wield, Our surest shield North Country Poets. In struggling on, all will allow, Is conscious right and earnest zeal ; And so, my son, hold sturdily By "Industry and Probity." Tis all our ancestors have left To mark their course in field or town ; Whether through serried ranks they cleft, Or drove the dagger to the heft, And the fierce stag of life bereft, Or battered wall Echoed the call First shouted by some craftsman deft, Who, fighting, won his mural crown ; Yet a right noble legacy Is " Industry and Probity." So, guard within thy inmost heart That Norman's cry, howe'er attained ; Assured that no ignoble part Was played in battle, field, or mart, By him who wrote upon his chart That worthy line. So make it thine ; Hold up the words like stars to shine Upon a life by vice unstained ; And fight thy battle trenchantly By " Industry and Probity." BRIDAL ROBES. A bridal robe should be A dress to be worn for the day, Then laid aside with all perfumes rare, A treasure to guard with lifelong care, A relic for ever and aye. Mrs. G. Linnceus Banks. And never meaner use Should sully its delicate snow ; The bride's last robe in her maidenhood Should be kept as perfect, pure, and good, As when first it was donned, I trow. For ever a dainty type Of her chastity pure and white, Folded up, like a rose in the bud, Its beauty unseen, but understood By all who can think aright. Text from the marriage morn, In its silence to preach through life, Of duties, put on with every fold, To change that life's silver into gold, If love link true husband and wife. And not till Death should call The tried wife to his bridal bed Should that well-saved robe again be worn, Or that orange wreath again adorn The auburn or lint-white head ; And only wife who kept As spotless her life as her dress, Be honoured to wear her bridal gown, Be honoured to wear her bridal crown, When Death shall her pale lips press. AH, ME ! I measure life by gravestones, not by years ; They are the milestones on my life's highway ; For rain of heaven they have been wet with tears- Are wet to-day ! North Country Poets. Tears of the heart, not of the clouded eye, Bedew these sepulchres of blighted blooms, Where, unresponsive, the beloved ones lie In far-off tombs. Dear friends, who journeyed with rne hand in hand, And dropped, way-worn, leaving sad me behind, To seek alone that bright and better land Faith looks to find. My baby-buds, sweet blossoms of iny love, With sentient leaves expanding day by day ; Whose essence envious Death exhaled above. And left me clay. Fair human forms surrendered to the dust, My human tears may dew your verdant graves ; But there are buried hopes uncomned trusts Where no grass waves. There will be " resurrection of the dead ; " Parted humanity expects to meet All smiles and love where never tears are shed In bliss complete. Some hopes died early, others in their prime, And the heart shrouds them in a viewless pall ; But they will rise not in the after-time At any call. I measure life by gravestones, not by years ; And these, intangible, count with the seen ; The dead hopes buried in a rain of tears The " should have been." And not I only for, alas ! all men Inurn dead hopes within their secret souls, But seldom mark their graves for mortal ken With open scrolls. Mrs. G. Linnczus Banks. FALLING LEAVES. The wind its trump hath blown Adown the dell, And lo ! what leaves are strown On yon grey stone, And o'er the well ! Like human hopes they fall Hopes born in Spring, When Nature's cuckoo-call Wakes life in all, And everything. Leaves matron Summer nurst On sunny slopes, Where their young verdure first To beauty burst ; Leafage and hopes. But the autumnal gust That sweeps life's dell, Blows leaves as red as rust Into the dust, And death's dark well. North Country Poets. Samuel Collinson. ULL, the chief town on the Humber, has been the birthplace of many poets, and amongst the number is Samuel Collinson, who was born there on October 31st, 1812, and now lives at Nottingham. He descends from a Bridlington family. He served an apprenticeship with Mr. Eobert Briggs, chemist, in Whitefriargate, Hull, and subsequently removed to the Metropolis, where he remained for seven years ; he then returned to his native place, where he carried on business as a chemist and druggist, in Queen Street, for about three years. Then this was in 1845 he went to reside at Nottingham, since which time he has lived there. In 1870 Mr. Collinson issued his first work. This was entitled " Autumn Leaves " (Low), and is in its second edition. This diversified collection of poems, gathered with great taste, from many fields of illustration, indicates a command of language and richness of imagery, without being confused or without straining after effect, qualities which are only attainable as a result of patient culture and years of study. The sonnets are generally very good. The principal poem in this volume is " Merope," in which the power of description and the play of imagination are throughout well sustained, and there is no falling off in the composition. In 1876 Mr. Collinson issued his second volume, " Richard's Tower : an idyll of Nottingham Castle ; and other poems " (Hodder and Stoughton), a work which added to his repu- tation as a poet, since 1860 Mr. Collinson has acted as Secretary to the Nottingham Chamber of Commerce, a position which he still occupies. He filled a similar office to the General Exchange from 1856 down to within a couple of years. He is also a stock and sharebroker, and honorary local secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. Mr. Collinson was instrumental in providing " The Robin Hood " lifeboat, which is located at Boulmar, Northumberland. He was for a long period on the staff of the Nottingham Journal, as art and dramatic critic. Mr. Collinson is a water colourist of ability ; and has a strong leaning to antiquarian pursuits. J. POTTEK BKISCOK. MAY. I love thee not, young May, with all thy flowers, Thy blooming hawthorn with its odours sweet, And all thy promises of Summer's heat, Thy song birds and thy pale green leafy bowers. Samuel Collinson. The sunshine on thy face gleams bright but chill, Thy smile's deceitful, and upon rny brow Thy false kiss falls, cold as a flake of snow Unseasonable. On the breezy hill Thy icy breath at eve and early morn Spreads out the gauzy hoar frost's mantle white, Withering the buds that, opening to the light, Had ventured forth beneath the shadowing thorn. I love thee not, whate'er old poets say, Chill, treacherous, but beauteous young May. TIME. [From Mr. J. Potter Briscoe's Album, dated 1881.] So fragmentary and so incomplete, When severed from Eternity, is Time, That the soul deems not earth its home or clime Where it shall fade, like flowers fair and fleet. It waits but here the rising dawn to meet, And struggling up the mountain side to climb, To catch the golden sunlight at its prime, With joyous song Heaven's radiance to greet. The earth to it is but a goodly hall, Where music haunts the air in fitful strains ; But ever to its ear there comes a call To brighter skies, to the celestial plains, Where, though the lyre be broken, the song be stilled, The soul with harmony shall aye be filled. io North Country Poets. THE LIFE BOAT. On a lone hillside 'neath the starless night And drifting clouds, I stand with listening ear To the deep moaning through the bare woods near, Of the chill winds that hurrying in their flight, From the rough North or cliff-bound Eastern shore. Bring with them memories of the beating surf And sea bird's cry ; whilst at my feet the turf Seems like the wind-swept sand near ocean's roar. A wailing cry comes with the fiercer gale : Is it the death shout of a drowning crew ? The stars shine out, the mist clears off anew, The drifting clouds down the horizon sail ; The sailor's blessing comes as the winds are laid, To those who sent the Lifeboat to their aid. WHITBY ABBEY. Time, sacrilegious hands of men, and storms Have made thee but a ruin, roofless, bare ; The rough winds wander 'midst thy pillars fair, 'Neath lofty arches, dight with sculptured forms Of beauty, the destroyer's hands have spared. Whilst Time, as if repentant of his blows, Spreads o'er thy mouldering stones a veil that glows With warmest colour ; where thy shrines are bared Beneath the blue of Heaven, every arch Lifts up its graceful many-moulded crown, Grey with the lichen, or in golden brown, Rich as at sunset gleam the boles of larch. Thy triple windowed gable crowns the hill, A land-mark where the gales the white sails fill. Thomas Newbigging. ii Thomas Newbigging. EW men are better known in Lancashire than Mr. Thomas Newbigging, who was born in Glasgow, September 30th, 1833. His father, John Gibson Newbigging, was a Scotch- man, his maternal grandmother was also a Scot but his maternal grandfather was of Yorkshire. His early boy- hood was spent in the beautiful Vale of Fleet, a " haunted, holy ground," whence poetry and romance have drawn abundant inspiration. In his eleventh year he exchanged the quiet charm of Gatehouse-of -Fleet for the bustling town of Blackburn in Lancashire, and five years later, in 1849, he removed to Bury, where, for two years, he served at his trade of mechanic. From 1851 to 1870 he resided in the Rossendale district of Lancashire, first at Newchurch, and later at Bacup, occupying during thirteen years of this period the post of secretary and manager of the Rossendale Union Gas Company, and identifying himself %vith the educational movements of the time ; he was for several years honorary secretary and director of the Mechanics' Institution of Bacup. In 1859 he married Miss Lomax, daughter of Mr. Abraham Lomax, of Sunnyside, Rossendale, by whom he has three sons and two daughters. In 1870 Mr. Newbigging went out to Brazil as engineer and manager of the Pernambuco Gas Works, whence he returned in 1875, and, settling in Manchester where he still resides, began practice as civil and consulting engineer. He is esteemed a leading authority on gas-engineer- ing, and is often consulted by Committees of Parliament in a professional capacity on Bills relating to gas supply. In the general election of 1886, at the request of the Liberals who favoured Mr. Gladstone's Irish policy, he contested the Rossendale I>ivi'sion with Lord Hartington. Although defeated, Mr. Newbigging's speeches during the contest became known far beyond the limits of the constituency for their keen analysis, clear and cogent argument, and generous bearing towards his opponent. Throughout this most active life Mr. Newbigging has found time for no inconsiderable amount of literary work, always with him a work of love. His published volumes, if not numerous, attest the singular versatility of his mind and the wide range of his interests and sympathies, and even more marked would this manysidedness appear if the great mass of his contributions to the press could be scanned. He is the author of " The Gas Manager's Handbook," which has reached a fourth edition ; joint author and editor of " King's Treatise on the Manufacture and Distribution of Coal Gas," the standard book on the subject. His other works are " Poems and Songs," published during his residence in Rossendale; "History of the Forest of Rossendale," written originally for the Bacup Times, and afterwards brought out in book form, justly regarded as a model in its 12 North Country Poets. department of literature ; a second edition of " Poems and Songs " issued in 1883; a volume of " Sketches and Tales " in 1884; and, more recently, an appreciative biographical sketch and critical estimate of the work of James Leach, the Lancashire composer of psalm and hymn tunes. In 1887 appeared a volume of his " Speeches and Addresses, Political, Social, and Literary." The political speeches were those delivered in the Rossendale contest and subsequently ; many of the addresses were given before the Manchester Literary Club, of which Mr. Newbigging is a member, and embrace a wide range of topics, including " Education," " Co-opera- tion," "Robert Burns," and " John Critchley Prince." But little space is left to speak of Mr. Newbigging as a poet. His lyrics, for most of his poems are lyrical, often remind us of Burns in the grace and vigour of their style, in the quaint homeliness of their humour, and the pathetic melancholy which now and then creeps into his verse. They bear abundant evidence that their author is a loving and close observer of nature, and a man in full sympathy with his fellow-men, however lowly their lot in life. They read like the spontaneous utterances of a broad, manly, earnest spirit on life's somewhat prosy highway, breaking now and again into involuntary song, singing because he must and careless who hears. J. OSCAB PAEKEK. THERE'S PLEASURE AND HEALTH IN CONTENTMENT. There's pleasure and health in contentment, There's fortune in freedom from care ; But envy, and strife, and resentment, Our happiest moments impair. He's a wise man his passion that bridles, He's a fool that will brawl and look sore ; When self, pomp, and pelf are our idols, Joy soon bids adieu to our door ! A crown's but a cumbersome bauble, That darkens the brow it adorns ! And he that wins power oft exchanges The down of his pillow for thorns. The heart that is fainting and fearful, Finds life but a pathway of pain ; Thomas Newbigging. 