T ", K^~ ' 
 
 
 f\ ■ 
 
 
 O I « 
 
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 Death of William Heaton. — The name and 
 person of William Heaton will be familiar to many who 
 will read these lines, announcing that he is no more. He 
 died on the 14th inst., at the age of 65, and his remains 
 were interred on Thursday, in Pellon church graveyard. 
 He belonged to Luldeuden, where he was born in very 
 humble life indeed, and where he had to work hard for his 
 daily bread. For better work and wages for himself and 
 family he removed to Halifax, and was employed for a 
 number of years at Messrs. Crossley's works at Dean 
 Clough. When the People's Park was opened he was ap- 
 pointed ranger, a kind of work which suited his tastt3 and 
 habits. There he icmained until a year or two since. In 
 early life he took to reading, and made such progress in 
 literary acquirements as his own circumstuicss and the 
 time and the place in which he lived afforded. Of course, 
 these were of the very humblest order, but they were far 
 beyond those of the class in which he moved, and he cer- 
 tainly showed the little he knew to the best advantage. 
 He published occasional pieces of rhyme in local news- 
 papers, and these being collected, he published two volumes 
 at intervals, one being " The Old Soldier and other poems," 
 and the other " Flowers of Calder Dale." In addition to 
 these many of his pieces have appeared as flysheets, in 
 newspapers, and in the minor periodicals. We ought not 
 to omit to mention his great fondness for natural history, 
 especially (if we remember rightly) for birds and their eggs. 
 Mr. Heaton had been in bad health for a considerable time, 
 and his death has not caused surprise among his friends, 
 but we know it will cause regret, as he had won no little 
 respect in the community. The following lines appear on 
 a memorial card, and are from the pen if Mr. John 
 Hartley : — 
 
 Take back thy harp 'twill feel his touch no more: — 
 Cold lie the fingers that have swept its strings : 
 
 High o'er his earthly lot he loved to soar, 
 And dwell in worlds of bright imaginings. 
 
 • To thee, sweet Poesy, his heart has turned. 
 In hour of joy, and in its deep distress ; 
 Immortal fire within his bosom burned, 
 And still will glow, when he is laid to rest. 
 
 He loved to cull the " Flowers of Calder Dale," 
 He wove a wreath of those that never die ; — 
 
 His spirit still will haunt his native vale, 
 Breathing sweet tones in every zephyr's sigh. 
 
 Hot Uars will flow, — yet Hope buoys up our hearts ; s, j 
 ^hi To us below, this consolation's given, 
 
 That though from us his weary soul departs, ^^ 
 
 He sings his songs with sweeter v .ice in Heaven.
 
 Death of a Local Poet.— Our obituary of this day 
 records the death of a man well known /o the public of this 
 town and district. We refer to Mr. William Heaton, late 
 and first keeper of the People's Park, who died on the 14th 
 inst, He was noted for his love of poetry and poets, and 
 was the author of two volumes of poetic effusions, many of 
 which were on subjects connected with the s cenery of Calder 
 Dale, which gained for him the title of " The Calder Dale 
 Poet." His lot in life, though humble, was rendered joyous 
 by his devotion to the Muses. As keeper of the Park, he 
 was in his element, affording much scope for poetic thoughts; 
 but he became very feeble in body, and some time ago he 
 experienced a severe stroke, under which he finally passed 
 away. His remains were interred on Thursday, at Christ 
 Church, Pellon. Mr. John Hartley, the Yorkshire Poet, 
 has paid the following tribute to the memory of the 
 deceased : — 
 
 Take back thy harp, 'twill feel his touch no mere :— 
 
 Cold lie tbe fingers that have swept its strings : 
 High o'er his earthly lot he loved to srar, 
 
 And dwell in worlds of bright imaginings. 
 To tbee, sweet Poesy, bis beart has turned, 
 
 In hour of joy, and in its deep distress ; //*./ Ji 
 
 Immortal fire within his bosom burned, 7" f ¥ t\ 
 
 And still will glow, wben he is laid to rest. 
 He loved to cull the " Flowers of Calder Dale." ^ u 
 He wove a wreath of those that never die ;— 11 
 
 His spirit still will haunt bis native vale, ' 
 
 Breathing sweet tones in every zephyr's sigh. I&~JI 
 
 Hot tears will flow,— yet hope buoys np our hearts ; / 
 
 To us below, this consolation's given, 
 That though from us bis weary soul departs, 
 He sines his toners TCUh_sw_eijer voice in Heaven
 
 THE 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 OF 
 
 CALDEB, DALE : 
 
 $mms, 
 
 BY WILLIAM HEATON, 
 
 OP LUDDENDEN. 
 
 "How short the glory of the poor man's deeds, 
 How slight the fame he fondly thinks his own, — 
 
 in vain he triumphs, or in vain he bleeds, 
 Alike unwept, unpitied, and unknown. " 
 
 Moore's Chelsea Pensioner. 
 
 LONDO N : 
 
 LONGMAN AND CO. 
 
 HALIFAX: LEYLAND AND SON, 
 
 M DCCC X1VII.
 
 TO 
 
 THE SUBSCRIBERS, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 INHABITANTS OF CALDER DALE 
 
 IN GENERAL, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING SHEETS 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 
 
 AS A 
 
 TESTIMONY OF GRATITUDE, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 fR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In submitting the following unpretending pages 
 to the notice of an enlightened public, the Author 
 requests his readers to bear in mind that they are the 
 productions of a man who has had very little learning. 
 Entirely cut off from every opportunity of acquiring 
 any knowledge of the higher branches of literature, and 
 but scantily blessed with the means of improving him- 
 self in the first principles of letters, he feels sensible 
 that the following attempts in verse, will be found 
 defective in many points, and wanting that finished 
 elegance which marks the productions of those who 
 have had the advantage of a superior education. 
 
 The Author was under the necessity of going to 
 work at the early age of nine years, and at that period 
 he had never tried to write his own name : indeed, he 
 had no knowledge whatever of letters, but what he had 
 acquired at a Sabbath school, and through the medium 
 of a village school dame, who advanced him so far in 
 learning, that he was enabled to read, though only very 
 indifferently, his Testament. Often has he employed his 
 leisure hours, in the church yard in his native valley, 
 
 863146
 
 IV. 
 
 in trying to imitate the inscriptions engraven on the 
 tombs, with a piece of a broken pipe, and it was in this 
 manner that he acquired the first rudiments of the art 
 of writing. He afterwards succeeded in procuring the 
 assistance of a friend, who wrote out copies for him at 
 different times, which he laboriously tried to imitate, 
 until, at length, he became enabled to write a tolerably 
 good hand. 
 
 No sooner had he gained a knowledge of writing, 
 than he instinctively began to write verses, which for 
 years were consigned to the flames almost as soon as 
 they were composed. Not a single piece escaped that 
 fate, until about six years ago, when, it coming to the 
 knowledge of a few friends that he was in the habit of 
 making verses, they advised him to keep copies of what 
 he wrote. Little did he then think that any of his 
 Poems would ever see the light. 
 
 He continued, however, to indulge his natural 
 desire for versification ; at length several of his effusions 
 made their appearance in some of the provincial papers. 
 They attracted the attention of the Rev. Jas. Nelson, 
 Incumbent of Luddenden, and several other influential 
 friends, who, on looking over the manuscripts in his 
 possession, wished him to make a selection, and publish 
 a small volume by subscription. This, at last, he has 
 consented to do ; but it is with the greatest diffidence 
 that he appears before the public in the character of an 
 Author.
 
 V. 
 
 He is aware that this is a string much harped upon 
 by Authors, in bringing their productions before the 
 world ; but he can truly and confidently assert, that it 
 is principally the stream of influence, emanating from 
 other persons, which has borne him to the door of the 
 publishers. 
 
 Upon the Poems, contained in these pages, he 
 offers no remarks, further than saying, that he is wish- 
 ful for them to rest upon their own worth, and he will be 
 quite content that they stand or fall according to their 
 own intrinsic merit or demerit. 
 
 In examining this Boquet of Flowers, which the 
 Author has culled from the delightful scenery around 
 his native village, the critic will, undoubtedly, find much 
 to censure ; but he may also possibly find something to 
 approve. In the work of reprehension, to which he is 
 invited, let him keep in mind the very slender means 
 the Author has had for the acquisition of knowledge, 
 and, under that consideration, let him, without preju- 
 dice, pronounce his verdict. 
 
 Sincerely wishing his numerous Subscribers, and 
 kind friends, every blessing which this life can afford, 
 he begs to subscribe himself, 
 
 Their humble and obliged servant, 
 
 WILLIAM HEATON. 
 Luddenden, near Halifax.
 
 eoptrs of &too Hettevs 
 
 Received by the Author from Wm. Wordsworth, Esq, Poet Laureai 
 
 Her Majesty, and Mrs. Eliza Craven Green, irf Lei 
 
 Rigdal Mount, Ambleside, 
 New Year's Day, 1844. 
 _ I cannot suffer this day of the New Year to pass without 
 thanking yon. my worthy Friend, for the good wishes you have 
 expressed for me in your Verses of the 23rd of last month. Pray 
 accept mine in return. May it long be permitted you in your 
 humble station, to enjoy opportunities for cultivating that ac- 
 quaintance with literature, of which the effects are shown, greatly 
 to your credit in the lines you have addressed to me. 
 I remain, with much respect, 
 
 Sincerely your's, 
 
 Wm. Wordsworth. 
 
 105, Kirkgate, Leeds, Nov. 1846. 
 Sir, 
 
 I have received your letter and feel deeply honored by 
 your approval of my compositions ; if it is in my power to render 
 you any literary assistance I shall be most happy, perhaps an 
 introductory Poem to the "Flowers of Calder Dale " might be 
 acceptable ? unless some more able pen is engaged on that 
 service. 
 
 I beg you will place my name on your list of subscri- 
 bers, but at the same time am sorry I cannot offer more than my 
 own mite, as like many other worshippers of the Muses, our paths 
 are more strewn with laurels than gold. 
 
 It is always a pleasure to me to discover how many 
 sincere and ardent worshippers of Poesy are scattered among 
 the mass of human life brightening their own lonely path and 
 delighting the hearts of others; whatever may lie your lot on 
 earth v ou still retain 
 
 " A golden sunray from the Source of light," 
 
 and have a wondrous advantage in the treasure of bright 
 thoughts and pleasant fancies given only to the Poet, a dower 
 of immortality. 
 
 That however your success in publishing may ensure 
 you a share also in the benefits of this world is my sincere wish, 
 and any literary aid I can offer is most assuredly at your service. 
 
 Your obedient Servant, 
 Mr. W. Heaton. Eliza Craven Green.
 
 INDEX 
 
 TO THE POEMS. 
 
 IMG P.. 
 
 Musings in Calder Dale 1 
 
 On the Dying Year 7 
 
 The Faded Blue Bell ,s 
 
 My Native Vale 9 
 
 I Love to Walk in the Twilight Grey 10 
 
 Stanzas, on an Ash Tree, &c 11 
 
 The Memory of Burns 13 
 
 My Home, my Native Home 14 
 
 The Tear of Sorrow 15 
 
 The Cry of Neglected Genius 16 
 
 An Elegy on Thomas Crossley 18 
 
 Stanzas to William Wordsworth, Esq 19 
 
 Lines to His Grace the Duke of Wellington 20 
 
 Stanzas to a Pious Young Lady, in London 22 
 
 Stanzas to the Bare Branches of a favourite Hazel Tree . 23 
 
 Evening in September 25 
 
 When shall we two meet again 27 
 
 The Pleasures of Hope 28 
 
 Faded Flowers 29 
 
 Stanzas to the Right Honourable Lord Morpeth 31 
 
 Whisper Low, ye Gentle Breezes 32 
 
 Lines to the Lady of the Right Honourable Sir R. Peel 33
 
 Vlll. 
 
 A Thought on the Past .14 
 
 Th ■ Soldier's Letter .'$»' 
 
 The Widower 39 
 
 The Winter's Sigh 41 
 
 I tell thee I canna forget 4.'! 
 
 I Love to Walk in the Noontide Hour 4 1 
 
 The Peacock Butterfly 46 
 
 Wisdom's Lesson 48 
 
 May 51 
 
 October 52 
 
 ■ .The Emigrant's Farewell 54 
 
 Solitude 55 
 
 The Great Question 56 
 
 The Snowdrop $8 
 
 Lines on visiting the Grave of William Grimshaw 59 
 
 On Friendship 60 
 
 Calder's Banks 62 
 
 What is Life 65 
 
 What is Death 66 
 
 What is the Grave 67 
 
 The Orphan Boy 69 
 
 The Widow and her Child 71 
 
 Stanzas on the Death of John Nicholson 73 
 
 Grace Darling 74 
 
 Why should you Mourn 7<> 
 
 A Farewell 76 
 
 The Reflection 77 
 
 The Widow of the Glen 78 
 
 To William Wordsworth 84 
 
 The Wanderer's Grave 85 
 
 On Gathering Two Daisies after a Snow Storm 87 
 
 The Old Year's Track 88 
 
 The Village Naturalist 90 
 
 My Youthful Days 93 
 
 To the Redbreast 94 
 
 The Lark 95 
 
 An Acrostic 96
 
 IX. 
 
 PAGK. 
 
 Napoleon and the Dog 97 
 
 Lines to Miss S. Nicholson, of Bradford 99 
 
 Stanzas on seeing an Old Newspaper, &c 101 
 
 The Pauper's Funeral 1 02 
 
 Reminiscences on the Author's 40th Birth Day 103 
 
 To the Calder's Stream 106 
 
 To the Winter Daisy 107 
 
 To the Cuckoo 10S 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Friend 109 
 
 To the Broom Flower 110 
 
 A Walk in June Ill 
 
 Stanzas, on seeing a Faded Rose in the latter end of December 1 12 
 
 to a Lady on the Flight of Time 112 
 
 to the Children of the Aire Dale Poet 114 
 
 Sonnet to the Summer Daisy 115 
 
 The Old Irish Man - 116 
 
 The Song of the Emigrant 125 
 
 The Summer's Day 127 
 
 Sonnet to James Montgomery, Esq 12S 
 
 The Author's Soliloquy 129
 
 PREFARATORY POEM, 
 
 ENTITLED 
 
 BY MRS. E. S. CRAVEN GREEN, OF LEEDS 
 
 For thee, perchance exotic sweets 
 With balmy odours fill the gale, 
 
 But scorn not, for their simple charms, 
 The wild wood " Flowers of Calder Dale. 
 