13 But he that is trusting and cheerful, Descries the bright bow through the rain. Though little in life we may boast of, 'Tis wisdom that little to prize ; And trials, if men make the most of, Are heaven's best gifts in disguise ! The tiniest seed in earth's bosom To loftiest tree doth upspring ; And the birds of the air from the tempest 'Neath its branches may shelter and sing. Life hath its eclipses of sorrow, That hide the blue sky from our sight ; But trust we the brighter to-morrow God's manna comes down in the night ! And while the rich harvest we gather, We'll not the Good Giver forget ; But, grateful, low bending together, With gladness acknowledge the debt. O TELL NOT ME OF SUNLESS HOURS. Life is a dreary round, they say, A lonely pathway paved with sorrow ; Where tear-clad care holds potent sway, And all seems cheerless, but to-morrow ; So I would add my bitter sigh ; So might I deem my soul benighted ; So darkness dire might shroud my sky, If Mary were not here to light it. tell not me of sunless hours, And sweet vows plighted to be broken ; Why close thine eyes on couch of flowers, And take the darkness for a token ? 14 North Country Poets. Why gaze upon the brow of night, Nor mark the myriad stars that grace it ? Thy grief ! go, view the world aright, Thou'lt find some dear one born to chase it. IN ROSSENDALE THERE LIVES A LASS. In Eossendale there lives a lass I know not where her peer may be She's fairer than the fairest maid That graces poet's minstrelsy. The sunlight of her kindly face Is dowry more than gold and land ; Her smile, a richer treasure than E'er rose 'neath touch of fairy's wand. The spring-time wakens leaf and bud, And sprinkles flowers on every spray ; The summer gilds the mountain top, And clothes the vale with verdure gay : 'Tis spring-time where my darling is, The light of love illumes her eyes ; The beauty of her tender glance Broods o'er my soul like summer skies. When o'er the russet moorland hills, In wild career the whistling gale Speeds on its wintry way, and fills With drifting snow the narrow vale, I sit beside the glowing hearth, Nor count the moments as they glide : 'Tis summer in yon forest home, With the dear angel by my side. Thomas Newbigging. 15 WILLIE IS WAITING FOR ME. The mavis he sings by his nest, The lark o'er his home on the lea ; Each lass to the lad she loves best, And Willie is waiting for me. My mother says wooers are wild, They ne'er let the lasses a-be ; Oh ! kind is the bosom, and mild, 0' Willie, that's waiting for me. Yestreen as we sat in the glen, By the stream that runs murmuring free, " My heart to my mou' gied a sten," For Willie spak' something to me. He said that his bosom was sad, And 'twas mine ilka pleasure to gie ; I'll ne'er be unkind to my lad, For oh ! he is kind aye to me. 1 6 North Country Poets. William Cartwright Newsam. N the year 1845 was published at Sheffield a charming volume, entitled " The Poets of Yorkshire ; comprising Sketches of the Lives and Specimens of the Writings of those ' Children of Song ' who have been natives of or otherwise connected with the County of York ; " com- menced by William Cartwright Newsam ; completed, and published for the benefit of his family, by John Holland. The story of Mr. Newsam's struggles and early death is told with a sympathetic pen, by Mr. Holland. Several pleasing specimens of Mr. Newsam's poetry are also included. The story of his career is sketched in Mr. W. H. Dawson's " History of Skipton," the native town of Mr. Newsam, who was born in 1811, and died at Sheffield in 1844. Mr. Holland speaks of him as a " worthy and ingenious man." His grandson, also named William Cartwright Newsam, is widely and favourably known as a lyric author, has spent the greater part of his life in Yorkshire, and as a contributor to the Northern press, his name must be familiar to many readers. He was born at Nottingham in 1861. Many of his songs have been set to music by leading composers, and become very popular, and have been much praised by the critical press. Mr. Newsam has set to music many of his own pieces, and is the composer of numerous musical works. The list of his songs and musical pieces is a long and interesting one, and shows tireless industry and ability. To numerous magazines he has contributed poetry much above the merit usually found in periodical publications. We give three examples of his poetry. W. A. LOOKING BACK. Eeturned from travel, after many years, Once more on old familiar ground I roam ; I mark the little Church, unchanged it stands, And all unchanged my childhood's village home ; Unchanged the sunset lights the sapphire sea ; Unchanged it smiles upon the village green, Touching with gold the daisies on the lea, And lighting, as of old, the peaceful scene. William Cartwright Newsam. 17 The old familiar sounds fall on my ear, The shouts of merry children at their play ; And from the fields, to seek the homesteads near, The lowing cattle slowly wend their way. All, all unchanged ! But still so changed to me The unfamiliar forms that pass me by ; Strange and unknown is every face I see, And gone the friendly glance of every eye. All, all are gone, and here I stand alone, Without the pressure of a friendly hand ; Where once I lived and loved, now all unknown, I stray unnoticed through my native land ; And, as I muse upon the fading past, Amid the shadows of the dying day, Long pent-up mem'ries now come crowding fast Of forms and faces that have passed away. Just as of old I hear the curfew bell, The lilies tremble on the murmuring stream, The fragrant blue-bells scent the shadowy dell, And, as of old, once more I dream, I dream. Just as of old, that one sweet face I see, And, as of old, the blissful hour glides by. Oh ! could the joy be given once more to me ! To live again that one sweet hour and die ! Give me that hour ! Take back the wasted years That form the burden of my weary life ! Give me that hour for all the sighs and tears That were the guerdon of my life-long strife ! Then, to recall the joys that now are o'er, And lay my head upon that gentle breast, Fain would I claim the joyful boon once more, And for that blissful hour give all the rest ! 1 8 North Country Poets. BY THE SEA. I stood by the sea when the sun shone bright And flooded its depths with a blaze of light, And the golden sheen and emerald green, Like gerns in the crown of a fairy queen, Flashed forth in glittering splendour ; And the soft winds sighed o'er the shining tide, And the rnurm'ring waves to the breeze replied In tones that were low and tender. I stood by the sea when the moon was high, And the stars shone out from the midnight sky, And a wondrous sight was that shimmering light That flashed from the crests of the surges bright, Like stars in trembling motion ; And the moon's soft ray on the waters lay, And its gleaming track made a bright highway Across the slumbering ocean. I stood by the sea when the lightning flashed, And the waves ran high, and the thunder crashed, And the blinding spray, that was dashed away By the howling wind, in the furious fray, Brought death to the hardy toiler ; When his ship at last by the stormy blast, A dismantled wreck on the rocks was cast, A prey to the ruthless spoiler. The beautiful sea ! The treacherous sea ! A joy and a terror it is to me. A beautiful sight, by day or by night, Is the tranquil sea, by whose margin bright The fisherman loves to wander ; A terrible thing when its rage doth bring The angel of death with his sable wing, To darken the homesteads yonder. William Cartwright Newsam. 19 SWEET MOTHER, DEAR. Sweet mother, dear ! Sweet mother, dear ! How flies my memory back to thee And those bright days of thoughtless joy When thou wert all in all to me. Secure from every grief and care, How calm and peaceful was my rest, When folded in thy loving arms, And pillowed on thy gentle breast. Those halcyon days soon passed away, And, as the years of life rolled on, Sorrows came fast and faster still, While pleasures faded, one by one. The spring of life seemed bright and fair, Its summer now will soon be o'er, Its winter time is drawing near, But springs return to me no more. Sweet mother, dear ! long years have passed. Long years of care, and toil, and strife, Since, full of hope, I left thy side, To launch upon the sea of life. Now, buffeted by every storm, By adverse Avinds and waves distressed, Weary and worn with ceaseless toil, I turn to thee and sigh for rest. Sweet mother, dear ! Perchance thine eyes May pierce the veil so dark to me ; Perchance thou still canst lead me on, And guide my faltering steps to thee. Gladly I'll meet thee on the shore, Where sighs no more disturb the breast, Where all is peace for evermore ; Then shall I rest, then shall I rest. 20 North Country Poets. William Brockie. HOUGH Mr. William Brockie is still in active work as a journalist and man of letters, bis recollection travels back to the time when, almost every day, be bad sight of Sir Walter Scott, and when bis daily life was spent among many of the characters who have become immortal through the " Waverley Novels." As a youth engaged in the law, be beheld Jeffrey practising as an advocate in the Parliament House at Edinburgh ; as a young Scot of strict religious training, he listened on Sundays to the lofty and ornate eloquence of Chalmers. Surviving into our own world, be still remembers, with some- thing of his youthful awe, the giants of a former race. The Border country produces poets by the score. On the Northumbrian side the people of the villages will come to their doors and say, " There goes the poet Mitford," or Johnston, or Thompson, as the case may be. It is some humble son of the Muses, who has put words to the popular airs, so that his verses are sung over all the country side. William Brockie had ambitions of a larger scope. He was born, the descendant of one of the old yeoman families, at Lauder East Mains, on the Scotch side of the Border, on March 1st, 1811. His father gave him the best education his means could procure, and then, without thinking proper to consult the lad on the subject of a calling, placed hiirf in a lawyer's office at Melrose. There, as may be supposed, he would often " pen a stanza when he should engross." When he was qualified to practice as an attorney he took to farming, and when the landlord, in spite of a promise given, raised the rent, he took to book-keeping, travelling for a wholesale establishment, and finally to schoolmastering. It was possible to combine this occupation with literature, and so he became editor of The Border Watch, which was to the Border country what Hugh Miller's Witness was to Edinburgh. Then he must needs almost ruin himself by getting the paper into his own hands, and taking a partner who drank the firm into difficulties. In the emergency thus produced, Mr. Brockie set his eyes on what Dr. Johnson declared to be the finest of all sights for a Scots- man, "the high-road which leads to England." In 1849, he became editor of the North and South Shields Gazette, then a weekly newspaper, and con- tinued in this position till 1852. For eight years longer he kept a school in Shields, called an academy, getting married in the meantime to the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, and finally taking leave of the Shields folks in a scathing set of verses still locally I famous under the title of "Hookey Walker's Farewell." From 1860 to 1873 Mr. Brockie edited the Sunderland Times, at the end of that period resigning regular duties in order to engage in general literary work, which he contributed to a large number of news- papers and magazines. In a life of incessant work as a journalist, during which he has acquired thirteen languages, ancient and modern, Mr. Brockie William Brockie. 21 has written much which was intended only for immediate consumption. Nevertheless, he has found time to produce a shelf -full of books, among which may be named, " The Confessional and other Poems," "Leaderside Legends," " Indian Thought," "The Gypsies of Yetholm," " Legends and Superstitions of the County of Durham," and " The History of the Priory of Coldingham . ' ' Let me add that he is a man of high and earnest character, respected wherever his name is known, and beloved by all who have the advantage of his friendship. AABON WATSON. THE MIGHTY. Where are the graves of the Mighty ? Far in the forest and fen. "Where are the graves of the Mighty ? Down in the depths of the sea. Where are the graves of the Mighty ? Sunk in the sands of the desert. Where are the graves of the Mighty ? Lost in the lone savannah. Tumuli, hummocks, and mounds, Storyless, nameless, and dateless, Spots which the Yezidi deems Haunts of the fiend he worships. Where are the bones of the Mighty ? Ground by the waves into lime. Where are the bones of the Mighty ? Burnt in the Arab's rude oven. Where are the bones of the Mighty ? Mingled with soil to enrich it. Where are the bones of the Mighty ? Scattered as dust to the winds. Earth has reclaimed her own ; Water and air have theirs ; And now there remains of the Mighty Not even a rnarrowless fragment. 22 North Country Poets. Where are the halls of the Mighty ? Vacant, dismantled, downfallen. Where are the halls of the Mighty ? Left to the owl and the ostrich. Where are the halls of the Mighty ? Eazed to the very foundation. Where are the halls of the Mighty ? Under the peasant's plough. Only some rnossgrown stones, Left in a nook secluded, Draw a stray moonstruck pilgrim Off the great world's high road. Where are the sons of the Mighty ? Shrunk in soul and sinew. Where are the sons of the Mighty ? Faint and chicken-hearted. Where are the sons of the Mighty ? Bondmen to serf and slave. Where are the sons of the Mighty ? Crouching to Pope and Kaiser. The priest-sucked Latin soil Brings forth few Eomans now ; And Ida and Olympus Are abandoned by the Gods. Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? Wrapped in oblivion's shade. Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? Ah, how few have survived them ! Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? Frustrated, undone, fruitless. Where are the deeds of the Mighty ? As if they had never been done. No, it is false ? the fruits Past generations have eaten, And still there remains a store For all generations to come. William B 'rookie. 23 What have we gained by the Mighty ? Look around, and see. What have we gained by the Mighty ? Knowledge, religion, freedom. What have we gained by the Mighty ? All that the brutes have not. What have we gained by the Mighty ? To be called the sons of God. Matter subdued, mind disenthralled, Heaven's portals opened wide, Life and immortality brought to Light : This we have gained by the Mighty. Where is the fame of the Mighty ? Not on earth, which they have left. Where is the fame of the Mighty ? In Heaven, to which they have gone. Where is the fame of the Mighty ? With the souls of the saints made perfect. Where is the fame of the Mighty ? With God, who has received them. Myriads of grateful voices For ever and for ever, Shout through the empyrean, The triumphs of the Mighty. LOVE. Love is a friendly bark on the deep, A planet in the stormy sky, A bright cloud on which angels sleep, A madness-soothing melody. It softens the proud, gives nerve to the brave, Uplifts the feeble, ennobles the slave, 24 North Country Poets. Eetards the swift, to the lame gives wings, - And compasses all incredible things. All beings its wondrous powers rehearse, And its empire is the universe. ETERNAL RECORDS. The world is not a passing show, Although things wither and decay, And Time, in his unceasing flow, Carries them rapidly away. Whate'er has been, is, and shall be, Through measureless eternity. All Time is mirrored upon Space In Nature's wondrous phototype ; The history of the human race Is writ on heaven in lines so deep That, to the God-directed eye, The Past is not a mystery. Man's conscience, too, a record is, Surcharged with the minutest lore ; Had he no other roll but this, The Judge Supreme would need no more For not one jotting, foul or fair, Can Time or Trouble cancel there. Edwin IVaugh. Edwin Waugh. DWIN Waugh, who has often been styled the Laureate of Lancashire, was born at Rochdale, 29th January, 1818, but although to the manner born as a genuine Lancashire lad, he is of Northumbrian stock on his father's side. The love of poetry and music may thus be regarded as a double inheritance, since both the Borderers and " lusty lads of Lancashire " have a reputation for harmony and songcraft. Mr. Waugh was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and has left an interesting record of the struggles of his earlier years. After passing through Davenport's Commercial Academy, he was apprenticed to a bookseller and printer, and like many other men who have achieved distinction, he has " worked at the case." After ten years of this drudgery he became Secretary of the Lancashire Public School Association, which was established for the formation of a plan of National Secular Elementary Education. Whilst not achieving this object, the Association undoubtedly did much to pave the way for the education measure subsequently carried by Mr. Forster. Five of the busiest years of Mr. Waugh's life were given to this work. Since then he has devoted him- self entirely to literature. The list of his writings is a long one, and as many were issued in a somewhat ephemeral form, they became difficult to obtain. This has been remedied by the appearance, a few years ago, of a uniform edition extending to ten volumes. To this may now be added a new volume of the poems of his later years. Mr. Waugh writes pleasantly of persons and places, and has a very unusual power of descriptive writing. In his prose stories there are many admirable points of humour and pathos. His dialect poems have often great lyrical beauty and are racy of the soil. To read them after some modern poetry, is like feeling a waft of moorland breeze, laden with the perfume of wild-flowers and orchards, after escaping from the warm and sickly odours of the green- house. Mr. Waugh paints the lads and lasses of Lancashire as he has known them, concealing neither their defects nor their virtues. The appetite for fun and frolic, the adventurous spirit, the shrewd common sense, the cheerful stoicism that makes a jest of misfortune, the tender home affections, the love of wife and child, and all the sacred joys and sorrows that centre round the humble home, find a fine and fitting expositor in Edwin Waugh. He is so great as a dialect poet, that the delicate beauty of he verses he has written in book-English are too often overlooked. They would have made the reputation of any man except the author of " Come Whoam to Thi Childer an' Me." Mr. Waugh has for years been in the receipt of a Government pension, and is now resident in New Brighton, from whence he is occasionally tempted to re- visit those literary circles of Manchester where he is ever an honoured guest. WILLIAM E. A. AXON. 26 North Country Poets. COME WHOAM TO THI GUILDER AN' ME. Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob ; 1 Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob, An' a quart o' ale posset i'th oon ; 2 Aw've brought thi top-cwot, 3 doesto know, For th' rain's cornin' deawn very dree ; 4 An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow ; Come whoam to thi childer an' me. When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther 5 weren't theer, So aw kiss'd th' little thing, an' aw said Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair ; An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags, An' a nice little white cotton-bo' ; An' aw kiss'd her again ; but hoo said 'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o'. An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark 6 wi' him, Afore aw could get him up stairs ; Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum, He said, when he're sayin' his prayers ; Then he looked i' my face, an' he said, " Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad ? " An' he cried till his een were quite red ; He likes thee some weel, does yon lad ! At th' lung-length, 7 aw geet 'ern laid still ; An' aw hearken't folks feet that went by ; So aw iron't o' my clooas reet well, An aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry ; 1 Cob, a lump of coal. 4 Dree, wearily-continuous. 2 Oon, oven. s Feyther, father. 3 Top-cwot, top-coat. *Wark, work. 7 Th' lung-length, the long-length, the end. Edwin Waugh. 27 When aw'd mended thi stockiu's an' shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer, An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt, Mon, aw'm one-ly^ when theaw artn't theer. " Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick ; Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal ; Aw've a book full o' babs ; 2 an' a stick An' some bacco an' pipes for mysel' ; Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay, Iv thae'll feel i' my pocket, thae'll see ; An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day, But aw al'ays bring summat for thee ! " God bless tho', my lass ; aw'll go whoam, 3 An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' children o' round ; Thae knows, that wherever aw roam, Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd ground ; Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass ; Aw can do wi' a bit of a spree ; But aw've no gradely* comfort, my lass, Except wi' you childer and thee." ^One-ly, lonely. 3 Whoam homo. z Babs, babies, pictures. ^Gradely, proper, right. THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE. The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine ; My ribbins '11 never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie '11 be coming to-neet ; He met me i'th lone 1 tother day, Aw're gooin' for wayter 2 to th' well, An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May ; Bi' th mass, 3 iv he'll let me, aw will. 1 Lone, lane. 2 Wayter, water. 3 Bi'th Mass, by the mass ; an expression brought down from Catholic times. 