 Kind Nature's breath has nurtured them — 
 Her spirit in their fragrance dwells — 
 
 The Power that paints the woodland rose, 
 And scents the lily's virgin bells. 
 
 The influence of the Beautiful ! — 
 
 Inspir'd the Poet of the vale 
 To gather thus his fancies sweet, 
 
 And wreathe the Flowers of Calder Dale. 
 
 Perchance not all in polish'd rhyme, 
 Upon the courtly ear may flow — 
 
 The waters of the mountain rill 
 
 Are rougher than the stream below,
 
 XI. 
 
 But, nearer to the living spring- 
 
 In unstain'd freshness forth they pour, 
 
 And thus the lowly minstrel's thought 
 From nature's fountain welleth o'er 
 
 In sylvan guise, uncheck'd and free, 
 Yet mingling with its sparkling tide 
 
 A bright resistless energy, 
 
 To smoother, calmer streams denied. 
 
 The violet in the forest glade 
 
 Seeks not with prouder blooms to vie, 
 Yet offers up its incense breath 
 
 With vernal homage to the sky. 
 
 And thus the humble minstrel pours 
 His own heart-music to the gale — 
 
 And who would scorn the rustic wreath ?- 
 Or blight the Flowers of Calder Dale ?
 
 2&ZVtt&iX*s&ZVVXZ?&&&£&S^ 
 
 Jftotoers of ©alBer Hale.
 
 
 sssSsasSss 
 
 ^oents* 
 
 iilusmcjd m Saltier 23ale* 
 
 Ye tuneful Nine, who once enraptured sung, 
 While Helicon with joyful praises rung, 
 Attend my Muse, with joy inspire my heart, 
 And purer fire unto my pen impart ; 
 Breathe on my lay, and let its sacred theme 
 Look back on ages as a bygone dream : 
 Bid Clio now unseal the mvstic scroll, 
 And back to view long bygone scenes unrol ; 
 When on this spot, where Calder sweeps along, 
 And flowerets grow these towering steeps among, 
 Where Nature in her wildest shades is seen, 
 Of hill and rock and murmuring streams between ; 
 The ancient Briton, with his curious spear, 
 Did here resort to chace the spotted deer, 
 That came to drink at this enlivening spring, 
 While Sacred Bards heroic strains did sins: ; — 
 In antique dress, of curious shape and form, 
 Of skins undress'd, to face the winter's storm ; 
 And where their limbs were most exposed to view 
 Were painted o'er of a celestial hue :
 
 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Their hair was long, and o'er their shoulders hung, 
 Which carried terror, and disorder flung 
 Amongst their foes on the emhattled plain 
 Where oft they met, while many a bloody stain 
 Speckled the grass and tinged the flowerets o'er, 
 And warring chieftains weltered in their gore. 
 No Navigation's muddy wave was seen 
 Winding along these heath-crown'd hills between ; 
 No Railway train — a modern thing of art, — 
 With loud shrill whistle, made old echo start 
 From off her seat in some far distant glen, 
 And in full chorus whistled back again, 
 From hill to hill, throughout each winding vale, 
 Until it died a whisper on the gale ! 
 These fair green fields were filled with forest trees, 
 The oak and maple nodded in the breeze ; 
 While furze and hawthorns blossomed far below, 
 And birch trees grew upon each mountain brow. 
 The wily fox, with other beasts of prey, 
 Roam'd through the forest at the close of day ; 
 "While little songsters warbled in each grove, 
 And amorous swains did sing their songs of love. 
 But now time bids both merchandise and art 
 Roll through the valley from each distant mart ; 
 From sea to sea, from every foreign land 
 Sweet commerce flows, and anchors on our strand ; 
 To feed the rich, or to employ the poor, 
 While plenty blesses with her golden store. 
 Could but my pen describe yon moorland scene 
 Where Calder rises in Cliviger Dean ; 
 And paint each varying landscape as they rise 
 In colours bright as far-famed Titian's dies ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Then would I oft to this sweet glen repair, 
 And oft my muse should in her reveries share, 
 And picture forth these rocks, these purling streams, 
 These brooks, these rills, that into Calder teems ; 
 These lovely vales well stocked with forest trees, 
 These floating echoes whispering on the breeze : 
 But my poor Muse must not so high aspire, 
 Nor dip its pinions in celestial fire ; 
 But faintly touch, though with a schoolboy's skill, 
 The various turnings of this moorland rill. 
 Near to th' Holmes chapel various springs do rise ; 
 Cliviger Dean its quota fair supplies ; 
 While Calder moor sends forth a gurgling spring, 
 And Jump-clough vale with sporting waters ring, 
 That swell for aye old Calder's sandy bed, 
 Which, when united have a wider spread ; 
 The waters sweep o'er pebbles, rocks and shale, 
 Drinking fresh sweets from every winding vale ; 
 Until at length the ancient river glides 
 Where stately halls adorn its mossy sides ; 
 Where Todmorden's decaying church appears 
 Tottering in youth, not bow'd by length of years : 
 Here while I gaze where sorrows calmly sleep, 
 The scenes gone by on memory's tendrils creep 
 Upon the thoughts, like long neglected flowers, 
 The sweetest offspring of my childhood's hours. 
 Far to the west another stream flows free, 
 Mid broom-clad hills where floats the summer bee : 
 And rocks on rocks high in the air are piled, 
 Sublime in grandeur, and in appearance wild ; — 
 Here, 'tis presumed, the eagle built her nest, 
 In some deep hollow on yon mountain's crest ;
 
 FLOWERS OP 
 
 From thence descending to the winding vale, 
 
 And with full courage did each flock assail, 
 
 And hapless lambs she carried to her young. 
 
 While hares and rabbits on the rocks were flunsr : 
 
 These scenes are past in this enchanting glen, 
 
 And still its waters murmur on as when 
 
 Old England's sons by Norman lords were slain, 
 
 And Harold left unknown upon the plain; 
 
 "When William round did desolation fling, 
 
 And death flew swiftly on the arrow's wing : — 
 
 But my poor Muse must to the vale return, 
 
 And mark the windings of this lovely bourn, 
 
 As forth it murmurs o'er its clay cold bed, 
 
 Midst fertile fields where lovely flowers are spread ; 
 
 Each turning vale sublimer scenes supplies, 
 
 Till the fair streamlet in the Calder dies ; 
 
 Which onward moving with its murmuring theme, 
 
 Gives tuneful music to the Poet's dream, 
 
 Midst wood crown'd hills and deep secluded vales, 
 
 Where old tradition tells a thousand tales 
 
 Of thieves and robbers, who in days of old, 
 
 Entered the huts and robb'd men of their gold ; 
 
 Or Druid priests, who with their mystic rods, 
 
 Offered their victims to their unknown gods. 
 
 A distant hill fair Studely Pike displays, 
 
 Built to record a deed of bye-gone days, 
 
 When England's hero, with his chosen band, 
 
 Conquered Napoleon in a distant land. 
 
 But, turn my Muse, these nearer scenes survey, 
 
 These purling streams that through this valley stray ; 
 
 These echoing woods where sylvan songsters sing, 
 
 Thesefair green fields where summer's flowerets spring.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Here let me stand, and gaze with wondering awe 
 On this deep glen where mountain torrents flow ; 
 Which way I look new scenes delight my eyes, 
 Yon high peak'd rocks are towering to the skies ; 
 Their haggard forms my wandering thoughts engage, 
 Their furrow'd cheeks proclaim their lengthen'd age : 
 Yon sloping hills their cloud-cap'd crests uprear, 
 Touch'd by the blasts of many a bye-gone year ; 
 Where men have stood who now have pass'd away, 
 To death's dark chambers hastened as a prey. 
 The savage wolf throughout these woodlands prowl'd 
 To seek its prey when blustering boreas howl'd. 
 Calder flow'd then as sweetly on as now, 
 But the small church beneath yon mountain brow 
 Rear'd not its head besides yon bubbling rill ; 
 No modern building grac'd that sloping hill ; 
 That yew tree's shade which looks so fresh and green, 
 Spread not its boughs in this delightful scene. 
 Passing along old Calder's winding course 
 Another spring comes trembling from its source ; 
 O'er rocky slopes where hazle bushes grow, 
 And oaks stand thick upon each mountain brow ; 
 Through Hebden Vale it swiftly rolls along, 
 And quickly twists its silvery streams among 
 These lovely waves, which with redoubled speed 
 Twine sweetly on through many a flowery mead, 
 Where glittering dew-drops make the daisies pale, 
 And crimson roses kiss the scented gale. 
 A rippling brook from the Crag Vale descends, 
 And soon its waters with the Calder blends. 
 Hathershelf Scout is in the distance seen, 
 Where a deep cave has in past ages been
 
 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Haunted by robbers of a daring sort, 
 
 Who oft at midnight thither did resort, 
 
 To take awav their ill-acquired store, 
 
 Or to their booty add a little more ; 
 
 Gone are these scenes. No more the huntsman's horn 
 
 Sounds through this valley when the rosy morn 
 
 With lovely cheeks peeps o'er the eastern hills. 
 
 And tips with lustre these sweet flowing rills, 
 
 Which like a serpent loosing from its coil, — 
 
 Turn many a corner with incessant toil ; 
 
 Then flow along as smooth as polished glass, 
 
 As if affraid these lovely scenes to pass. 
 
 My Native Vale here rushes on my view, 
 
 And I must now another brook pursue ; 
 
 And leave these banks where pretty flowerets grow. 
 
 And strive to gain yon distant mountain brow, 
 
 Where a fair stream comes gurgling from its bed 
 
 Of dark green rushes, and doth wider spread 
 
 As it descends into the moorland vale, 
 
 Where the ring-ousel tells its amorous tale. 
 
 The Romans once have through this valley strayed, 
 
 And on the hills their valiant warriors laid 
 
 In burnt clay urns of curious shape and form, 
 
 That laughed at winter and defied the storm. 
 
 These woodland springs with murmuring grandeur 
 
 flowed, 
 While silvery moonbeams on these thickets glowed. 
 Time's biting blasts have turn'd yon mountains grey, 
 Since the arch Druid on their heights did pray ; 
 And sold men rings to be a magic charm, 
 When war and sickness fill'd them with alarm. 
 What scenes since then with ceaseless change have 
 
 past,
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Stout oaks have bent beneath time 's furious blast ; 
 
 And faring Kingdoms then so strong and gay, 
 
 All but in name have long since died away. 
 
 On this lov'd spot in youthful hours I've played, 
 
 And through its woods and flowery meadows strayed ; 
 
 My lays I've sung in almost every field, 
 
 And to my pen my feeble thoughts reveal' d : 
 
 But here awhile I'll stop my trembling lyre, 
 
 And to my cot hard by the church retire. 
 
 <9n tije Suing ¥ear. 
 
 Reclined on a pillow of snow, 
 
 With a few scattered leaves for his bed, 
 
 The old year is lying just now, 
 
 His days to a shadow are fled. 
 
 The winter of death howls around, 
 
 A paleness is spread o'er his cheek, 
 
 No floweret is seen on the ground, 
 
 And the woodlands are barren and bleak. 
 
 An hour-glass stands by his side, 
 The last sand is nearly run out, 
 And past are the days of his pride, 
 And life it is wasting to naught : 
 Cold dew is o'erspreading his frame, 
 His locks that are left him are grey, 
 His limbs are now rigid with pain, 
 And death will soon make him his prey. 
 
 Few mourners their silent watch keep 
 O'er the place where the pilgrim is laid ;
 
 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Yet death hath laid many to sleep 
 That watch'd the last dying year fade : 
 The flowers that bloom'd on his breast 
 When spring was with loveliness crown'd, 
 And the leaves that enshrouded his crest 
 Lie scattered in heaps on the ground. 
 
 The lustre is gone from his eye 
 That beam'd when the summer was fair ; 
 And his glance, then so bright in the sky, 
 Hath sunk in the gloom of despair. 
 His face that was lovely and gay, 
 When autumn with clusters was hung, 
 Must soon be consign'd to the clay, 
 And o'er him the requiem be sung. 
 
 Pale and faded is thy flower, 
 
 In November blooming, 
 'Neath the leafless woodbine bower, 
 
 Grass its form entombing. 
 
 Winter's blasts around thee blow, 
 Stormy winds are howling, 
 
 All around thy form below 
 Pale-faced Death is prowling. 
 
 At his touch the flowers fade, 
 And the leaves they wither; 
 
 Even now they spread the glade, 
 To be gathered never.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Yonder sun no more may shine 
 
 On thy pretty flower ; 
 Touched by the frost that form of thine 
 
 Must wither in an hour. 
 
 ffiv flattta Fair. 
 
 There is a charm in my native vale, 
 More dear to me than the spicey gale, 
 Or the choicest fruits, from a foreign shore, 
 Or the distant seas where the billows roar ; 
 Yea, dearer far than the wide-spread sail, 
 Is the little cot in my native vale. 
 
 Oh, I could range the surrounding hills, 
 Or sit and sing by its murmuring rills, 
 Or through its woodland lawns would roam, 
 And muse upon my childhood's home, 
 And tell the winds my oft told tale 
 Of my little cot in my native vale. 
 
 Another link in the golden chain, 
 That often binds to the spot again, 
 Is the memory of departed joys, 
 Of childish sports and youthful toys, 
 And long lost friends whom I oft bewail 
 In the little cot in my native vale. 
 
 I love it in the summer hours, 
 
 When fields are drest with sweet wild flowers ;
 
 10 FLOWERS OF 
 
 I love it in the winter's gloom, 
 • When snow doth nature's works entorah ; 
 At early dawn or evening pale 
 I love the cot in my native vale. 
 
 I SLoUc to OTalft in tfjc «JTtofltgfjt &im 
 
 I love to walk when the twilight grey 
 Hath tinged the scene in the month of May ; 
 When the sun hath sunk in the western sky, 
 And streaked the clouds with a crimson dye ; 
 When the lasses play on the village green, 
 And the lads are met to enjoy the scene ; 
 When the hearts of all are blithe and gay, 
 I love to walk in the twilight grey. 
 
 When the noisy bee hath gone to rest, 
 With honey from each floweret press'd ; 
 When the towering lark hath ceased to sing 
 And sits by his mate with her glossy wing ; 
 When the butterfly hath found its home, 
 And ceased o'er the flowery fields to roam ; 
 When the woodland music dies away, 
 I love to walk in the twilight grey. 
 
 When the fluttering bat flies round the trees, 
 To catch the moth in the evening breeze ; 
 When the daisy closes its lovely eye, 
 And bows its head on the grass to lie ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 11 
 
 While the new May Moon o'er the mountain peeps, 
 And gilds the cot where the plough-boy sleeps ; 
 When her beams o'er my native land do play, 
 I love through the flowery fields to stray. 
 
 I then can think of departed years, 
 Of childhood's hopes and bygone fears, 
 Of friends that moulder with the dead, 
 Of joys and sorrows gone and fled, 
 Of youthful sports and pretty flowers, 
 And parents loved in childhood's hours, 
 Who now are laid in the silent clay 
 While here I roam in the twilight grey. 
 
 But soon the fairest scene will change, 
 And I o'er the fields must cease to range ; 
 Must cease to look on the bright fair moon, 
 Or sigh that my youth hath fled too soon ; 
 When I like a rose must droop and die, 
 And deep in the dust enshrouded lie ; 
 When friends to my cold damp grave will stray, 
 To look at the spot in the twilight grey. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 On an Ash Tree in Ovenden Wood, near Halifax, on w/iicfi the Author 
 had cut the Initials of his Same eighteen years before. 
 
 Now eighteen summers are gone by, 
 Since last I stood upon this spot ; 
 
 And oft I've heav'd the mournful sigh, 
 For poverty hath been my lot.
 
 ] 2 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Oft hath the redbreast sung its lay, 
 At morning and at evening tide ; 
 
 And oft hath bloom'd the lilies gay. 
 Down by the silvery water side. 
 
 Oft hath the Winter's howling blast 
 
 Blown with hoarse sound amongst the trees, 
 
 And Summer's beauties oft have past 
 Away upon the evening breeze. 
 
 The village bells have often rung, 
 
 And called the young and old to pray : 
 
 And oft the shepherd's boy hath sung 
 His ditty at the close of day. 
 
 The giddy and the thoughtless throng, 
 Have past away like Autumn's flowers, 
 
 They hear not now the linnet's song, 
 Nor care they for departing hours. 
 
 The budding rose is still as fair, 
 
 The lambs are sporting o'er the plain ; 
 
 And I have felt distressing care, 
 And would not live my time again. 
 
 When other eighteen years are gone. 
 Shall I review this lovely spot ? 
 
 Shall I these letters look upon ? 
 O, shall I live, or shall I not ? 
 
 Land of my birth ! I love thee still, 
 
 Though not from faults or failings free ; 
 
 And if I could but have my will, 
 I'd have a cot near to this tree.
 
 CALDER DALE. 13 
 
 A lovely garden walled around, 
 
 Stock'd with the best of fruit and flowers ; 
 And yonder, on the rising ground, 
 
 I'd plant the honey-suckle bowers. 
 
 There I would tune the Muses' lay, 
 From slavish fear and sorrow free ; 
 
 And there I'd sing from day to day, 
 Till called by death, away to flee. 
 
 Zfyt #Umort> of Burns. 
 
 Help, help my Muse, ye sacred bards, 
 
 Oft as the flow'ry spring returns, 
 To lisp the name my soul regards, 
 
 The honoured name of Robert Burns. 
 Oft do I think on bonnie Doon, 
 
 And wish a moment I was there, 
 Where Scotia's poet left so soon 
 
 The banks where flowers grow fresh and fair. 
 
 The warbling songsters warble still, 
 
 The green leaves quiver in the wind, 
 And still runs forth the murmuring: rill, 
 
 But Burns has left them all behind ; 
 Yes, Death hath snatch'd him from the storm, 
 
 And laid his body in the clay — 
 Perhaps his Highland Mary's form 
 
 Hath beckon'd him from earth awav.
 
 14 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Muse Scotia's sons, and o'er him mourn, 
 
 As oft ye walk by bonnie Doon ; 
 And oft, as summer's sweets return, 
 
 Or brightly shines the rising moon. 
 Oh ! think upon your gifted Bard, 
 
 And let your eyes from tears refrain ; 
 Guard well, his sacred relics guard — 
 
 You'll never see his like again. 
 
 iHg W>omt, mg liatftr $?ome. 
 
 Good night, my native land, good night ! 
 To morrow 1 must go, 
 
 And leave my home, my heart's delight, 
 With my bosom fraught with wo ; 
 
 Must leave the land where I was born, 
 
 In other lands to roam. 
 May heroes brave 
 From tyrants save 
 My home, my native home, 
 My home, my native home ! 
 
 I sigh not for the Eastern shore, 
 Where Eastern monarchs reign ; 
 
 Or where the Western billows roar, 
 Nor wish I wealth to gain ; 
 
 But dire oppression drives me hence 
 
 In distant lands to roam. 
 
 While heroes brave, &c.
 
 CALDER DALE. 15 
 
 I once had comfort in ray cot, 
 
 Nor wished I then to range 
 To other lands, to seek a lot 
 
 Amongst a nation strange ; 
 But now I go where billows blow 
 To seek a distant home. 
 
 While heroes brave, &c. 
 
 O may kind Heaven still protect 
 
 My Isle, my native Isle, 
 And every lurking ill detect, 
 
 And cause the poor to smile, 
 Bid Britain's foes, with all her woes, 
 For ever hence to roam. 
 
 While heroes brave, &c. 
 
 &l)t 2Tcar of Sorroto. 
 
 What is it trembles in the eye, 
 And trickles down the cheeks, 
 
 That follows close the heartfelt sigh, 
 And consolation seeks. 
 
 Oft near the lovely smile of youth 
 Swift runs the pearly stream, 
 
 Of tears that swell the heart of truth, 
 And cloud young morning's dream. 
 
 They rise upon the fair one's face, 
 
 And fall upon her breast, 
 They, sleep do from her eyelids chase, 
 
 And rob her of her rest.
 
 16 FLOWERS OF 
 
 They quiver in the eye of age, 
 They run down sorrow's cheek, 
 
 They often silent griefs presage, 
 Or inward joys hespeak. 
 
 They often lurk behind a smile, 
 And bid our pleasures flee ; 
 
 They fall upon the funeral pile, 
 They mar the marriage glee. 
 
 They tell the anguish of the heart, 
 And pierce the eyelids through, 
 
 The lonely widow feels the smart, 
 So do the orphans too. 
 
 Yet blest is that repentant grief 
 Whose agony and fears, 
 
 Find no repose, find no relief 
 Save in the gift of tears ! 
 
 Ei)t ©rj> of Xc cjlcctfU (Scm'tts. 
 
 Oft am I tost on life's rough sea, 
 And oft my little bark is driven, 
 
 'Till to the cove of hope I flee, 
 
 With riggin broke and canvass riven. 
 
 No friendly hand points to the spot 
 Where genius safely may repose ; 
 
 Barred from the world it knows me not, 
 It cares not for my griefs nor woes.
 
 CALDER DALE. 17 
 
 When sickness twines my heart-strings round, 
 And pain and anguish fill my breast ; 
 
 When want within my cot is found, 
 And I have nowhere left to rest. 
 
 Still I must ply the weary loom, 
 
 And still the want of friends deplore ; 
 
 Expecting soon to share the doom 
 That genius oft hath shared before. 
 
 Poor Otway's fate may yet be mine, 
 
 Yes I like him may sink and die ; 
 My Muse like his may live and shine, 
 
 When deep beneath the sod I lie. 
 
 O for some influential friend, 
 
 To bring my lays before the world ; 
 
 Then should my prayers with blessings blend 
 For want would from my home be hurled. 
 
 Then would I rove by sylvan springs, 
 
 When summer breezes fan the air ; 
 And taste the sweets that friendship brings, 
 
 To hearts that know no grief nor care.
 
 FLOWERS 01' 
 
 £ln 3Eleg» on fftyomas CTrosslcin 
 
 Mr. Thomas Crossley, the subject of the following Elegy, lived in , 
 Ovenden, in a valley about a mile north-east of Halifax. Both as a 
 poet, and a man, while he lived he was beloved, and in death was truly 
 respected, lie departed this life on the morning of the 2nd of September, 
 1843, and his remains were deposited on I he 7 1 h of the same month, in 
 the burial ground belonging to the South Parade Chapel, Halifax. 
 
 And is he dead, who touched with sacred fire 
 Could tune the Muses, and with joy inspire ; 
 And is his pen for ever laid aside 
 Which once with ease did on the paper glide ; 
 And is his tongue now still and mute in death, 
 His limbs inactive, and resigned his breath. 
 The form that once was lovely, free, and gay, 
 To dust is mouldering in the silent clay. 
 No more shall he when bright unfolds the day, 
 And birds are singing on the leafy spray, 
 Describe the brook, the meadow, or the wood, 
 The flowers expanding, or the opening bud ; 
 Or shall he listen to the orphan's tale 
 On yon sea beach where swells the opening sail : 
 No more shall he, from Skiddaw's towering height, 
 Look on the scene, with wonder and delight ; 
 Or walk beside old Calder's flowing stream, 
 To listen, while the cuckoo swells the theme, 
 Or far shall rove where Aire's swift waters boil. 
 Thv feet no more o'er glistening sands shall toil ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 19 
 
 Nor shall thy spirit with poetic fire 
 
 Retouch the strings of thy seraphic lyre, 
 
 Which erst poured forth the ever welcome strain 
 
 Of Nature's works. O Poet ! ne'er again 
 
 Thine eyes shall trace the lines of living light, 
 
 The well-known streamers that o'er Denholme's height 
 
 Illume the vales below. No more for thee — 
 
 Alas, alas ! no more the " Broad Oak Tree "* 
 
 Prepares its festive board ; the merry toast 
 
 No more goes round — gone is the ancient host : 
 
 All all is gone that I would yet had been 
 
 Save Ebor's Flowers, f and these will long be seen 
 
 'Mongst us — as chaplet, which thy brows shall bear, 
 
 For aye, the memory of thy talents rare. 
 
 Thy name for generations yet to come 
 
 Shall live in Flowers of thy sweet Ebor's Tome ! 
 
 Stan?as 
 
 Jo William Wordsworth, Esq. 
 
 Near three long years have past away, 
 Since last my pen in hand I took 
 
 To write to you my feeble lay, 
 And you did kindly on it look. 
 
 Since then what sorrows have we known, 
 What scenes of danger have we past ; 
 
 Death oft around his darts hath thrown, 
 But you and I have 'scaped the blast. 
 
 * An Antient Hostelry in Ovenden. 
 \ Volume of Poems of which he was the Author.
 
 2U FLOWERS OF 
 
 The bee hath often wing'd its flight, 
 
 And cull'd fresh sweets from Nature's flowers, 
 
 And feathered songsters, with delight, 
 Have warbled in the sylvan howers. 
 
 The lark's sweet voice hath fill'd the air, 
 When golden sunbeams tipp'd the hills, 
 
 And lovely flowerets fresh and fair, 
 Have blossomed by the woodland rills. 
 
 The dearest ties have sever'd been, 
 The fairest buds that ever bloom'd, 
 
 Are now alike to us unseen, 
 
 Beneath the church-yard sod entornb'd. 
 
 Thanks to that Great Almighty Friend, 
 Who still is lengthening out thy life, 
 
 Who still doth all thy steps attend, 
 
 And guard thee from all worldly strife. 
 
 O may His hand preserve thee still 
 Unhurt, amidst life's varied scene ; 
 
 Calm mayest thou sit on tumult's wheel 
 
 While months and years shall glide between. 
 
 ULtncs 
 
 To His Grace the Duke of Wellington . 
 
 O that I had old Homer's graphic pen, 
 Then should my Muse record the deeds of men 
 Then would I sing thy oft repeated name, 
 Which often led thv armies on to fame.
 
 CALDER DALE. 21 
 
 Didst not thou stand on India's burning- plain, 
 'Midst hostile bands, surrounded by the slain ? 
 'Twas there thou gained laurels for thy brow, 
 That ne'er shall fade till time shall cease to flow ; 
 When the rude blasts of ages yet to come, 
 And Death hath sent his thousands to the tomb, 
 When yon grey turrets crumble and decay, 
 And kings unborn shall England's sceptre sway, 
 Thy name shall live on history's sacred page, 
 Adored by savage, and revered by sage ; — 
 Yea, it shall live when splendid titles fade, 
 And pride and beauty in the grave are laid ! 
 Proud Portugal hath witnessed thy fame, 
 And Spain hath gloried in the Hero's name ; — 
 In France thou hast the British Flag unfurled, 
 And the proud despot from his seat was hurled. 
 Often methinks I see thee on that day, 
 Calm and composed amidst the awful fray, 
 Stand boldly, while the noblest battle's won 
 That ere was fought beneath the summer's sun ; — 
 Thy watch thou held to tell the passing time, 
 With manly courage and with look sublime, 
 Thou watched each moment as it quickly flew, 
 While the loud cannon desolation threw 
 Throughout the ranks, on the embattled field, 
 Which made Napoleon to thy courage yield, 
 And fly with speed into a Shepherd's cot, 
 While Prussian soldiers forced him from the spot ! 
 Now years since then have slowly passed away, 
 And proud Napoleon in the dust doth lay, 
 Whilst thou art spared, the glory of our Isle, 
 To feel a Nation's thanks — thy Sovereign's smile :
 
 22 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Long may thy life with smiling peace he West, 
 Free from misfortune, nor with grief oppress'd ; 
 And when at last thou'rt summoned to the tomb, 
 May smiling angels he thy guardians home 
 To yon bright world, whose ever radiant shore 
 Gives rest, and calm, and peace, for evermore ! 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 To a Pious Young Lady in London. 
 