28 North Country Poets. When he took my two bonds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose 1 on him seein' my e'en ; My cheek went as red as a rose ; There's never a mortal can tell Heaw happy aw felt ; for, thea knows, Aw couldn't ha' axed 2 him mysel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, For aw thought to seem forrud 3 wur wrong, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet ; But, Mally, thae knows very weel, Though it isn't a thing one should own, If aw'd th' pikein' 4 o'th world to mysel', Aw'd oather 5 ha' Jamie or noan. Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; What wouldto do iv 'twur thee ? " Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, An' a farrantly bargain 5 he'd be ; For Jamie's as gradely 6 a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun ; So, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An" do th' best tho con, when it's done ! " Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon, Aw should'nt like Jamie to wait, Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late ; Aw'ra o' ov a tremble too th' heel, Dost think at my bonnet '11 do ? " Be off, lass, thae looks very weel ; He wants noan o'th bonnet, thae foo ! " iBccose, because. 5 Gather, either. z Axed, asked. Q A farrantly bargain, a decent 3 Frrud, forward. bargain, a good bargain. * Pikein', picking, choosing. ''Gradely, proper, right. Edwin Waugh. 29 THE MOORLAND BREEZE. Of all the blithesome melody That wakes the warm heart's thrill, Give me the wind that whistles free Across the moorland hill ; When every blade upon the lea Is dancing with delight, And every bush and flower and tree Is singing in its flight. When summer comes I'll wear a plume, With flowers of shining gold ; And it shall be the bonny broom, That loves the moorland wold ; And it shall wave its petals bright Above my cap so free, And kiss the wild wind in its flight That whistles o'er the lea. Blithe harper of the moorland hills, The desert sings to thee ; The lonely heath with music thrills Beneath thy touch so free. With trembling glee, its wilding strings Melodious revels keep, As o'er the waste, on viewless wings, Thy fairy fingers sweep. In yonder valley, richly green, I see bright rivers run ; They wind in beauty through the scene And shimmer in the sun ; And they may sing and they may shine Down to the heaving sea ; The bonny moorland hills are mine, Where the wild breeze whistles free ! 30 North Country Poets. Oh lay me down in moorland ground, And make it my last bed, With the heathy wilderness around, And the silent sky o'erhead. Let the fern and ling around me cling, And the green moss o'er me creep ; And the sweet wild mountain breezes sing Above my slumbers deep. CHRISTMAS MORNING. Come all you weary wanderers, Beneath the wintry sky ; This day forget your worldly cares, And lay your sorrows by ; Awake, and sing ; The church bells ring ; For this is Christmas morning ! With grateful hearts salute the morn, And swell the streams of song, That laden with great joy are borne, The willing air along ; The tidings thrill With right good will ; For this is Christmas morning ! We'll twine the fresh green holly wreath, And make the yule-log glow ; And gather gaily underneath The winking mistletoe ; All blithe and bright By the glad fire-light ; For this is Christmas morning ! Edwin Waugh. 31 Come, sing the carols old and true, That mind us of good cheer, And, like a heavenly fall of dew, Eevive the drooping year ; And fill us up A wassail-cup ; For this is Christmas morning ! To all poor souls we'll strew the feast, With kindly heart, and free ; One Father owns us, and, at least, To-day we'll brothers be ; Away with pride, This holy tide ; For it is Christmas morning ! So now, God bless us one and all With hearts and hearthstones warm ; And may He prosper great and small, And keep us out of harm ; And teach us still, His sweet good- will, This merry Christmas morning ! North Country Poets. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. T is by force of accident, merely, that Mrs. Browning can be included among the "North Country Poets." Her parents chanced to be temporarily resident in the county of Durham when she was born. There has been much dispute as to the facts. Mr. John H. Ingram contends that Mrs. Browning was born in London ; Mrs. Ritchie, another of the biographers of the poetess, says that she was born at Burn Hall, Durham ; Mr. Browning, whose word on the subject ought to be final, says that she was born at Carlton Hall, in the county of Durham. Fortunately we are able to throw light on the subject by means of a letter from the brother of the poetess. He says : " Mrs. Browning was born at Coxheath Hall, county Durham. Mrs. Althane, my second sister, was born in London. The rest of us were born in Herefordshire. I am the sixth, and, as you may suppose, know nothing of Coxheath. I am not even quite sure I am right in the name. I fancy my father was only the tenant. He married when he was eighteen, and Mrs. Browning was the eldest." There is no Coxheath Hall in the county of Durham, but there is a village of Carlton. Mr. Barrett admits that he may be mistaken in the name, but his evidence may be taken as conclusive on the point most in dispute that it was in the county of Durham, and not in London, that Mrs. Browning was born. It must be held to be extraordinary, and yet most fitting, that the greatest poetess the world has seen should have been united in marriage to one of the greatest poets of the 19th century. There is in the history of our men and women of letters no other example of a similar union. Very appropriately, too, the acquaintance was brought about by a passage in one of Mrs. Browning's poems. She had made a graceful and most discerning reference to the author of "Bells and Pomegranates," in her ''Lady Geraldine's Courtship," " Or, from Browning some Pomegranate, which, when cut deep down the middle, Shows within a heart blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity." and the poet thereupon procured an introduction to her, when he found her great spirit confined in so small and frail a body that she appeared to be connected with mortality only by the very slenderest threads. This was in 1845. Elizabeth Barrett, whose father's name had originally been Moulton,. had then published several volumes of verse and one prose work, " The Greek Christian Poets and the English Poets." She had written an epic at thirteen years of age, and in her twenty-first year her first proof-sheets came from the printer, an " Essay upon Mind," and other poems, being published as a volume in 1827. Elizabeth Barrett was among the women of sound learning. She had Plato bound up as a romance, in order to deceive her friends as to the Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 33 nature of her reading. Italian and Hebrew were among her accomplish- ments. There seems to have been no moment in her life which was devoted to light employments, and the poetic fire burned within her with so much intenseness that it was for ever threatening to consume her insubstantial frame. Of her poems she wrote : " They have my heart and life in them ; they are not empty shells .... I have done my work not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being, but as the completest expression of that being to which I could attain, feeling its short-comings more deeply than any of my readers, but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere. " The poetess was born, says Mr. Browning, in 1806. Other authorities, among them Mr. Ingram, declare that she was not born until 1809. This notice is based on the earlier date. In 1837 she became a confirmed invalid. When Robert Browning met her she had been confined in a darkened room for the long space of five years. Before her illness she was, according to Miss Mitford, " of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face." She had " large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sun- beam," and a look of most extraordinary youthfulness. The marriage of Elizabeth Barrett with Mr. Browning took place in 1846, and during the courtship the poetess wrote her " Sonnets from the Portuguese," the most passionate expression of a great and pure love that is to be found in the literature of any country. The remainder of her life was spent in Italy, where her son was born, where she wrote "Aurora Leigh" and " Casa Guidi Windows," and where, in 1861, she died. Excepting only her love for Mr. Browning, Italy had been her grand passion, and her residence at Pisa was the realisation of a long and settled dream. There, every incident of her life translated itself into poetry, as, for example, a child's song : " I heard last night a little child go singing 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, ' delta liberta, bella ! ' stringing The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green." With Mrs. Browning, poetry was passionate thought. Lyric expression and her expression was always lyrical, even when she wrote in blank verse was not in her case the utterance of an occasional mood, but a natural and customary language, like the song-notes of a bird. Her verse, with a few later exceptions, is always as hurried and impetuous as a moun- tain stream, so that sometimes the thought is obscured by the rush of language and rich imagery, and still more frequently there are faults of phrase and rhyme which ought not to have been present in the work of a poet with so exquisite an ear. These, however, are but the occasional flies in amber. Mrs. Browning's poetry is a full and noble expression of the soul of one of the greatest and loftiest-minded women the world has known. AARON WATSON. 34 North Country Poets. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Do ye hear the children weeping, O rny brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; The young birds are chirping in the nest : The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; The young flowers are blowing toward the west But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago The old tree is leafless in the forest The old year is ending in the frost The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ; " " Our young feet," they say, " are very weak ! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary Our grave-rest is very far to seek ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 35 Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old ! " " True," say the young children, " it may happen That we die before our time ! Little Alice died last year the grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her Was no room for any work in the close clay ; From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ' Get up, little Alice ! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ! Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes, And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime ! It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time ! " Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have ! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine ! " For oh," say the children, " we are weary, And we cannot run or leap 36 North Country Poets. If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling All are turning, all the day, and we with all ! And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; And sometimes we could pray, ' ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning), ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' ' Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, As if Fate in each were stark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 37 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, That they look to Him and pray So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door ; Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ; And at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm, We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. ' Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' ' " But, no ! " say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone ! And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! " say the children, " Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find ! Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving And the children doubt of each. 38 North Country Poets. And well may the children weep before you ; They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom ; They sink in the despair, without the calm Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly No dear remembrance keep, Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For you think you see their angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity ; " How long," they say, " how long, cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne aniid the smart ? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, And your purple shows your path ; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath ! " THE LADY'S YES. " Yes ! " I answered you last night ; " No ! " this morning, Sir, I say ! Colours seen by candle-light, Will not look the same by day. When the tabors played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for Yes or fit for No ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 39 Gall me false, or call rne free Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on thy face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sm is on us both Time to dance is not to woo Wooer light makes fickle troth Scorn of me recoils on you ! Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high ; Bravely, as for life and death With a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore And her Yes, once said to you, SHALL be Yes for evermore. THE SLEEP. He giveth His beloved sleep." PSALM cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this " He giveth His beloved, sleep " ? What would we give to our beloved ? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 40 North Country Poets. The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The senate's shout to patriot vows, The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? " He giveth His beloved, sleep." What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake ! " He giveth His beloved, sleep." " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when " He giveth His beloved, sleep." O earth, so full of dreary noises ! O men, with wailing in your voices ! delved gold, the wailers heap ! strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! God makes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved, sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill ; His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap ! More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, " He giveth His beloved, sleep." Yea ! men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man In such a rest his heart to keep ; But angels say, and through the word 1 think their blessed smile is heard " He giveth His beloved, sleep." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 41 For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the jugglers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who giveth His beloved, sleep ! xVnd, friends ! dear friends, When it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, ' Not a tear must o'er her fall ' ; " He giveth His beloved, sleep." THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. With stammering lips and insufficient sound, I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature, day and night With dream and thought and feeling, interwound : And inly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height, Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground ! This song of soul I struggle to outbear Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole, And utter all myself into the air : But if I did it, as the thunder-roll Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there, Before that dread apocalypse of soul. North Country Poets. David Holt. HE father of David Holt was a successful cotton-spinner at Holt Town, Manchester, where our poet was born in 1828. Reverses of fortune fell upon the family, and at an early age he entered the gloomy portal of commercial life. He had no remembrance of a time when he did not feel a deep and passionate love for poetry, and, as a boy, scribbled verses. At the age of seventeen, he published " Poems, Rural and Miscellaneous/' a volume which appears to have contained nothing remarkable ; and it was not until five years later that, " A Lay of Hero Worship, and other Poems " (London : William Pickering, 1850), introduced David Holt, as a poet, to his native town. His third volume, " Janus, Lake Sonnets, etc. " (London : William Pickering), was published in 1853, and embodied most of his best work. From this time he does not seem to have written much, but in 1868, his friend, Mr. Alexander Ireland, induced him to issue a small volume of selections, bearing on its title page, " Poems by David Holt " (London : Simpkin, Marshall, & Co. ; Manchester : A. Ireland & Co.), amongst which were several poems of great beauty, not hitherto printed. The life of David Holt was singularly uneventful. For thirty-four years he was closely engaged in a railway office ; and the days were few when he was absent from the city of his birth. In 1853 he married. The union proved a most happy one ; and his wife and family of three sons survived him. He died, in 1880, at the age of fifty-one years, and was buried in the beautiful churchyard of Bowdon, Cheshire : fit place for one whose heart had leaned out to the fields, through a life which was spent in the streets. David Holt has himself written that he believed he lacked entirely the creative, and to a great extent the imaginative faculties ; and there is much truth in the confession. I only know of two instances where stories are woven into his poems, and they are both slight. Still he was a sweet singer ; earnestness and sincerity are ever present in his writings, and his graceful and melodious rhymes occasionally rise to something nobler. His most ambitious poems are "A lay of hero worship " and "Janus;" both contain fine passages, and will well repay perusal. Amongst his best work are "Lake Sonnets," "The woodlands," "The mountain dream," " Building up," " 1859 in Italy," " 'Twas a maiden and her lover," " The departed," and " A promise." By early associations, he was connected with the Society of Friends. He was a man of chivalrous honour, a quiet, modest nature, and surpassing gentleness : these qualities, together with wide knowledge and dry humour, endeared him to all with whom he came in contact. JOSEPH PEEEIN. David Holt. 43 THE WOODLANDS. 'tis sweet, 'tis sweet to wander in the greensward-paven alleys, With the laden boughs above us, and the moss-clad trunks around ; Or to lie and dream with Mature 'mid the fern-clad hills and valleys, In a harmony of silence far surpassing sweetest sound. O the woodlands, the woodlands, the sweet and shady places, Lone romantic hollows haunted by the wild-bird and the bee ; Ye may gaze for hours together on the sweet upturned faces Of the flowers, whose gentle smiling it is almost heaven to see. And they smile upon you ever with a pure and holy smiling Of their lovely human sisterhood, and ever as you pass, Look up to you beseechingly as though they were beguiling You to take your seat beside them on the warm and sunny grass. And think you they will answer if with gentle words ye woo them ? 0, believe me, they have voices sweet as any singing bird ; But they speak to those who love them, and who lean their souls unto them, And by such, and by such only, are their gentle voices heard. They will tell you tales of fairy-bands, that come and dance around them, And sing them songs of joyance through the livelong summer night, Tracing circles in the greensward when the quiet moon hath bound them In the mystery of beauty with a veil of silver light. And the merry, merry streamlet, as it plays amid the pebbles, Chiming in with happy chorus to the wild-bird's sunny song, With its softly murmur'd tenor, and its liquid-trilling trebles, Makes the woodlands ring with music as its light waves dance along : Ye may almost dare to fancy that ye will behold the issue Of some Naiad from the waters with her eyes of liquid blue, With rounded form of beauty, and with lips of vermeil tissue, Sent expressly by the Muses to hold converse sweet with you. 44 North Country Poets. Or, if graver mood be on you, from the antique trunks all hoary, Ye may list for Dryad-voices, with their sad and solemn strain, Bewailing to the passing winds their far and faded glory, And lamenting days departed which may never come again. 0, to couch on beds of violet, in a foliage-curtain'd pleasaunce, There to feast upon their beauty, and to breathe their sweet perfume, Meet to be inhal'd by angels so ethereal is its essence, While they are meet for angels' gaze, so holy is their bloom ; 'Twere a joy almost too blissful for a mere mortal to inherit ; Yet a simple joy, and Nature hath a thousand such in store For all those who woo her beauties with a pure and constant spirit, And for every fresh revealing, love those gentle beauties more. Yes, to live mid leafy shadows, and to note the hours flit by us By the sunbeams on the foliage, were a happy life to lead ; And a life according sweetly with the pure and natural bias Of some hearts devote to Nature, and well skilled her lore to read. But the world hath claims upon us, and our social duties ever Call us forth to crowded cities, there to jostle with the throng ; Yet methinks it were much happier to depart from Nature never, But to dwell amid the wild-woods and to pass our life in song. BUILDING UP. With infinite patience and toil to develop Whate'er may be in us of good and of beauty, To build up our nature with labour incessant, That our Future may cast into shadow our Present : This is our mission in life, and our duty. But that which is built to endure, is built slowly, And all that the world has of great and of noble, Hath slowly been wrought out with toil and with trouble ; David Holt. 45 And they are the learned who end with discerning That men may grow grey, and yet still be but learning. It taketh brief time, and but little invention, To build up a fabric of lath and of plaster, But it taketh long years, and the mind of a master, To build a cathedral, with arch and with column, Meet for God's glory majestic and solemn. AT THE GRAVE OF WORDSWORTH. (In Grasmere Churchyard). Oh better far than richly sculptur'd tomb, Oh fitter far than monumental pile Of storied marble in cathedral aisle, Is this low grassy grave, bright with the bloom Of nature, and laid open to the smile Of the blue heaven this stone that tells to whom The spot is dedicate, who rests beneath In this God's acre, this fair field of death ; Oh meet it is, great Bard, that in the breast Of this sweet vale, and 'neath the guardian hills By thee so loved, thy venerated dust Should lie in peace ; and it is meet and just That evermore around thy place of rest Should rise the murmur of the mountain rills. 46 North Country Poets. Arthur A. D. Bay I don. j^TJfMONGST the rising poets of Yorkshire, Mr. Bayldon promises to obtain a prominent place. He is a native of Leeds, and was born on March 20th, 1865. He was edu- cated at the Leeds Grammar School, and has devoted much study to the productions of our best poets, whilst his mind has been expanded by foreign travel, as he has visited America, India, and other parts of the world. He has been a resident in Hull for some time. Messrs. Geo. Bell & Sons, London, published a volume of his poetry in 1887, under the title of " Lays and Lyrics." The pieces are somewhat unequal, but on the whole shew much talent. Several of the leading critical j ournals pronounced the work as one of great promise, and as a first attempt it may be regarded as a highly satisfactory performance. The following examples of Mr. Bayldon's poetry are drawn from his volume. W. A. THE TWO WORLDS. Sprung as from niist two rolling worlds I view'd : One was all beauty, whirling swift and bright, Peopled by shapes and visions of delight ; The other swung a shapeless solitude, Haunted by things which evermore must brood In the dim wastes of melancholy Night. A shadowy horror hung about the height Of desolate steeps where footsteps ne'er intrude. And as I gaz'd with wonder, lo ! there came A whisper from my spirit's inmost lair : " Yon glorious world is thine own dream of Fame, Which thine Imagination paints so fair ; And that dense orb, where mighty shadows move, Eeflects the dream Eeality may prove." Arthur A. D. Bayldon. 47 THE SPHINX. Alone upon the desert wild and bare, Still gazing with thy melancholy eyes, While ages sweep and empires sink and rise, Thy mighty Image stands, whose features wear The same lix'd look thy sculptor carved there. No shadow falls but what thy form supplies- Unchangeable as thy familiar skies And thine eternal kingdom of despair. Like shadows by thine Image come and go A host of curious pilgrims from all lands, And disappear as ages swiftly flow ; And then the broad and ever-burning sands, With solitude, and thy still steadfast face, Break on our dreams of some forgotten race. SONG TO THE RAINBOW. Flashing form, so fair and fleeting ! Arching hill, and vale, and sea, To my spirit's ear repeating Vows of love from Him to me. Thou art fraught with heavenly duty To the erring human race ; Thou art bright with more than beauty, Moulded from the sun's embrace. O thou sweet one ! pure and holy, Breathing melody above, How I love to watch thee, lowly, Till my heart swim's o'er with love. While I speak thy swift hues tremble, Fading, fleeting fast away. Now the flying clouds assemble, And thy tints, oh ! where are they ? 4 8 North Country Poets. George Linnceus Banks. HOUGH not a Yorkshireman by birth, yet was G. Linnaeus Banks one by parentage. His father, John Banks, and William, the father of W. S. Banks, were brothers, born in Wakefield. Of these, William, the elder, was placed at Ackworth School by Sir Joseph Banks, to whom they were collaterally related. Apprenticeship was the good custom of the period, and John was accordingly appren- ticed to the Earl of Mexborough's head gardener. Pre- viously to his marriage with Sarah Hill (a descendant of historic Eichard Penderell), he had settled in Birmingham as a seedsman and florist, and there, in the Bull-Bing, was his fourth son, George Linnaeus, born March 2nd, 1821. His parents were Wesleyans of a very rigid type. Home rule was of the strictest. From home, " Banks's boys " were known as the incarnation of mischief, banding with others for the perpetration of practical jokes that would not be tolerated in these days ; young George with the rest. He was sent to good schools, among them Dr. Guy's, and on one occasion played truant for the whole term, except the first day. The Methodist Magazine and " Ptomaine's Walk of Faith " sample the narrow bookshelf. But at a very early age the embryo poet feasted on " Young's Night Thoughts," and in order to read in quiet, and perhaps to emulate " Harvey's Meditations among the Tombs," betook himself to the planted graveyard of St. Philip's Church evening by evening. He was little more than nine years old when he began to contribute squibs and epigrams to a newly-started satirical paper called The Argus. He was not much older when he was threatened with permanent blindness, saw only a glimmer of light for months, and was finally cured by a quack who applied leeches to his feet. His weakness in sight prevented his apprenticeship to an engraver, to whom he went on probation. Then modelling was tried, but affected his health. Finally he bound himself to a cabinet case- maker, i.e., a maker of desks, work-boxes, &c., at that time profusely inlaid with pearl and ebony. Here another talent was displayed. He designed his own scrolls as he cut them out. His master failing, he dropped his tools and became a salesman in different places, all along keeping up his connection with the press. His first volume, " Blossoms of Poesy," dedicated to Prince Albert, and published in 1841, served as an introductory chapter to his marriage in December, 184G, to Isabella, eldest daughter of James and Amelia "Varley, of Manchester. In 1848 he com- menced his editorial career on The Harrogate Advertiser, which he, too late, discovered to be a mere summer paper. Already free of the platform, he filled the winter vacuum with lecturing throughout the north and founding Mechanics' Institutes in Harrogate and elsewhere, eventuating in the George Linnceus Banks. 49 " North-West Sub-Union of Mechanics' Institutes," of which he became first secretary. As a lecturer and public speaker he was most popular. His lecture on " Gossip and Slander " will not be forgotten by those who heard it. Whilst in Harrogate he published a second volume of poems, " Staves for the Human Ladder" (1850). It was there, over the breakfast table, that he wrote his celebrated poem, " What I live for." It went into the Family Herald first, then into his next volume, " Peals from the Belfry " (1853), and since has gone the world over. Dr. Guthrie, Dr. Ealeigh, and others have tagged sermons and speeches with a stanza from it, The Chevalier de Chatelain published a French translation, and The Panama Star and Herald adopted the three concluding lines as its motto. His other volumes exclusive of pamphlets and unprinted plays and lectures wre " The Life of Blondin " (1862), " Finger-post Guide to London, "and "All about Shakespeare " (1864), "Daisies in the Grass" (1865), a volume containing poems by husband and wife coming last. It is not possible here to enumerate even the chief of his lyrics, set to music by well known composers, or the many public movements he inaugurated in his native town and elsewhere. His successive editorships after Harrogate were The Birmingham Mercury, The Dublin Daily Express, The Durham Chronicle, The Sussex Mercury, The Windsor Royal Standard, and The Exchange, a financial paper. The last two were his own property, and in- volved him in considerable loss. Whilst in Durham he set on foot a celebration of the Burns' Centenary, which left as a result a fine full-length portrait of Kobert Burns in the Town Hall : the only English memorial of the event. In recognition of his eloquent oration on this occasion, the Glasgow committee forwarded to Mr. Banks a medallion profile of their honoured bard, with a complimentary inscription at the back. But whether in the North or South he was at work for the masses. In London he inaugurated the Working Men's Shakespeare Tercentenary Movement, which left the Shakespeare Oak on Primrose Hill as a testimony. Several other public movements he set on foot in the metropolis, but his editorial days were over. Towards the close of his life he did not write a great deal, but, nevertheless, he produced some fine poems, perhaps the best being the " Lay of the Captive Lark." Mr. Banks was ill for a considerable time. He succumbed to long concealed cancer on the 4th of May, 1881, and was buried in Abney Park Cemetery. ISABELLA BANKS. WHAT I LIVE FOR, I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true ; For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too ; 50 North Country Poets. For all human ties that bind me, For the task by God assigned me, For the bright hopes yet to find me, And the good that I can do. I live to learn their story Who suffered for my sake ; To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake : Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The heroic of all ages, Whose deeds crowd History's pages, And Time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel there is a union 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine ; To profit by affliction, Reap truth from fields of fiction, Grow wiser from conviction, And fulfil God's grand design. I live to hail that season By gifted ones foretold, W T hen men shall live by reason, And not alone by gold, When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old. I live for those who love me, For those who know me true, For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too ; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. George Linnceus Banks. 51 LAY OF THE CAPTIVE LARK. A PLAINTIVE PLEA FOB OUR POOR BIRDS OF SONG. Deep in the thick of a tuft of clover My mate and I (And never was lover truer to lover Than she and I) Had built our nest, and in peace we lay, Unrecking of snare Awaiting the first faint blush of day To bound to the air, And open the service of life with a matin, Couched in ornithological Latin, When the fowler came, like a thief in the dark, And broke up the home of the poor little Lark. My mate she died of fright, So did our nestlings twain ; I was carried away by might Out of the fields and out of sight Of the hedgerows in the lane, Into the strange abodes of men Never to look on the downs again. There I was sold for a top and a marble By a gutter Arab, nine years old ; I, of the minstrel tribe, who could warble Melodies precious as liquid gold- Sold as a very loon, Devoid of soul or tune Or as a knave, or slave, And all for life To a cobbler's wife. Then they put me in a cage, With sloping roof and bars Me who could soar with the sage, And talk to the silvern stars 52 North Country Poets. In the face of the morn When the day is born, And the babe buds sing To the great Sun-king, Biding forth on his car of cars. And here I am in my cage, With sloping roof and bars, Immured for life By a cobbler's wife, In the pestilent air Of a tumble-down square That recoils from the light of the stars ; Yet I'm wiser than the sage, And happier than the sage, With the Pleiades, and Mars, And all the heavenly train Talking to him in vain. Out of all that he sees and hears He cannot fashion one song ; Nor set to music the tears, Or the frowns of the human throng : He can only tickle the brain With facts, or with fancies, vain, Showing how little he knows, How very little he knows, While no song flows From him the whole day long, To gladden the moiling throng. Now, 'tis my delight to sing For song is worship, and peace, and love, Both on earth beneath, and in Heaven above ; It is my delight to sing, Because of the joy it will bring To the sorrowing, And the suffering ; George Linnczus Banks. 53 And because of the balm 'twill impart To many a sad and weary heart, And many an urchin trodden down In the reeking slums of this cruel town. 