 Has London any charms for thee 
 
 Fair maid ? by piety designed 
 To teach the rising youth to flee 
 
 The foolish maxims of mankind. 
 
 llath thy fond heart forgot the sphere 
 In which of late 'twas wont to move ; 
 
 The village school, the altar dear, 
 
 Where oft's proclaim'd the Saviour's love. 
 
 May pure Religion's sacred form 
 
 Encircle thee in her embrace ; 
 And guard thee from the coming storm, 
 
 And every evil passion chase. 
 
 May all thy family be blest 
 
 With every comfort from above ; 
 
 On thy Redeemer may they rest ; 
 'Tis He can guide them by his love.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 23 
 
 Tis He can guard, in danger's hour, 
 Thy dearest brother on the sea ; 
 
 His arm hath an almighty power ; 
 He bids the captive soul be free. 
 
 May smiling health around thee wait, 
 
 Whilst walking o'er life's dangerous road ; 
 
 And peace go with thee through the gate 
 That leads to yonder blest abode. 
 
 There, when the ills of life are o'er, 
 And storms and tumults all are past, 
 
 May we all meet to part no more, 
 Safe in our Saviour's arms at last. 
 
 Stamas 
 
 To the bare branches of a favourite Hazel Tree, near Luddendcn. 
 
 Oft have I sat beneath thy shade, 
 
 And for thy nuts with my companions played. 
 
 How bare are thy branches old tree, 
 Thy leaves are all withered and dead ; 
 
 And the wind blows cold o'er the lea ; 
 And the flowers from the forest are fled. 
 
 All Nature seems dormant and still, 
 And the hills are covered with snow ; 
 
 Frost bound is each high mountain rill, 
 And fountains that spring from below.
 
 24 FLOWERS OF 
 
 I saw thy fair buds in the spring, 
 
 When the pale yellow primrose was here ; 
 
 When the thrush did its first song begin, 
 Which told me that summer was near. 
 
 The gnat danced light in the shade, 
 
 And the humble-bee flew o'er the plain ; 
 
 The daisies bespangled each glade, 
 
 And swallows came back o'er the main. 
 
 Thy leaves in the summer were green, 
 
 And the wren near thy foot built her nest ; 
 
 The song-birds enlivened the scene ; 
 Each valley new beauties possess'd. 
 
 The rose and the violet were fair, 
 
 And the furze wore a bright golden bloom ; 
 And a thousand fresh sweets filled the air. 
 
 And sear were the the buds of the broom. 
 
 When Autumn was drest in her brown, 
 And blue-bells grew thick in the shade, 
 
 Large clusters upon thee had grown, 
 And blackberries grew in each glade. 
 
 The birds one by one flew away, 
 
 To sing in a far distant land, 
 Where, perch'd on some tall leafy spray, 
 
 They warble their matins so bland. 
 
 An Emblem of Man, — naked tree, — 
 
 In youth, he is lovely and fair ; 
 In manhood, he's cheerful and free ; 
 
 In age, he is burthened with care.
 
 CALDER DALE. 25 
 
 The locks that were lovely and gay, 
 
 Are soon silvered over with age ; 
 And the sweet smiling blushes of May, 
 
 Will be lost in the look of the sage. 
 
 You point out a pathway to me, 
 
 You bid me prepare for the worst ; 
 Then I with bright Seraphs shall be, 
 
 When life's fading bubble shall burst. 
 
 ISbnttttg m September. 
 
 Bright Sol had gone down in the west, 
 
 And night with her mantle of gloom, 
 All nature in darkness had dress'd, 
 
 And hushed was the sound of the loom. 
 The dame had forsaken her wheel, 
 
 And past were the toils of the day, 
 When I arose from my evening meal, 
 
 Awhile in the woodlands to stray. 
 
 The Summer was hasting amain, 
 
 And Spring with her beauty was past, 
 And the wheat waved over the plain, 
 
 When blown by the wind's gentle blast 
 The Moon from behind a black cloud 
 
 Had darted its silvery ray, 
 And torn from all Nature its shroud, 
 
 The darkness was chased away.
 
 26 FLOWERS OF 
 
 I gazed on the gay lovely scene 
 
 That round in the distance reposed, 
 All Nature was calm and serene, 
 
 And the flowers their eyelids had closed ; 
 No singing was heard in the grove, 
 
 The birds of the air were at rest, 
 And the moss a sweet carpet had wove, 
 
 "Where I lay towards the golden west. 
 
 The stillness of death reigned around, 
 
 All Nature was hushed in repose, 
 When sadly I lay on the ground 
 
 To muse on my numberless woes : 
 I thought on the days of my youth, 
 
 When free from vexation and fear, 
 I was guided by reason and truth, 
 
 And watched by a mother's bright tear. 
 
 But ah ! how the days have gone by, 
 
 The years swiftly passed away. 
 And my youth with its glistening eye, 
 
 Approaches grey hairs and decay. 
 I arose from the cold mossy ground, 
 
 And turned towards my humble home ; 
 I thought on the world all around, 
 
 And felt that I was not alone. 
 
 There is many a sorrowing heart 
 In this world of anguish and pain ; 
 
 There is many a bitter smart 
 
 That can never know ease again :
 
 CALDER DALE. 27 
 
 But a rest still remains for those 
 "Who with faithfulness wait the time 
 
 When they shall exchange all their woes 
 For the joys of a heavenly clime. 
 
 "Wlfycn sfjall toe ttoo meet again: 
 
 ( Written to a Friend previous to his Emigrating to America. J 
 
 When shall we two meet again ? 
 On this spacious flowery plain : 
 Where the lark sings sweet and gay, 
 And the lambkins sport and play ? 
 Oft shall sorrow o'er us reign 
 Ere we two shall meet again. 
 
 Though to the Far West thou go, 
 And rude storms between us blow ; 
 Want may steal across each breast, 
 Boding fears may break our rest : 
 Yet on fancy's lovely plain 
 We may often meet again. 
 
 When around yon tall ash tree 
 Moss shall creep and ivy be ; 
 When our flaxen locks are grey, 
 Thinn'd by many a careworn day ; 
 May yon church-yard cot remain 
 Till we two shall meet again.
 
 28 FLOWERS OF 
 
 When the last sand's in the glass, 
 And through death we're forced to pass, 
 Where life's varied scenes are o'er, 
 And we're chained to earth no more ; 
 May we yon heavenly place attain, 
 Then we shall never part again. 
 
 $"ije |JIcasurcs of 3l?opc. 
 
 How cheering our hopes were in youth's gayest dawn, 
 When pleasure with flowers our pathway had strewn ; 
 When peace and contentment heam'd forth from each eye, 
 And happiness seemed all around us to lie ; 
 When all our gay dreams were unruffled by care, 
 Hope bade us look forward more pleasures to share. 
 
 When youth with its pastimes are over and fled, 
 And honours and riches around us are spread ; 
 When gaily the wheel of old time passes on, 
 And days months and years fly away and are gone, 
 Tis hope helps us through amidst wealth or distress, 
 And bids us be cheerful though tyrants oppress. 
 
 When sorrows surround us, and cares multiply, 
 And grief and vexation our dwellings are nigh ; 
 Hope soothes when affliction around us is sore, 
 And poverty's billows are lashing our shore : 
 When the bright pearly tear keeps our eyelids from sleep, 
 Hope bids us lcok up, and forbids us to weep.
 
 CALDER DALE. 29 
 
 When the locks that are left us are tinged with grey, 
 
 And life to an hair's-breadth is wasted away ; 
 
 When our eyes have grown dim, and we scarcely can 
 
 speak, 
 And wrinkles and furrows are stamped on each cheek ; 
 When grief for the past fills our bosoms with sorrow, 
 Despair bids us weep; — Hope whispers to-morrow. 
 
 Hope soothes all our sorrows, it softens our care, 
 It breaks all the arrows discharg'd by despair, 
 It urges us forward when poverty stings. 
 It smooths all the ills that time bears on its wings ; 
 And when the fell messenger comes as a friend, 
 Hope lifts up its finger and points to the end. 
 
 Faded Flowers should warnings be 
 To the young, the gay, the free ; 
 Once bedecked with modest pride, 
 Now, alas ! they've drooped and died. 
 
 Once the rose was blooming bright, 
 And 'twas lovely to the sight, 
 Crimson blushes crowned its head, 
 Now they are forever fled. 
 
 Daisies, Pinks, and Eglantines, 
 Candy-tufts and Columbines, 
 Lilies white, and Violets blue, 
 Pass away like morning dew.
 
 30 FLOWERS OK 
 
 Faded Flowers ! they ought to teach 
 Young and old, that all and each 
 Must for that great change prepare, 
 Ere hy Death they blighted are. 
 
 Faded Flowers should be like books, 
 Which, whoe'er upon them looks, 
 Painted sees in tints sublime, 
 Reader, mark the flight of time. 
 
 Faded Flowers were made to shew 
 Us the way that we must go , 
 Tells us to prepare for death, 
 Ere we loose our vital breath. 
 
 We must wither as do leaves, 
 Every one who lives and breathes, 
 Must like flowers fade and die, 
 And in dust enshrouded lie. 
 
 Let us learn of faded flowers, 
 Well to spend our leisure hours ; 
 Then when Death calls us away, 
 We shall reign in endless day.
 
 t ALDER DALE. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 To the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Morpeth, M. P. 
 
 Morpeth ! thy Literary fame 
 
 Hath spread through England's favoured Isle, 
 Hath won for thee a deathless name, 
 
 That must survive yon aged pile 
 
 Whose towering turret rears its head, 
 Beat by the blasts of bygone years, 
 
 Beneath whose shade are laid the dead, 
 Who long since left this vale of tears. 
 
 The rosy bud of youth lies there, 
 The lovely blush hath left its cheek ; 
 
 And there the wrinkled brow of care 
 
 Lies low ; the tongue hath ceased to speak : 
 
 Their names, their ages are forgot, 
 
 Their actions now are known no more, 
 
 Torn from the world it knows them not, 
 Sorrow and grief with them are o'er. 
 
 Not so with thee ; — thy Muse's fame 
 A halo round thy dust will spread, 
 
 'Twill shed a lustre o'er thy name, 
 
 When thou art mouldering with the dead ;
 
 32 FLOWKKS OF 
 
 But whilst thou lives, may peace entwine 
 A wreath of never-dying flowers, 
 
 That on thy gifted head shall shine, 
 
 While goodness round each blessing pours. 
 
 O, may fair peace with golden wings 
 
 Encircle thee in her embrace, 
 And guard thee from all hellish stings, 
 
 And every evil passion chase. 
 
 Far from thy heart be banished care, 
 And in it may no sorrows rest ; 
 
 May hate and envy dwell not there, 
 Nor malice mar thy peaceful breast. 
 
 And when thy earthly race is run, 
 And thou art called by death away, 
 
 May thy Redeemer say, " Well done, 
 Come reign with me in endless day.' 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 " Whisper low, ye gentle breezes." 
 
 Whisper low, ye gentle breezes, 
 Morning breaks o'er all the plain ; 
 
 Sol in lovely splendour rises, — 
 Guilds each tree and flower again. 
 
 Whisper low, the dew-drops tremble 
 As they sparkle on the grass ; 
 
 Warbling songsters re-assemble, 
 Here their summer hours to pass.
 
 C ALDER DALE. 33 
 
 List ! the village clock strikes slowly, 
 
 Bear ye breezes — bear the sound 
 To the cottage of the lowly, 
 
 Bid each heart with love abound. 
 
 Whisper, when the moon is shining, 
 O'er each meadow, wood, and heath ; 
 
 Whisper, when she is declining, 
 Or when stars her form enwreath. 
 
 Whisper o'er each hill and mountain, 
 Whisper through each woodland vale ; 
 
 Whisper by each swelling fountain, 
 Whisper low in every dale. 
 
 Whisper o'er the ocean swelling, 
 
 Whisper o'er each flower and tree, 
 Whisper o'er the poor man's dwelling, 
 
 Bid oppression set him free. 
 
 Long may peace and true devotion 
 
 Be enshrined in every heart ; 
 And at last each have a portion, 
 
 Where the just shall never part 
 
 SLtttfS 
 
 To the Lady of the Bight Hon. Sir Robert Peel, Bart. M.P. 
 
 Hail, lovely lady, gentle, good, and fair, 
 
 Mayst thou be blest with Heaven's peculiar care ; 
 
 May health o'er thee a sacred halo shed, 
 
 And all thy paths with happiness be spread : —
 
 34 I'J.OWERS OF 
 
 Thy generous deeds have gone through England's Isle, 
 Thy bounty oft hath made distress to smile. 
 The Widow's * heart hath lately sung for joy, 
 The Orphan Girl doth still her lips employ 
 To lisp thy name in accents sweet and mild, 
 Friend of the friendless — Heaven's renowned child — 
 Suffer my pen its meed of praise to bring, 
 "While in full chorus Scotland's sons shall sing ; 
 Ulster's Blind Bard f shall catch the generous flame, 
 And her loved Muse shall echo back thy name 
 To distant years — when Nations yet unborn 
 Shall weave fresh laurels round thy sculptured urn. 
 
 ^ <Tfjougijt on ti)t tya&t 
 
 " Or, Met/links, 'tis my Mother's voice I hear." 
 
 Methinks, 'tis my Mother's voice I hear 
 
 From the womb of long ago, 
 Its sounds to my heart are as fresh and clear, 
 As when I that Mother saw : 
 It brings to my mind youth's golden hours, 
 When she walked with me thro' the woodland bowers, 
 When the days of my life were smooth and fair, 
 And I in my Mother's gifts did share. 
 
 When the leaves of my childhood were green, 
 And the birds did sweetly sing ; 
 
 • HaydonV Widow. 
 f Frances Brown, the Irish Poel
 
 C'ALDEK DALE. 35 
 
 When the flow'rs were spread o'er the wild scene, 
 And the bee plumed its golden wing : 
 But what is left of that bygone day, 
 But a gloomy thought that will pass away, — 
 A thought of the years of grief and care, 
 That's pass'd like the sound of my Mother's prayer. 
 
 I saw her kneel on the cottage floor, 
 
 And the tear fall from her eye, 
 When the winter's wind howled round the door, 
 And the snow on the ground was high : 
 I heard her pray that the sailors bold, 
 The bond and the free, the young and the old, 
 The great and the good, and the wise, might share 
 In the blessings asked in her daily prayer. 
 
 I saw her laid on the bed of death, 
 
 And her cheek was pale and wan ; 
 And nearly gone was the last drawn breath, 
 That had lengthened out the span ; 
 But her eyes were fixed on yon distant shore, 
 Where the shades of night are seen no more, 
 Where the hands of the weary are at rest. 
 And fear is fled from the peaceful breast. 
 
 But soon she gasped for the last drawn sigh, 
 
 Ere her pulse had ceased to beat ; 
 And a radiant glance overspread each eye, 
 And the smile on her face was sweet ; 
 But a cold damp sweat trickled down the cheek, 
 And her quivering lip had ceased to speak ; 
 And the last faint moan from her bosom fell, 
 Which seemed to say to my heart farewell.
 
 3G I LOWERS OF 
 
 They laid her out in her winding sheet, 
 
 And her limbs were stiff and cold ; 
 And her friends soon bore her through the street, 
 While the solemn church bell tolled : 
 Her coffin was soon in the cold damp ground, 
 While her sorrowing children wept around ; 
 And mv father dear looked wildly on, 
 And thought on the moments past and gone. 
 
 But seventeen years have passed away, 
 
 Like the last long winter's blast ; 
 And many youths who were fresh and gay, 
 From this stage of life are past : 
 And time flies away with a rapid wing, 
 And oft doth its joys or sorrows bring ; 
 But when death comes, I hope to share 
 My Mother's grave in the church yard there. 
 
 2Fi)C Soulier's letter. 
 
 Thefolloieing Stanzas zrerc penned on visiting a friend at a distanct , 
 who had a son lately dead in the army. The first object tuhich attracted 
 my attention on entering the house was a fine hoi/ about six years of age 
 with a letter in his hand sealed with black ; when after eyeing it ovrr with 
 the greatest curiosity, then looking at his Motiier who was weeping, ht 
 addressi d her nearly in the following words :— 
 
 Mother, what is it makes you weep, 
 Is it this letter sealed with black ; 
 
 If this be it which steals your sleep, 
 Pray give it to the postman back ?
 
 CALDER DALE. 37 
 
 Why keep you that which mars your peace ? 
 
 You all last week were blithe and gav, 
 But now, you scarce from crying cease, 
 
 So tell me what's amiss I pray ? 
 
 Has some mishap befallen a friend, 
 
 Or sickness seized my father dear ? 
 If it be so, our tears we'll blend ; 
 
 Come, mother, now your bosom cheer. 
 
 Fresh tears rolled down the mother's cheek, 
 And oft she pressed him to her breast ; 
 
 Then cried, as if her heart would break, 
 And thus her darling boy addressed : — 
 
 My dearest child, your sire is dead, 
 
 Far, far beyond the raging sea ; 
 The spirit from his breast hath fled, 
 
 We shall no more your father see. 
 
 Oft have we walked in youthful hours, 
 
 Where yonder blossomed hawthorns grow ; 
 
 And there Fve plucked sweet scented flowers, 
 To wreathe around your father's brow. 
 
 But when our youthful years were fled, 
 
 My Edward asked me to be his ; 
 Then blushes on each cheek were spread, 
 
 I own I wished no other bliss. 
 
 The silken knot was quickly tied, 
 
 The bond of love made firm and sure ; 
 
 And oft with all his heart he tried, 
 To make our happiness secure.
 
 38 FLOWERS OK 
 
 But scarce three years away had past, 
 Ere he was from my hosom torn ; 
 
 The soldiers had enticed at last, — 
 
 Since then I've wished I'd ne'er heen horn. 
 
 Torn from his home and forced to toil 
 Where the wide ocean's billows roar, 
 
 An exile from his native soil, 
 His loving wife to see no more. 
 
 But now, his bark has gained the land, 
 No more he sails life's stormy main ; 
 
 He's anchored safe upon the strand, 
 Where all is free from grief or pain. 
 
 This letter for his sake I'll keep, 
 One part was written by his pen ; 
 
 And o'er it I shall often weep, 
 Far from the busy haunts of men. 
 
 When distant years away have roll'd, 
 And tipp'd these raven locks with grey ; 
 
 When this fair form of mine is old, 
 And I am bending to the clay ; 
 
 Then will I read its contents o'er, 
 And ponder well its sacred page ; 
 
 And o'er its faded lines will pore, 
 
 When these bright eyes are dim with age.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 &l)c OTt&otoer. 
 
 The following Stanzas were written on seeing a man standing on 
 the grave of his wife at midnight, in Luddenden Church 
 Yard. 
 
 'Twas one lovely Summer's evening, 
 When the sun sunk in the West ; 
 
 I my daily labour leaving, 
 
 And by worldly care oppress'd. 
 
 Wandered from my humble dwelling 
 In the lone church yard to roam ; 
 
 Silent grief my bosom swelling, 
 As I thought on childhood's home. 
 
 Friends have paid the debt of nature, 
 And are laid in yonder tomb ; 
 
 Ah, how changed in every feature, 
 Each gay cheek hath lost its bloom, 
 
 As I mused o'er hopes departed, 
 Oft I thought I heard a groan ; 
 
 And with sudden fear I started, 
 As I listened to the moan.
 
 40 FLOWERS OF 
 
 But my thoughts were soon collected, 
 For the bright full Moon clear shone ; 
 
 And I saw a man dejected, 
 
 Standing on a sculptured stone : 
 
 Oft he cast his eyes around him, 
 Then he fixed them on the ground ; 
 
 Then, as if by magic bounding, 
 Swift he turned himself around : 
 
 And methought I heard him whisper, 
 " Blessed thought of her I love ; 
 
 Can I ere forget, ah, never, 
 
 Never, while this heart shall move. 
 
 Yonder Moon shall cease forever. 
 
 And this world in darkness be ; 
 And these locks with age shall wither, 
 
 Ere I cease to think on thee. 
 
 Blighted are my earthly prospects, 
 And my home hath lost its charm ; 
 
 Never shall thy lovely footsteps 
 Haste to tell of war's alarm. 
 
 Thirty years we walked together 
 
 O'er life's dark and dangerous road ; 
 
 Oft through rough and stormy weather, 
 With distress and sickness strewed. 
 
 Ah ! but death hath torn thee from me, 
 Laid thee in the silent grave, 
 
 Where I cannot look upon thee, 
 And no more sweet converse have.
 
 CALDER DALE. 4 1 
 
 Yonder chair is now forsaken 
 Where thou used once to sit ; 
 
 Thou no more canst me awaken, — 
 How I grieve to think on it. 
 
 But I now must go and leave thee, 
 Time does swiftly fly away ; 
 
 Soon thy Master, he may call me 
 To the realms of endless day. 
 
 Farewell wife, farewell forever, 
 'Till we meet above the sky, 
 
 There we shall be parted never, 
 There our souls shall never die." 
 
 Thus he spoke — then slowly moved 
 Over many a grave, grown green 
 
 And I for my home departed, 
 Musing o'er the solemn scene. 
 
 &%t ©Stutter's £tgf>. 
 
 It sweeps o'er the distant hills, 
 And tips their heights with snow ; 
 
 Or blows its breath o'er the woodland rills, 
 That run through the vales below : 
 
 Where the leaves of spring were green, 
 And the blossom buds were fair, 
 
 The blasts of the Winter's breath have been, 
 And left it chill and bare.
 
 42 FLOWERS OK 
 
 O'er the city's ancient walls, 
 
 Where the tide of life runs deep ; 
 Or 'round the curious sculptured halls, 
 
 Where the ivy's tendrils creep. 
 
 It rushes through the dale, 
 
 Where the Calder's waters flow ; 
 Or whispers loud in the moorland vale, 
 
 Where moss and lichens grow. 
 
 It whistles o'er the grave 
 
 Where the sailor boy lies low ; 
 Where the stormy sea o'er his ashes lave, 
 
 In the cavern'd depths below. 
 
 O'er the ancient battle field, 
 
 Where the soldier once was laid, 
 While strokes fell thick on the blood stain'd shield, 
 
 From the warrior's trusty blade. 
 
 It murmurs o'er the spot 
 
 Where the locks of youth lie low ; 
 
 While the widow mourns o'er her hapless lot, 
 And tears from her eyelids flow. 
 
 But the last drawn sigh will come, 
 
 Of the Winter's howling blast ; 
 When the butterfly o'er the fields will roam, 
 
 And the Winter's sigh be past.
 
 CAIDER DALE. 
 
 43 
 
 "$ tell tlj« E canna forget' 
 
 Written on seeing that beautiful Motto " Dinna Forget," on the Seal 
 of a Letter from Mrs. Eliza Craven Green, of Leeds. 
 
 While the bright sun at evening shall sink in the West, 
 And the clouds wear the colour of jet, 
 
 Or the heart of a Briton shall beat in my breast, 
 I tell thee I canna forget. 
 
 Though the morning should bring with it sorrow and 
 And I at disasters may fret ; [care, 
 
 Yet I in the smile of affection may share, 
 I tell thee I canna forget. 
 
 While dew-drows bespangle each woodland and lawn, 
 And flowerets each pathway beset ; 
 
 While reason shall claim my poor heart as her throne, 
 I tell thee I canna forget. 
 
 Though the tears of affliction may damp for a while, 
 And scandal may spread forth her net ; 
 
 I will laugh at their efforts, and cry with a smile 
 1 tell thee I canna forget. 
 
 Forget, while my pulse shall both flutter and beat, 
 
 And stars in the heavens are set ; 
 My poor works and my Muse would be incomplete, 
 
 If I should thy kindness forget. 
 
 Should the men of the world my productions despise, 
 And cause me with grief to regret ;
 
 4 A FLOWERS OF 
 
 Yet oft a fair thought in my bosom shall rise, 
 Which I know that I canna forget. 
 
 And when our days' work upon earth are complete, 
 And we must go pay our last debt, 
 
 I hope in the harbour of rest we shall meet, 
 And there all our sorrows forget. 
 
 I lobe to toalft in tijc XoonttDc l>our. 
 
 I love to walk in the noontide hour, 
 
 When the sun shines bright o'er field and flower ; 
 
 When the blackbird hastens to build its nest, 
 
 And the trees in their buds of green are drest ; 
 
 When the warbling songsters in the grove, 
 
 Are sounding abroad their songs of love ; 
 
 When the blossom peeps from the hawthorn bower, 
 
 I love to walk in the noontide hour. 
 
 When the primrose blooms by the woodland rills, 
 And the harebells blue, and the daftbdills ; 
 When the buttercups in the fields appear, 
 And clustering daisies their heads uprear ; 
 When the violets peep from their mossy bed, 
 To tell that the winter's blasts are fled ; 
 When Sol doth her beams around me pour, 
 I love to walk in the noontide hour.
 
 CALDER DALE. 45 
 
 When the summer birds in the woods are seen, 
 That far in some distant lands have been ; 
 And the martins come to the cottage eaves, 
 To build their nests 'mong the ivy leaves ; 
 When the cuckoo chants forth its swelling song, 
 As it sits in the woodlands busy throng ; 
 When the swallows fly round the old church tower, 
 I love to walk in the noontide hour, 
 
 To list to the sound of the cataracts roar, 
 As it dashing falls on the rocky shore, 
 While the mid-day's sunbeams golden ray, 
 Hath tinged with lustre the foaming spray ; 
 And it sweeps along o'er its stony bed 
 As it did in the earlier years, long fled, 
 When a child I plucked each April flower, 
 That grew by the brook in the noontide hour. 
 
 But the scenes of my childhood's years are past, 
 Like the sound of the winter's howling blast ; 
 Like a wave that hath beaten the ocean shore, 
 And back is gone to return no more ; 
 And the days that are left will quickly fly 
 Like the fairest tints in the western sky, 
 Then I must fade like the loveliest flower, 
 And walk no more in the noontide hour.
 
 4G i I OWBRS OF 
 
 2Tfje |)oicoctt Buttnflij. 
 
 A FABLE; 
 
 Or, a Picture of Ambition. 
 
 A Peacock Butterfly one day 
 Across a garden took its way, 
 Unto a spot where roses grew 
 Of noble form and lovely hue ; 
 And seeing one of goodly size, 
 To sip its sweets she quickly flies ; 
 And lighting on its crimson leaves, 
 Her breast with exultation heaves, 
 Then spreads her wings, and looks below, 
 Where lesser flowers in clusters grow, 
 And eyeing them with haughty pride, 
 In language keen their forms deride ; 
 And then the Rose's cheeks she presses, 
 And thus the flowers below addresses : — 
 
 " Ye puny things, why grow you there ? 
 Of impudence you've got your share ; 
 How dare you open thus your eyes, 
 And gaze upon yon ambient skies ? 
 Your stinking forms I can't abide ; 
 Why grow you by the rose tree's side ? 
 Far from your loathsome sight I'll fly, 
 And o'er the hills my wings I'll try." 
 