'Twere pleasanter far to be Out in the flowery lea, Nestling low in the grass, Where the fairy-mummers pass, Or mounting up to Heaven With the pinions my Maker has given ; But better it is that I Should be pent up here alone, Without space to soar or to fly, Leading the life of a drone, Than the dwellers in courts and alleys dim Should lack the grace of a daily hymn. There never was monk in a church, Had such congregations as I, When throned on my slender pulpit perch I preach to the passers-by, Telling of all the beautiful things Which can only be known to the spirit with wings. There never was choir in a church, Led off by the organ's note, That could rival me on my choral perch When I pour from my simple throat The anthems composed in that prelude of time When the Earth was rung in with a starry chime. I often recur to the hours When I borrowed the breath of the flowers To perfume our nest in the purple clover ; For, though I am but a bird, I have feelings that will be stirred By a thought of the old time now and then coming over ; 54 North Country Poets. And I'd like one day in the week The haunts of my youth to seek, To see if the elms and limes are standing still : But if I were called away For only an hour in the day, Who is there my place in this human desert to fill ? Whose cheery voice would chase From the pallid and sunken face, The beetling scowl and the look of blank despair ? Whose tuneful, loving tone, With the fervour of mine own, Uplift the soul in alternate praise and prayer ? Whose timely voice arouse The sons of toil to their labour vows, And soothe their hearts at the set of sun, When the task for the daily bread was done ? Ah, no ! ah, no ! My duty here below Is with the sad, the weary, the distressed : I am a missionary bird, Bearing God's holy Word To mind distraught and heavy-laden breast ; So I will keep my post and fill These rookeries with my trill, Till my brave heart break, or fleeting strength decay Then I'll fold my wings in peace, And await Death's kind release, To rejoin my mate and nestlings far away ! George Linn&us Banks. 55 DAY IS BREAKING. A SONG OP PEOGBESS. Day is breaking On the mountain-tops of Time, As they stand head-bared and hoary, Watching from their heights sublime The new Morning upward climb In its creative glory Day is breaking, Like a firmament of light Flushing far the heaving ocean ; And the darkness of the Night Melts before its gathering might As a spectral thing in motion ! Day is breaking ! In the valleys, on the hills, The earth is as an infant swathed in brightness ; And the rivers and the rills With a sparkling joy it fills, As to lyric measure turns their rippling lightness ! Day is breaking ! And the matin of each bird A ray of morn distilled in music ringing Through the welkin far, is heard Echoing, like the parting word Of a lover to his earthly idol clinging ! Day is breaking, Like a host of angels sent With some new revelation, And the mourning nations bent, Tiptoe wait the grand event The mind's emancipation. 56 North Country Poets. Day is breaking ! And from the grave of other years In new birth Life awaking, Above the dust of Death uprears Its face, no longer wet with tears, For mankind's Day is breaking. Day is breaking ! And as the story of its advent flies, In the mart, on 'Change, Sagacious men, far-seeing, questioning, wise, Tarry to fathom in each other's eyes The import deep and strange. Day is breaking ! A crimson rust feeds on the sword Devoured by blood of its own shedding ; And where the cannon thundering roared, To nobler peace and self restored, Man by the Light of God is treading. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 57 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. MONGST modern poets Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, Bart., gained an important place, and made some lasting con- tributions to English poetry. Several of his poems are familiar to readers in the North of England, having special local interest. His best known productions are "The Private of the Buffs," " The Loss of the Birkenhead," and " The Spanish Mother." He wrote some clever lines on the St. Leger. Some verses in honour of Alice Ayres, the nurse who perished in rescuing her mistress's children from the flames, have been very widely quoted and warmly praised. He was born August 22nd, 1810, at Nun Appleton, near Tadcaster, Yorkshire, being the son of the first baronet, Major-General Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. He was educated at Eton, and Christ Church, Oxford, and had a distinguished university career. At the Easter Term in 1832 he took his degree, passing First Class in Classics. From 1836 to 1844 he was a Fellow of All Souls' College, Oxford, and resigned on his marriage to Sidney, daughter of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn (she died in 1867). He was called to the Bar shortly after leaving Oxford. In 1846 he obtained the post of Receiver-General of Cus- toms, and in 1870 was advanced to Commissioner of Customs. From 1867 to 1877 he was Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and on his quitting the chair he had conferred upon him the honorary degree of D.C.L. Three of his Lectures on Poetry were issued in book form ; one is an able vindication of Provincial poetry, dealing at some length with the writings of the Rev. William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet. In 1886 he published his " Reminis- cences and Opinions," and at different times issued volumes of verse. He died June 8th, 1888. The following examples of his poetry are drawn from his volume entitled " The Return of the Guards, and other Poems " (London ; Macmillan & Co., 1883), and we beg to thank the publishers for their courtesy in permitting their reproduction in these pages. W. A. THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD." Supposed to be told by a soldier who survived. Eight on our flank the sun was dropping down ; The deep sea heaved around in bright repose ; When, like the wild shriek from some captured town, A cry of women rose. 58 . North Country Poets. The stout ship " Birkeuhead " lay hard and fast, Caught without hope upon a hidden rock ; Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passed The spirit of that shock. And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks In danger's hour, before the rush of steel, Drifted away, disorderly, the planks From underneath her keel. So calm the air so calm and still the flood, That low down in its blue translucent glass We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood, Pass slowly, then repass. They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey ! The sea turned one clear smile ! Like things asleep Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay, As quiet as the deep. Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck Form'd us in line to die. To die ! 'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd, Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers : All to the boats ! cried one he was, thank God, No officer of ours. Our English hearts beat true we would not stir : That base appeal we heard, but heeded not : On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir, To keep without a spot. They shall not say in England, that we fought With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek ; Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought By trampling down the weak. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 59 So we made women with their children go, The oars ply back again, and yet again ; Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low, Still, under steadfast men. What follows, why recall? The brave who died, Died without flinching in the bloody surf, They sleep as well beneath that purple tide As others under turf. They sleep as well ! and, roused from their wild grave, Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again, Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save His weak ones, not in vain. If that day's work no clasp or medal mark ; If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press, Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park, This feel we none the less : That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill, Those also left His martyrs in the bay, Though not by siege, though not in battle, still Full well had earned their pay. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. " Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the kotou. The Seiks obeyed ; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill." See China Correspondent of the " Times." Last night, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore ; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place, 60 North Country Poets. Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame : He only knows, that not through him Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish 1 hop-fields round him seem'd, Like dreams to come and go ; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, One sheet of living snow ; The smoke, above his father's door, In gray soft eddyings hung : Must he then watch it rise no more, Doorn'd by himself, so young ? Yes, honour calls ! With strength like steel He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; Vain, those all-shattering guns ; Unless proud England keep- untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. 1P rhe Buffs, or East Kent Kegiment. Joseph Skipsey. 61 Joseph Skipsey. OSEPH Skipsey, the author of " Carols from the Coal Fields," and a native of Northumberland, who has passed the greater part of his life underground, was born in the year 1832. When only an infant in arms, he lost his father, who was a miner ; and, as his widowed mother was left with seven other children, Joseph was sent to work in the pits, when but a child, where he had to toil long hours, generally in the dark, and so it came that during the dreary winter months he only saw the blessed sunlight upon Sundays. Brave and determined to acquire knowledge, the child became his own schoolmaster, and taught himself to read, write, and cipher, whenever he could get a candle-end to enable himself to see printed bills, or written notices, from which to copy the letters, and a bit of chalk with which to write on the wooden doors of the pit. His work, then, was to open and shut a trap-door for coal-trucks to pass through ; and, till recent years, he was a pitman of Percy Main, near North Shields. For over forty years, Mr. Skipsey wrought in the pits. Then, in 1859, he became sub-storekeeper for a time at the Gateshead Iron Works ; and that year published a volume of poems. In the autumn of 1863 he was appointed Sub-Librarian to the Literary and Philosophical Society, Newcastle-upon-Tyne. This latter office, although congenial to his tastes, had to be given up on account of the inadequacy of the re- muneration to meet his domestic needs ; and Mr. Skipsey returned to his former occupation in the coal-mines. In 1871 he published another volume of " Poems ;" and in 1878 appeared "A Book of Miscellaneous Lyrics," with a portrait of the author. Both these volumes were very favourably received by the press and by men of literary standing ; and, thus encouraged to prosecute his studies, in 1881, he issued " A Book of Lyrics, including Songs, Ballads, and Chants." Mr. Skipsey is now a caretaker of a Board School in Newcastle-upon- Tyne. Having devoted his leisure hours to the careful study of general litera- ture, and more specially of English literature from the Elizabethan period downwards, he was asked by Walter Scott to edit his series of the Canter- bury Poets. This he did till lately, writing introductory notices, bio- graphical and critical, for a number of the volumes "Coleridge," " Shelley," " Poe," and " Burns' Songs." These introductions exhibit discriminating taste, much originality, and fine critical acumen. The many duties of his school-board appointment, however, left him so little leisure for literary work that, overworked, he resigned the editorship of the poets, and was succeeded in it by Mr. William Sharp. In 1886 Mr. Skipsey published " Carols from the Coal Fields, and other 62 North Country Poets. Songs and Ballads." His poetry, particularly that relating to his own special experiences, is strikingly pithy and direct. The scenes are reproduced to the life, and we see what he describes. These poems, full of pathos and power, are of no ordinary kind. What the poet's eye has seen, and his heart has felt, is tersely and musically expressed. " Bereaved " is the wail of a poor woman who has lost her two darlings and her husband, and who, almost bereft of her senses, wishes to be laid in peace beside them ; " The Hartley Calamity" is another poem which pictures the appalling calamities to which a mining population is