 Then quickly mounting in the air, 
 Above where trees and flowrets are ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 47 
 
 Then higher looks, and there she sees, 
 
 Far, far above the highest trees, 
 
 Where distant hills their heads uprear, 
 
 Until they in the sky appear ; 
 
 Then tries again with all her might 
 
 To gain yon distant mountain's height ; 
 
 And then, methinks I hear her say, 
 
 Aid me, ye gods, and I'll away ; 
 
 Then plumes her pinions, fans her breast, 
 
 And quickly gains the mountain's crest ; 
 
 Then opens wide her azure wings, 
 
 And listens while the cuckoo sings ; 
 
 And roves again through woodland bowers, 
 
 And nectar sips from lovely flowers. 
 
 But soon the day declines apace, 
 
 And howling blasts the sunbeams chace ; 
 
 The frost shuts up the flowerets eye, 
 
 The leaves fall from the trees and die, 
 
 And birds that fluttered in the breeze, 
 
 Are gone across the distant seas; 
 
 While tinged with brown are wood and plain, 
 
 And hail is mingled with the rain : 
 
 The Butterfly her folly mourns, 
 
 And to her native glen returns 
 
 With broken wings, and bloodshot eye, 
 
 She fainting falls, and heaves a sigh ; 
 
 And when her friends collect around, 
 
 She speaks with wisdom most profound : — 
 
 " Friends of my youth, look on me now, 
 With cold chill sweat upon my brow ;
 
 48 FLOWERS OF 
 
 The sands of time are ebbing fast. 
 
 And my short life will soon be past, 
 
 Therefore my last advice accept, 
 
 And let it be securely kept ; 
 
 O, shun ambition's golden net, 
 
 Which in your path will oft be set ; 
 
 Of pride and pleasure be aware, 
 
 For oftentimes they form a snare ; 
 
 Do justice one unto another, 
 
 And love your neighbour as a brother ; 
 
 Then God will all your steps attend, 
 
 And crown you when your lives shall end." 
 
 The last words ceased; she faltering fell, 
 For death had broke the magic spell. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Learn wisdom by this Butterfly, 
 Nor take your aeriel flights so high ; 
 For if you do, you're sure to mourn, 
 For you must to the vale return ; 
 The wind may blow, the rain descend, 
 And death will be your fancy's end ; 
 Therefore be wise while life doth last, 
 And then you need not fear the blast. 
 
 SZtt'g&om'ft SLcsson. 
 
 Go to the woods with me, my child, 
 And Wisdom's lesson learn, 
 
 At the waving grass and flowerets wild, 
 And the slender feeble fern.
 
 CALDER DALE. 49 
 
 Go to the ant, 'tis Wisdom cries, 
 
 Go to the ant says she, 
 And learn to work, life swiftly flies, 
 
 And the end will come to thee. 
 
 Look at the rose, in its colours bright 
 
 At the morning's early dawn ; 
 And look again in the shades of night, 
 
 When its leaves on the ground are strewn. 
 
 The lovely blush from its cheek is fled, 
 
 And its short-lived bloom is o'er ; 
 Its fairest tints on the ground are laid, 
 
 And soon will be seen no more. 
 
 The insects bask in the Summer's breeze, 
 
 And the lovely flowers are fair ; 
 A foliage grand overspreads the trees, 
 
 And the small birds nestle there. 
 
 But the Winter's wind will quickly blow, 
 
 And the leaves fall from the trees ; 
 The mountain flood through the vale will flow, 
 
 And the birds fly o'er the seas. 
 
 Shout in the woodlands, shout my child, 
 
 And ask if pleasure's there ; 
 Then list, — but echo floating wild, 
 
 Replied it is not here. 
 
 Then flee not from the path, my child, 
 
 Which I point out to thee ; 
 And be not by fair speech beguiled, 
 
 For it hath ruined me.
 
 50 FLOWERS OK 
 
 I sought the phantom pleasure round, 
 Through village, town, and fair ; 
 
 While conscience cried with thrilling sound, 
 Alas ! it is not there. 
 
 I sought it on the moorland hill, 
 
 And in the woodland vale ; 
 And hy the gentle murmuring rill, 
 
 That rippled through the dale. 
 
 It is the creature of a day, 
 
 A bliss that cannot last ; 
 We scarce our fingers on it lay, 
 
 Ere it is gone and past. 
 
 No ; real pleasure is not found 
 
 In Nature's barren soil ; 
 It grows not in unhallowed ground, 
 
 Where all is grief and toil. 
 
 But there's a clime where pleasures dwell, 
 
 Unmixed without alloy ; 
 Where angels' tongues the chorus swell, 
 
 In everlasting joy. 
 
 Seek for that blessed clime, my dear, 
 
 While life with thee shall last ; 
 And thou shalt safe be landed there, 
 When time with thee is past.
 
 CALDER DALE. i 
 
 How sweet is a walk in the fair month of May, 
 When the sun brightly shines and all Nature is gay. 
 
 And the fields look both lovely and green ; 
 The willow wren sings on the wide spreading tree ; 
 How fresh is the face of Creation to me. 
 
 When the hawthorn's white blossom is seen. 
 
 When the flowers are gay, and birds singing sweet, 
 I love on the banks of the Calder to sit, 
 
 Whilst the fishes do play in the stream ; 
 The butterfly flutters about in the breeze, 
 And the lambkins run sporting about at their ease, 
 
 While the cuckoo is swelling the theme. 
 
 The mellow ton'd lark chants its song in the air, 
 While the summer birds sing in the woodlands so fair, 
 
 And the redbreast does hop at my feet ; 
 The magpie is chattering its note in the grove, 
 And the bullfinch is singing a sonnet of love, 
 
 And the wren makes the chorus complete. 
 
 The dandelion grows by the swift running rill, 
 The buttercup rears up its head on the hill, 
 And the daisy grows modestlv by ;
 
 52 * FLOWERS OF 
 
 The dormouse comes out from its Winter's retreat, 
 And the bee doth suck out from each flower its sweet, 
 And the pupa is changed to a fly. 
 
 To day hath the May-fly burst forth from its cell, 
 'Tis sporting away on yon watery dell, 
 
 Or flying the meadows all o'er ; 
 But ere long the bright sun will sink in the West, 
 And short-sighted man will retire unto rest. 
 
 And the beautiful fly be no more. 
 
 Thy life, O, frail mortal, is but as the grass 
 
 Or a flower, and the wind o'er it quickly doth pass, 
 
 Then it withers and soon does decay ; 
 Thy days fly away like a tale that is told, — 
 A vapour — a rose that is touch'd by the cold — 
 
 Thy life is swift passing away. 
 
 ®ttobev. 
 
 When the month of October appears, 
 
 And the daisies have gone from the plain ; 
 No longer the bright golden ears 
 
 On the banks of the Calder remain. 
 The leaves are forsaking the trees, 
 
 And keen is the cold chilling blast ; 
 The swallow flies over the seas, 
 
 And the beauties of Summer are past.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 The thrush never sings its sweet strain, 
 
 His voice is not heard in the grove ; 
 The blackbird calls not on his swain, 
 
 And the martins ne'er chatter their love : 
 The voice of the cuckoo's ne'er heard 
 
 To chant forth her well-tuned note ; 
 She's gone — is that sweet singing bird — 
 
 Far away, where the wide waters float. 
 
 But the redbreast at morning and e'en 
 
 Doth sing in the woodlanded dale ; 
 It strives to enliven the scene 
 
 When the wind whistles loud in the vale. 
 The hedgesparrow too tries to sing 
 
 Ne'er the cot of the poor man his lay ; 
 And the wren doth its melody bring 
 
 To enliven the October's day. 
 
 The plants that once wore a green shade, 
 
 Are withered and lie on the ground ; 
 Frost-bound are each wood hill and glade, 
 
 Which spreads desolation around. 
 The flowers are nearly all gone 
 
 Which once did bespangle the earth ; 
 How dark is the scene to look on, 
 
 When touched by the finger of Death. 
 
 53
 
 54 FLOWKRS OF 
 
 ®ty ISmigrant'* jfaretodl 
 
 Farewell to the place of my birth ! I must leave thee ; 
 
 The ship's on the wave that must bear me away ; 
 No more shall I ever return and look on thee, 
 
 The wide swelling sails now forbid me to stay. 
 
 Adieu, scenes of my childhood ! I then did wander 
 Along the wild mountains, or over the moor, 
 
 To pluck the wild heath, or play with Loosander 
 
 The Old Shepherd's dog, that did come to the door. 
 
 No more shall I sit beneath this shady willow, 
 Or over yon meadows and woodlands shall roam ; 
 
 For I must away o'er the wide foaming billow, 
 To seek in a far distant Nation a home. 
 
 Farewell ! lovely spot on the banks of the Calder, 
 Where I with my Mary delighted to play ; 
 
 She's laid in her grave, I no more must behold her, — 
 I'll go and weep o'er her before I away. 
 
 Farewell ! lone Church yard ; my Mary lies under 
 Yon grave stone, where dasies around it do grow ; 
 
 But now, O, fond shade ! we are parted asunder ; 
 No more shall we meet on this loved spot below. 
 
 No more can I tell thee of joy or of sorrow, 
 No more can I tell thee of bliss or of woe ; 
 
 But O, the sad thought ! for I shall to-morrow 
 
 Be on the wide wave where the stormy winds blow.
 
 CALDER DALE. 00 
 
 Then I must away, and leave thee forever, 
 And never more look on my own fatherland ; 
 
 Farewell, my dear home ! I shall see thee, ah, never ! 
 I am bound o'er the salt wave to a foreign land. 
 
 SolttttHe. 
 
 Far away from the bustle and ills 
 
 Of the village, I love to repair 
 To the top of these heather clad hills, 
 
 The beauties of Nature to share : 
 The prospect around me is grand, 
 
 No smoke of a cottage is seen ; 
 'Tis a beautiful piece of moor land, 
 
 Interspers'd with bright purple and green. 
 
 The broom in its beauty is drest, 
 
 Its bright yellow petals unfold 
 To the sun as it shines in the West, 
 
 A colour far richer than gold : 
 The heather-bells bloom all around, 
 
 And the pretty white daisy is there ; 
 And the cranberry peeps from the ground, 
 
 Whose fruit doth man's appetite cheer. 
 
 'Tis here, from commotion and strife, 
 And turmoil and war I am free ; 
 
 Nor thirst I for what is called life, 
 Or wish the gay city to see ;
 
 56 FLOWERS OF 
 
 A cot I desire of my own 
 
 Where the heather is hlooming and gay ; 
 Where the spade and the plough are not known 
 
 To cut those wild flowers away. 
 
 O then I could list to the song 
 
 Of the lark as it soars in the air ; 
 And sitting the blue bells among, 
 
 Would never give way to despair. 
 I'd envy no nabob nor king, 
 
 Nor care for the great or the gay ; 
 On these heather-clad hills I would sing, 
 
 And chase all my sorrows away. 
 
 O, Solitude ! fain would I court 
 
 Thy form on these heath-crowned hills ; 
 And often with thee I'd resort 
 
 To the side of yon murmuring rills ; 
 And then 1 could sing of thy charms, 
 
 And evermore happy would be ; 
 O then, from all worldly alarms, 
 
 This heart would forever be free. 
 
 &i)t <&reat Question: 
 
 Or. a Si iinh nflir Iln/ipiness. 
 
 Where shall I be when yon bright sun 
 Another twelve months' course hath run ? 
 Shall I be found above the sky, 
 Or where the worm doth never die ?
 
 CALDER DALE. 57 
 
 Or shall ambition take its towering flight, 
 
 And rove in fields of wonder and delight ? 
 
 Forget, awhile ! how soon the sweetest joy, 
 
 The brightest prospects ; O, how soon they cloy ! 
 
 The path of life is with gay pleasures strewed, 
 
 The race, the ale bench, and the gay abode : 
 
 This short-lived bliss ; how soon 'tis doomed to fade, 
 
 And cast its beauties in the morning's shade. 
 
 Perchance I may in ease and splendour roll, 
 
 And deeply drink of pleasure's flowing bowl 
 
 E'en to the dregs, in search of happiness, 
 
 But stings of conscience make the pleasures less. 
 
 Where can I find that best, that secret flower 
 
 Which constant peace into my soul can pour ; 
 
 That peaceful dove of pure celestial white, 
 
 Which in the Christian shines extremely bright ? 
 
 Shall I take flight and go to foreign lands, 
 
 Among the untutored and the savage bands ? 
 
 Or search for gold, and costly diamonds rare, 
 
 On India's coast, where richer treasures are ? 
 
 Or shall I take the morning's wings, and fly 
 
 Above the clouds, and see the starry sky ? 
 
 Or go into the caverns of the deep, 
 
 And see the wonders that do swim and creep ? 
 
 Or shall I go to the embattled field, 
 
 And see if blood true happiness can yield ; 
 
 At home, abroad, 'mong hostile Nations far, 
 
 'Midst rattling cannon, and the din of war ? 
 
 Or shall the Muse call forth her joyful throng, 
 
 And tempt my pen to aid her in her song ? 
 
 But these can ne'er true happiness impart, 
 
 Nor ease my pain, and cheer my troubled heart.
 
 58 FLOWERS OF 
 
 In short, I may search all Creation round 
 For that rich gem ; but it can ne'er be found 
 In earth, or air, or sea, or woodland shade, 
 'Midst Nature's carpet, dressed like spotless maid. 
 True happiness is not in Nature's book. 
 The old, the young, the rich, the poor, may look 
 In vain ; the only pleasures they can find 
 Is in a peaceful home, and a contented mind. 
 True happiness alone is to be found above, 
 Safe in your Saviour's arms and in his love. 
 
 &i)c SnotoBroy. 
 
 To see the snowdrops spring 
 Beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
 
 Doth joyful tidings to us bring, 
 Of Spring's returning Maid. 
 