liable. From their speciality, the general public will probably be most struck by these and such- like poems relating to pit-life ; but there are also many others, on general subjects, of a high and thoughtful order. " Thistle and Nettle " is a charm- ing rustic idyll, archly told with simplicity and humour ; " The Violet and the Rose " has the quaintness and symbolic condensation of Heine ; " The Mystic Lyre " deals with life, space, progress, and the great harmonies of the universe ; " A Cry for Poland " ends with " how long ?" ; " The Angel Mother " is touchiugly sweet, natural and beautiful ; " The Reign of Gold " is an indignant protest against the sordid spirit of the age, and has a fine true manly ring about it ; " The Seaton Terrace Lass " is a ballad in which the " old story " is well told in a light airy natural way. Along with it, we name the rose-cheeked " Rosa Rea." " Slighted " is a poem full of pathos. In a note at the end of "Carols from the Coal Fields," we are told by Dr. R. Spence Watson, who has been an intimate friend of Mr. Skipsey's for more than twenty years : " I must say a word or two more about Joseph Skipsey himself, for we have in him a man of mark, a man who has made himself, and has done it well. His life-long devotion to literary pursuits has never been allowed to interfere with the proper discharge of his daily duties. Whilst still a working pitman, he was master of his craft, and it took an exceptionally good man to match him as a hewer of coal. When after many long years of patient toil, he won his way to an official position, he gained the respect of those above him in authority whilst retaining the confidence and affection of the men. Simple, straight, and upright, he has held his own wherever he has been placed. The life of the miner is one of peril ; he lives with his own and the lives of those dear to him constantly in his hand ; and Joseph Skipsey has had bitter and painful experience of the cruel sorrows to which he is exposed. He -is personally known to not a few of the men whom, in letters and art, England delights to honour, and I think I may truly say he is honoured of them all. Perhaps, if we could see things as they really are, Joseph Skipsey is the best product of the north-country coal-fields, since George Stephenson held his safety lamp in the blower at Killingworth pit." Mr. Skipsey having been introduced to me by Mrs. G. Linnaeus Banks, some eighteen years ago, having corresponded with me at intervals ever since, and having recently visited me, I need only add that I quite agree with Dr. Watson's high estimate of one who is truly a remarkable man. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON. Joseph Skipsey. 63 MOTHER WEPT. Mother wept, and father sighed ; With delight a-glow Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried, "To the pit I go." Up and down the place he sped, Greeted old and young, Far and wide the tidings spread, Clapt his hands and sung. Came his cronies, some to gaze Wrapt in wonder ; some Free with counsel : some with praise ; Some with envy dumb. "May he," many a gossip cried, " Be from peril kept ; " Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept. THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE. The Violet invited my kiss, I kiss'd it and called it my bride ; "Was ever one slighted like this?" Sighed the Eose as it stood by my side. My heart ever open to grief, To comfort the fair one I turned ; "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!" Frown'd the Violet, and pouted and mourned. Then to end all disputes, I entwined The love-stricken blossoms in one; But that instant their beauty declined, And I wept for the deed I had done ! 64 North Country Poets. THE REIGN OF GOLD. It sounded in castle and palace, It sounded in cottage and shed, It sped over mountains and valleys, And withered the earth as it sped ; Like a blast in its fell consummation Of all that we holy should hold, Thrilled, thrilled thro' the nerves of the nation, A cry for the reign of King Gold. Upstarted the chiefs of the city, And sending it back with a ring, To the air of a popular ditty. Erected a throne to the king : 'Twas based upon fiendish persuasions, Cemented by crimes manifold : Embellished by specious ovations, That dazzled the foes of King Gold. The prey of unruly emotion, The miner and diver go forth, And the depths of the earth and the ocean Are shorn of their lustre and worth ; The mountain is riven asunder, The days of the valley are told ; And sinew, and glory, and grandeur, Are sapped for a smile of King Gold. Beguiled of their native demeanour, The high rush with heirlooms and bays ; The poor with what gold cannot weigh, nor The skill of the pedant^appraise ; The soldier he spurs with his duty, And lo ! by the frenzy made bold, The damsel she glides with her beauty, To garnish the brow of King Gold. Joseph Skipsey. 65 Accustomed to traffic forbidden By honour by heaven each hour, The purest, by conscience unchidden, Laugh, laugh at the noble and pure ; And Chastity, rein'd in a halter, Is led to the temple and sold, Devotion herself, at the altar, Yields homage alone to King Gold. Affection, on whose honey blossom, The child of affliction still fed Affection is plucked from the bosom, And malice implanted instead ; And dark grow the brows of the tender, And colder the hearts of the cold : Love, pity, and justice surrender Their charge to the hounds of King Gold. See, see, from the sear'd earth ascending, A cloud o'er the welkin expands ; See, see 'mid the dense vapour bending, Pale women with uplifted hands ; Smokes thus to the bridegroom of Circe, The dear blood of hundreds untold; Invokes thus the angel of mercy A curse on the reign of King Gold. It sounded in castle and palace, It sounded in cottage and shed, It sped over mountains and valleys, And withered the earth as it sped ; Like a blast in its fell consummation Of all that we holy should hold, Thrilled, thrilled thro' the nerves of the nation ; " Cling ! clang ! for the reign of King Gold." 66 North Country Poets. John Duncan Richardson. )OHN Duncan Kichardson is a poet of the people, and ) amidst the trials of a life of toil has with gratifying success cultivated a taste for literature. He has produced a large number of poems, which have been appreciated in temperance circles and amongst his fellow-working men. A volume of his verse, issued in 1886, under the title of "Keveries in Rhyme," was well received. He has written much poetry and prose for a number of London and provincial magazines and newspapers, and for eight years he acted as the editor of The Hull and East Riding Good Templar. Mr. Richardson is a native of South Shields, and was born in 1848. At an early age he removed to Hull. W. A. ENGLAND. Isle of the fair and the brave, Shrine of each Briton's devotion, Proudly thy banner doth wave, World-wide and free as the ocean. Strangers and exiles who roam, Fleeing the yoke of oppression, Find, in thy sea-girdled home, Liberty's priceless possession. Lasting as truth be thy fame, First in the van of the Nations ; Sweetest of music thy name, Theme of thy sons' aspirations. May the Eose and the Thistle combined, Long bloom together in beauty, And yield, with the Shamrock entwined, Blossoms of love and of duty. England, majestic and great, Treasured in song and in story, John Duncan Richardson. 67 Honour and Truth at thy gate, Point to a future of glory. Nation of Nations ! thy might Shall it desert thee ? No never ! Faithful to God and the Eight, Nothing thy kingdom shall sever. BROKEN TOYS ; OR THE MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY. Tis eventide, and twilight adds Its charms to soothe me, here, alone ; My princes Heaven bless the lads ! Lie sleeping on their nightly throne. Wide-scatter'd on the floor, I see The playthings of my careless boys, And, musing on their merry glee, I gather up the broken toys. Methought, " It is not only here, In this my realm, where I am Queen, That toys are broken thus, I fear, For human wrecks are daily seen ; Fond hearts that too-confiding yield, When smiling villainy decoys, Losing the gem of beauty's shield, Are cast aside as broken toys. " We loud lament the woes of war, The heroes martyr'd in the strife, But, oh, the slaughter's greater far, Upon the battlefield of life ! The young by splendid sin betray'd, Find out too late that vice destroys, When, reckless made, and scorning aid, They die the false world's broken toys." 68 North Country Poets. George Milner. MONGST the public men of Manchester, none are held in greater honour than Mr. George Milner, whose labours in connection with education, literature, and church-work have been productive of so much benefit to the community. George Milner was born in 1829, and by the loss of his father when an infant, was deprived of the educational advantages he might otherwise have enjoyed. But if the opportunities were scanty, they were made the most of, and the passion for knowledge which he developed at an early age, not only led to serious and continuous efforts for self -education, but also to a generous desire to see the healing influences of literature extended to every class of the community. This feeling has led him to devote much of his leisure to voluntary teaching in classes connected with the famous Bennett-street schools. If Mr. Milner had entered upon literature as a career, he would have made a success ; but he was probably wiser in making it, according to a famous phrase, a walking stick and not a crutch. A successful mer- chant, a magistrate, the churchwarden of the Cathedral, the chairman of the Art Museum ; Mr. Milner is, however, best known as the President of the Manchester Literary Club, where his social qualities, critical acumen, and power of saying the right thing in the right way, have gained him the admiring esteem of all the members. His more than local position in literature is due to " Country Pleasures," a book first issued in 1881, and containing the " Chronicle of a Year, chiefly in a Garden," which is full of delightful reading for the lovers of gardens and poetry. He has been a frequent contributor to Longman's Magazine, The Manchester Quarterly, and other periodicals. His verses have not yet been collected, but well deserve to be rescued from that tomb of literature, the magazine. To a perfect mastery of the forms of verse, he unites clear fancy and a power of expression that ranges from genial humour to melancholy pathos. The first poem we quote is from The Manchester Quarterly, the next three are from Longman's Magazine, and the last is from Odds and Ends. WILLIAM E. A. AXON. A FLOWER PIECE. Along this narrow path, behold, What store of wealth outspread !- The dandelion's burning gold, The campion's ruby-red, George Milner. 69 Sweet speedwell's sapphire, daisy's pearl, Fern's emerald in its virgin curl, Broad ox-eye's patine silver clear, Jacinth of bird's-foot, and the dear Green lady's-mantle holding still Its diamond-drop of morning dew ; All these, and fifty more that fill The hedge-row spaces through and through, With grasses' fret-work carven rare And cross'd as in a dainty frieze ; And, lurking last, but heavenly fair, Forget-me-not's turkois. So dower'd I hardly care to raise My eyes to where the mountains stand ; Nor scarce have left a word to praise Far-flashing seas or shining sand ; But as I wander, rapt and slow, I see the simple blossoms grow To beauty greater than before ; And tell my treasures o'er and o'er, Or sing them thus, as best I may, To yon bird's note that on the bough Of hazel pipes his little lay For love as I do now. A MARCH EVENING. The boughs are black, the wind is cold, And cold and black the fading sky ; And cold and ghostly, fold on fold, Across the hills the vapours lie. Sad is my heart, and dim mine eye, With thoughts of all the woes that were ; 7