 Dress'd in thy robe of white, 
 And spotted with bright green ; 
 
 Thou peerless maiden beauty bright — 
 Of Winter's flowers — the Queen. 
 
 Welcome, thou pretty flower, 
 
 Though north-west winds do blow ; 
 
 Soon will descend the genial shower, 
 And melt away the snow. 
 
 The crocus soon will bloom 
 Upon the meadow green ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 59 
 
 And soon will fly the Winter's gloom, 
 And Spring bedeck the scene. 
 
 Emblem of youth — thy flower — 
 
 In lovely grandeur dress'd, 
 Doth droop and wither in an hour, 
 
 By sore disease oppress'd. 
 
 Written on visiting the grave of the celebrated William Grimshaic, 
 late Minister of the Gospel at Haworth, who died April 1th, 1763, in the 
 55th year of his age, and was interred in the interior of Luddenden 
 Church. 
 
 Rest, Grimshaw, rest, in joyful hope, 
 No more thy hallowed dust shall rise ; 
 
 'Till the Great Judge thy grave doth ope, 
 And bid thee welcome to the skies. 
 
 No more thy feet shall swiftly run 
 After the giddy thoughtless throng, 
 
 Who haste, thy well-known face to shun, 
 Direct to join the drunkard's song. 
 
 No more the sabbath-breaker tries 
 To hide himself whilst thou art near ; 
 
 Or far away the swearer flies, 
 
 Accustomed thy sweet voice to hear.
 
 60 FLOWERS OF 
 
 How often have the orphans' tears, 
 Found thee a father and a friend ; 
 
 'Twas thou who hushed the widows' fears. 
 And pointed them where joys ne'er end. 
 
 Haworth no more shall hear thy prayer, 
 Since thou art gone above the skies ; 
 
 Thy Master's heavenly gifts to share, 
 Where hope in full enjoyment dies. 
 
 There thy loved spirit swells the song, 
 And casts its crown at Jesus' feet ; 
 
 And sings, with all the blood- washed throng. 
 To Him who loved and made thee meet. 
 
 Sleep on, 'till Christ shall bid thee rise, 
 And join thy spirit to thy dust ; 
 
 And take thee up above the skies, 
 To be forever with the just. 
 
 Is there an eye that never wept 
 
 The sympathetic tear, 
 When keen misfortune slowly crept, 
 
 Upon the friend most dear ? 
 
 Is there a hand that never was 
 
 Outstretched to defend 
 The orphan and the fatherless, 
 
 Their sorrows to befriend ?
 
 CALDER DALE. 61 
 
 Is there a heart which never felt 
 
 Compassion for the poor ; 
 Where love and friendship never dwelt, 
 
 Or ever touched its core ? 
 
 No ! friendship touches every heart, 
 
 The rich, the wise, the great ; 
 The miser sometimes acts his part, 
 
 And falls at friendship's feet. 
 
 'Tis friendship tries to smooth the brow, 
 
 The wrinkled brow of care ; 
 Takes of his goods, and doth bestow, 
 
 And bids his brother share. 
 
 'Tis friendship weeps with those who weep, 
 
 And sighs with those who sigh ; 
 Watches the place where sorrows sleep, 
 
 And hears the widow's cry. 
 
 Friendship's the darling child of heaven, 
 
 It twines two hearts in one ; 
 It feels for each misfortune given, 
 
 And makes the cause its own. 
 
 What is in friendship but the name, 
 
 Unless a friend we need ; 
 And he who gives, when aid we claim, 
 
 He is a friend indeed.
 
 FLOWERS OK 
 
 
 ©alters Banfcs. 
 
 Oft have I strayed near Calder's stream, 
 
 When these pale cheeks were fresh and fair, 
 And looked on life as a gay dream, 
 
 "Where all was pleasure void of care ; 
 But ah ! alas, how changed the scene, 
 
 Since youthful days were in their prime ; 
 For one who oft with me was seen, 
 
 Has swiftly passed the bounds of time. 
 
 The leaves of thirty years have fled 
 
 Since first in childhood's maze we strayed, 
 Along old Calder's sandy bed, 
 
 To see the stream rush through the glade. 
 But, ah ! how oft hath grief assailed, 
 
 And sorrow robbed me of my rest ; 
 And oft have I with tears bewailed, 
 
 And in deep anguish smote my breast ; 
 
 To think on days long since gone by, 
 Of youthful friends forever fled ; 
 
 Of one loved form who now doth lie 
 Forever with the silent dead :
 
 CALDER DALE. 68 
 
 Oft have we plucked the fairest flowers 
 That grew by Calder's silvery stream ; 
 
 And oft we've sat in woodland bowers, 
 And listened to the blackbird's theme. 
 
 One night when brightly rose the moon, 
 
 And mid-day joys were o'er and fled ; 
 We sat, and thought the hours flew soon, 
 
 While on my breast she hung her head ; 
 'Twas then she listened to my tale, 
 
 And vowed her heart was ever mine, 
 Long as the stream ran through the vale, 
 
 Or ivy 'round the oak should twine. 
 
 I often pressed her to my breast, 
 
 And vowed that nothing should us part ; 
 Not all the gold the world possest, 
 
 Should tear her from my loving heart ; 
 No, no, cried I, yon moon shall cease 
 
 Its shining in the heavens so fair ; 
 And this fond heart shall rest in peace, 
 
 Beneath the sod, without a care, 
 
 Ere I forget thy lovely form, 
 
 Fair as the blossom of the sloe ; 
 Forever shall the Winter's storm 
 
 Cease o'er the British Isle to blow. 
 We sat beneath the hawthorn's shade 
 
 'Till morning o'er the meadows broke, 
 And then we wandered through the glade, 
 
 And kindred vows were often spoke.
 
 G4 KLOWERS OF 
 
 I little thought that sacred night 
 
 Would be my last with her to stray 
 On Calder's banks, with great delight 
 
 To pass the joyful hours away ; 
 But O, what anguish fills my heart, 
 
 Though years have swiftly passed away, 
 At midnight oft I feel the smart, 
 
 And weep, as on my bed I lay, 
 
 To think on her who loved me dear, 
 
 Though sleeping in the silent clay ; 
 And oftentimes I shed a tear 
 
 As through the lone church yard I stray : 
 These eyes shall never see her more, 
 
 These arms ne'er press her to my breast ; 
 She's gone where sighs and tears are o'er, 
 
 To mingle ever with the blest. 
 
 Then, when a few more years are past, 
 
 And life's short race with me is run, 
 And I am forced to part at last 
 
 With all I love beneath the sun, 
 May I be called with her to join 
 
 In songs of praise His name to swell, 
 Who, with II is precious blood divine, 
 
 Did make us meet with Him to dwell.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 " %mw is SLtfe." 
 
 What is life ? a Winter's day, 
 Short and lucid is its stay ; 
 Short alike to young and old, 
 Soon the longest tale is told. 
 Life is like a spider's web, 
 Or the tide just at the ebb , 
 Soon the spider's web is spun, 
 And the tide its course hath run. 
 
 What is life ? a blushing rose, 
 Touched by every wind that blows ; 
 Soon the north wind's poisonous breath, 
 Lays it prostrate on the earth. 
 Life is like a Summer flower, 
 By the garden's sunny bower ; 
 Spreads its beauties in the shade, 
 Soon alas ! 'tis prostrate laid. 
 
 What is life ? a single beam 
 
 Shot from yon bright mid-day gleam ; 
 
 Scarcely we behold its flight, 
 
 Ere 'tis fled and out of sight. 
 
 Life is like a shooting star 
 
 In the azure heavens afar ; 
 
 Scarce we see its glimmering ray, 
 
 Ere its brightness fades away. 
 
 What is life ? a point of time, 
 Or the glowworm's feeble shine ; 
 
 65
 
 CG FLOWERS OF 
 
 Like the dewdrop on the grass, 
 Soon 'tis gone ; alas ! alas ! 
 Life's a rainhow in the air, 
 Decked in colours brfght and fair ; 
 And to us doth warning give, 
 That we must die, and may not live. 
 
 "OTijat is Scatfj." 
 
 What is death ? the end of all ; 
 Crowned kings before it fall ; 
 Lay their regal honours by, 
 In the dust their ashes lie. 
 Wealthy statesmen, wise and great, 
 Lay their treasures at his feet ; 
 Heroes let their trophies fall, 
 When they hear the solemn call. 
 
 Death, with cold relentless hand, 
 Makes beauty fade in every land ; 
 Rosy tints forsake the cheek, 
 And the tongue doth cease to speak 
 Makes the crimson blood run chill, 
 And the beating pulse be still ; 
 Lays the sparkling eye at rest, 
 Stays the throbbing of the breast. 
 
 Death unnerves the strongest arm, 
 Robs the face of every charm ;
 
 CALDEK DALE. 67 
 
 Binds in chains the stubborn will, 
 Makes the active limbs be still : 
 Lays at rest the thinking head, 
 In its cold and narrow bed ; 
 All its schemes and plans are o'er, 
 Deep distress it knows no more. 
 
 Death the loveliest flowers uproots, 
 Often spoils the fairest shoots ; 
 Nips the tendrils of the vine, 
 And the closest ties untwine : 
 Fills the rich man's house with grief, 
 Brings the Christian sure relief : 
 Tis the best release from pain, 
 A cause of loss, sometimes of gain ! 
 
 Death doth point the murderer's steel, 
 Makes the heart strings cease to feel ; 
 Bids the tyrant quit his hold, 
 And the miser leave his gold : 
 Puts an end to worldly joys, 
 Splendid titles, gilded toys ; 
 Rich and poor, and great and small, 
 Watch ! — for death's the end of all. 
 
 " mijat is tfje <Srabe/* 
 
 The grave is a cold narrow bed, 
 Where sorrow and grief are at rest 
 
 'Tis the last hiding place of the dead, 
 Its inmates no more are oppressed.
 
 68 n-°" !■ R! o*" 
 
 No sickness is known in the grave, 
 And the voice of complaining is o'er ; 
 
 Tis a sure resting-place for the brave, 
 Where warring can vex them no more. 
 
 'Tis the place where the wise and the great, 
 And the rich and the poor are confined ; 
 
 Their work upon earth is complete, 
 And unto dust they're consigned. 
 
 'Tis the place where our ancestors lay, 
 And have done for centuries past ; 
 
 Where the young, and the lovely and gay, 
 And the thoughtless must come to at last. 
 
 The hero and statesman are there, 
 Far away from all worldly alarms ; 
 
 No sound of the cannon they fear, 
 Nor care for the clashing of arms. 
 
 The pastor and flock they are there, 
 Laid low 'neath the clods of the vale ; 
 
 No more his sweet voice can they hear, 
 Or weep when he tells them the tale. 
 
 In the grave are the bridegroom and bride, 
 Remote from the bustle and noise 
 
 Of the wake, and the fair, and where pride 
 And all things are ended that cloys. 
 
 The grave is the lot of us all, 
 
 As a flower we must wither and die, 
 
 Or a ripe mellow fruit we must fall, 
 And in the cold grave we must lie.
 
 CALDER DALE. 69 
 
 Let us learn while in time to be wise, 
 
 And lay up our treasure above ; 
 Then we shall triumphantly rise, 
 
 To reign with the God of our love. 
 
 2Tijc $rjrfjan Boin 
 
 One day I met a little boy, 
 His feet and head were bare ; 
 
 He'd in his hand a silver toy ; 
 His heart was full of care. 
 
 Distress was seated on his brow, 
 Loud blew the Winter's blast ; 
 
 He struggled to get through the snow 
 Which then was falling fast. 
 
 He spoke to me in accents wild, 
 While tears ran down his face ; 
 
 Behold, said he, an orphan child, 
 In search of resting place. 
 
 My father went unto the wars 
 
 To serve his lawful king, 
 And when he'd been away six years, 
 
 He did this medal bring ; 
 
 Which he had gained for a prize 
 
 At bloody Waterloo ; 
 And before he closed his eyes 
 
 He charged me keep it true.
 
 '0 PLOWEKS OF 
 
 He died — and left me to the care 
 Of God who reigns above ; 
 
 And He will keep from every snare, 
 And guide me by his love. 
 
 My widowed mother taught me soon 
 To lisp a Saviour's love ; 
 
 J little thought before 'twas noon, 
 She would be called above. 
 
 But now I am an orphan left, 
 To beg from door to door ; 
 
 Of every earthly tie bereft — 
 I am distressed and poor. 
 
 I clasped the orphan to my breast, 
 And said come live with me, 
 
 And I will give thee earthly rest, 
 And will thy father be. 
 
 I'll shield thee from the bitter storm, 
 And teach thy feet the way 
 
 That leads to God, where every form 
 Of sin is done away. 
 
 1 raised him from the snowy ground, 
 And took him to my home ; 
 
 And he has me a father found, 
 He needs no further roam.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 71 
 
 &i)t immto antf i)tv ©ijtiU. 
 
 Trie substance of the fallowing Lines actually look plave in 
 Lttddentlrn Church Yard not many years ago. 
 
 A widowed woman one day lost 
 
 A lovely female child ; 
 Her heart was with affection tost, 
 
 She cried in accents wild, 
 
 O, have you seen her by the brook, 
 Or by the green wood side ? 
 
 Or have you seen her with her book, 
 Close by the river wide. 
 
 Fresh tears again bedewed her face, 
 She cried, and tore her hair, 
 
 Ah wretched, wretched, is my case, 
 I'm tortured by despair. 
 
 I'll go unto that sacred spot 
 Where her loved father lies ; 
 
 Despair and anguish is my lot, 
 How hard my fate, she cries. 
 
 She hastened to the lone church yard, 
 And on the new raised mound, 
 
 Poor Mary Ann was on her guard, 
 Her fingers tore the ground. 
 
 »
 
 FLOWERS OP 
 
 Get up, kind father, come to me, 
 
 This little girl she cried ; 
 1 will again be kind to thee ; 
 
 Come seat me by thy side. 
 
 The widow could look on no more, 
 The tears ran down her face ; 
 
 She cried aloud in anguish sore, 
 And did her child embrace ; 
 
 My Mary Ann, why did you go 
 And leave your mother's side ? 
 
 Ah, why did you distress me so ? 
 Come home, my girl, she cried. 
 
 Your father lies deep in that grave, 
 He never more shall sigh ; 
 
 You will no more a father have, 
 He's gone above the sky : 
 
 He's gone where sighs are done away, 
 
 And sorrows never come ; 
 Yon bright abode of endless day, 
 
 Our everlasting home. 
 
 Dry up your tears, again we'll meet 
 When time with us shall cease ; 
 
 And there we shall your father greet, 
 In everlasting peace.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Stanjas 
 
 On the Death of John Nicholson, the Aire- Dale Poet, who was found 
 dead on the Banks of the River Aire, at Baildon, near Bradford, York- 
 shire, April Hth, 1843. 
 
 O, Bard of Aire ! — thy race is run — 
 
 'Twas finished near the favourite stream, 
 
 Thou lovedst to picture, when the sun 
 Shone bright in orient golden sheen. 
 
 Thou shalt no more at Malham Cove 
 Describe the wild enchanting scene ; 
 
 Or through the woods and fields shalt rove, 
 When every tree is fresh and green. 
 
 Thy fingers ne'er again will guide 
 
 The pen to touch thy Aire-Dale's lay ; — 
 
 Ages shall down Time's current glide, 
 But thy sweet strains shall not decay. 
 
 The partner of thy joys and fears 
 Doth like a bulrush hang her head ; 
 
 And not one ray of comfort cheers — 
 Her thoughts are ever on the dead. 
 
 H
 
 74 PLOWBRS OF 
 
 Thy children thou hast left to mourn 
 And think upon their father's fate ; 
 
 For thou art gone, whence none return, 
 To tell what for our coming wait. 
 
 Friends of the Muse, exert your might, 
 And think upon the fatherless ; 
 
 And let it e'er be your delight 
 
 To help them in their great distress. 
 
 Farewell ! loved Bard of Aire-Dale, thou 
 Hast left this world of grief and pain ; 
 
 Perhaps thy shade is near me now, 
 And tells me that " to die is gain." 
 
 (Srace Barling, 
 
 The heroine of the Fern Islands, who, on the 7th September, 1838, res- 
 cued Nine of the survivors from the Wreck of the Forfarshire Steamer, 
 for ti-hic/i valorous deed Her Most Gracious Majesty granted her a 
 Pension for life : she died on the 20th October, 1842, aged 2G years. 
 
 All night the storm had raged high, 
 The forked lightning cleft the sky ; 
 Loud roared the surges of the deep, 
 Which 'woke this lovely maid from sleep : 
 She hastes to dress — and far she sees 
 A vessel wrecked upon the seas ; 
 Quick she returns to wake her sire, 
 Her bosom heaving with desire
 
 CALDER DALE. lb 
 
 The crew if possible to save, 
 From a deep yawning watery grave. 
 She cries, dear father, let us try 
 The crew to save, or with them die ; 
 Her earnest tone and look of faith, 
 Makes her sire list to what she saith. 
 Meanwhile her mother's helping hand 
 Prepares to launch the boat from land ; 
 She lifts to heaven her silent prayer 
 That God would guard her only care. 
 They jump into the little boat, 
 And o'er the raging billows float ; 
 And each doth grasp a single oar, 
 While round the rolling thunders roar ; 
 As near they come unto the wreck, 
 Soon they are seen by all on deck ; 
 And hope arises in each breast, 
 Which hushes their worst fears to rest. 
 But they can scarce believe their eyes 
 To see a female form arise ; 
 A guardian spirit sent from heaven 
 In angel's form, to woman given. 
 Her sire threw out the lengthened cord, 
 By which they all got safe on board ; 
 And landed them upon the shore 
 Amid the howling tempest's roar. 
 
 Break forth in praise ye lowing herds, 
 Rejoice, rejoice, ye warbling birds ! 
 Ye Nations sing in songs of fame, 
 Shout, Britons, shout, Grace Darling's name !
 
 7G FLOWERS OF 
 
 "WLfa sfjouttJ j>ou mourn" 
 
 Jddrcss'd to ti friend in affliction: 
 
 Why should you mourn ? Spring will return, 
 
 Hark how the linnet is singing ; 
 Nature to day is lovely and gay, 
 
 And flowerets around us are springing. 
 
 Why should you sigh ? now are gone by 
 
 Yesterday's bustle and trial ; 
 Let your heart now with cheerfulness glow, 
 
 And give to old care a denial. 
 
 Why should you mourn ? let the world scorn 
 And point at your failings its finger ; 
 
 Truth in the end will be your best friend, 
 And your foes will after you linger. 
 
 Time will not sleep — then why should you weep, 
 And always be clouded with sorrow ? 
 
 Grief and despair to day you may share ; 
 But peace and contentment to morrow. 
 
 % jFarctorll. 
 
 Farewell, with its dull unearthly sound, 
 Oft breaks on my well-tuned ears, 
 
 And opens afresh a long closed wound, 
 That was healed in my by-gone years ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 77 
 
 It tells me of companions dear, 
 Who with counsel sweet did my bosom cheer ; 
 But have broken on earth this magic spell, 
 And uttered their last long fare-thee-well. 
 
 It calls to my mind a long left spot, — 
 
 A friend to my memory dear, — 
 A scene that will never be forgot 
 
 While life doth my bosom cheer ; — 
 Tis the last faint word of the sailor boy, 
 As he looks on his mother's face with joy, 
 And bids her cease o'er his loss to mourn, 
 As he doubtless hopes again to return. 
 
 'Tis the last faint touch on the painted scene, — 
 
 'Tis the heave of the last drawn breath, — 
 'Tis the golden link that binds between 
 
 The friends we have on earth ; — 
 'Tis the solemn sound of the funeral note, 
 As once on my ear 'twas wont to float 
 From the sonorous sound of the passing bell, 
 As it rung o'er my wife its fare-thee-well. 
 
 One morn as I walked where the primrose was growing, 
 The mistle thrush tuned forth his song in the grove ; 
 
 Beneath, in the valley the cattle were lowing, — 
 I heard at a distance the sweet cooing dove.
 
 78 FLOWERS OF 
 
 'Twas Spring, and all Nature around me was smiling, 
 I thought on the years that had long since gone by ; 
 
 I looked on my youth, when my time was beguiling 
 In chasing the hoop or the wild butterfly. 
 
 But my youth has gone by, and with all its pleasures, 
 I sigh for the day that shall never return ; 
 
 I covet not gold, nor any such treasures, 
 
 Alas ! for my hard fate in this world I mourn. 
 
 I once could live happy in my humble dwelling, 
 I knew no distress and had no anxious care ; 
 
 But O, the sad thought in my bosom is swelling, — 
 No happiness shall evermore enter there. 
 
 But I will look up to that kingdom in glory, 
 
 Where scenes that distress us are ever unknown ; 
 
 I hope there to join in the wonderful story, — 
 And sing unto Jesus, who sits on the throne. 
 
 There I shall again enjoy solid pleasure, 
 And mingle in joys that shall never decay ; 
 
 Though keen's my distress, above is my treasure, 
 "Which I shall receive when the world fades away. 
 
 &$t fSSlffloto of ti)t <5len. 
 
 ( A Tale founded on facts. J 
 
 I passed the church yard where a widow stood weeping 
 
 O'er the grave where her husband was mouldering 
 away ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 79 
 
 Her lovely blue eyes their sweet vigils were keeping, 
 O'er the pilgrim of nature now stretched in decay. 
 
 Her eyes looked wild o'er the scene that surrounded ; 
 
 Her visage was pale, and beclouded with gloom ; 
 Her feeble frame shook as a passing bell sounded, — 
 
 She sat herself down on a neighbouring tomb. 
 
 She cried, "I am friendless, on earth there's no pleasure 
 For me, I must travel life's journey alone ; 
 
 My home is now robbed of the best of its treasure, 
 The charms that were in it forever are gone." 
 
 The bright orb of day in the West had ceased shining, 
 The dark shades of evening did hover around ; 
 
 While the flocks and the herds on the grass were reclining, 
 Where the daisy and primrose bespangle the gronnd. 
 
 The beautiful cuckoo its last notes was sounding, 
 Ere it fled for the night to the dark forest shade ; 
 
 And the deep mountain glen with the echo rebounding, 
 Did swell the sweet sound thro' the neighbouring glade. 
 
 Yet this lone widow sat by the grave of her husband, 
 While tears in abundance fell down from each eye ; 
 
 And the fair queen of night peep'd over the moorland, 
 And shed its pale light where her husband did lie. 
 
 She raised herself up from the cold and damp tombstone, 
 Then tore her long hair, and in anguish did cry, 
 
 How sad is my fate, I am wretched and undone, 
 Oh that I could lay on this loved spot and die ;
 
 80 FLOWERS OF 
 
 She bended her knees on the earth just thrown o'er him, 
 And lifted her eyes as she uttered a prayer ; 
 
 While the big tear of grief from her eyelids was streaming, 
 She wrung her w r hite hands in the greatest despair, 
 
 And vow'd by the moon that so brightly was shining, 
 And by the bright stars that sparkled on high, 
 
 And by the last shade of the day then declining, 
 And by the loved spot where her husband did lie, 
 
 That a widow till death she would certainly tarry, 
 The world and its pleasures for ever would scorn ; 
 
 With the best man on earth she never would marry, 
 For the sake of her husband she always would mourn. 
 
 Then slowly she wandered her dreary way homewards, 
 And mused on the fate of the man she had loved ; 
 
 And oftentimes vowed that forever thenceforward, 
 By the fairest of offers would never be moved. 
 
 When six waning moons had in silence passed o'er him, 
 And oft she had been to the spot where he lay, 
 
 To watch and to weep, while the grass did wave o'er him, 
 And let fall a tear o'er the tenantless clay. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 One morn when the wind from the northward was 
 
 blowing, 
 And keen was the blast on the neighbouring hills ; 
 
 And swiftly the brook through the village was flowing, 
 
 And Winter reigned over the murmuring rills :
 
 CALDER DALE. 81 
 
 The snow did fall fast, 'twas the month of December, 
 And the flowers of the field were all withered and gone, 
 
 This widow made haste from her own cottage chamber, 
 To visit the place, and to weep o'er the stone. 
 
 She wandered among the sad relics of nature, 
 And thought on the dead that for ages had laid ; 
 
 Whilst sorrow and grief were instamped on each feature, 
 She thoughtfully into the village church strayed. 
 
 Meanwhile a young man in the deepest of mourning 
 Had silently entered the village church yard, 
 
 While the purest of love in his bosom was burning, 
 And for this lone widow he felt great regard. 
 
 He silently wandered the grave stones all over, 
 And mused on the days that forever had fled ; 
 
 When raising his eyes, he with sorrow beheld her, 
 As she stood by the side of her husband's last bed. 
 
 Then slowly he walked to where she stood weeping, 
 And gazing upon her with tears in his eyes : [in 
 
 He said " 'Neath that dark mound your lost one is sleep 
 To heal thee, my fair one, he cannot arise : 
 
 Here then he must rest till the Great Judge from heaven 
 Shall come to pass sentence on all who have lived ; 
 
 The wicked shall then into torments be driven, 
 But the righteous to glory will all be received : 
 
 Then you shall see him, for whom you are smarting, 
 Adorned and made meet to dwell with the blest ; 
 
 cr
 
 82 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Having gained that good home, then adieu to all parting, 
 "You'll share with the holy a sahbath of rest : 
 
 O, fret not then thus in deep anguish and sorrow, 
 But cease to come visit this spot where he lies ; 
 
 And hope for the future — 'twill ease you to-morrow — 
 Have pity on one who for love of you dies." 
 
 She raised her eyelids and looked on him calmly, 
 Then hastily wandered away from the spot ; 
 
 And thought on the words that was uttered so warmly 
 By the stranger ; then mused on her own hapless lot. 
 
 When on her own hearth-stone how altered her feelings 
 Since first in the morning she hasted away, 
 
 Unto that loved spot, where with weeping and wailings, 
 For eight months together she had been every day. 
 
 The voice of the stranger like music kept sounding, 
 And oftentimes thought that she saw him go by ; 
 
 And long before night o'er the snow she was bounding, 
 To visit the place where her husband did lie : 
 
 She soon gained the spot where she often had vowed, 
 And where she had oft breathed many a prayer ; 
 
 A change had come o'er her — her cheek slightly glowed, 
 When she saw the youth of the morning was there. 
 
 He lifted his head in the wildest commotion, 
 
 And fixed his eyes on the widow's gay charms ; 
 
 Whilst his true heart did beat with the greatest emotion 
 He suddenly caught her up into his arms.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 83 
 
 He vowed that he lived for her and her only, 
 
 And that she for months had a place in his heart ; 
 
 Then begged they might walk from the church yard so 
 lonelv, 
 That each might speak freely before they did part. 
 
 Awav arm in arm by the brook they soon walked, 
 And quickly they reached the path to the glen ; 
 
 O'er the past, and the future bright prospects they talked, 
 And soon they were hid from the cottagers' ken. 
 
 Scarce a fortnight had passed ere they were united, 
 For better for worse, and for rich and for poor, 
 
 In sickness and health — till by death they were blighted — 
 But to be parted in this world no more. 
 
 They loved and they lived in the greatest of pleasure, 
 And sweetly talked over the scenes of the past ; 
 
 And saw in each other the chief earthly treasure, 
 
 And hoped that such scenes through life's journey 
 would last. 
 
 Oft have I mused o'er the vows that were broken, 
 When I have passed over the grave where he's laid ; 
 
 But ah ! that loved spot she now hath forsaken, 
 
 Though oft in its precincts I know she hath strayed. 

 
 FLOWERS OF 
 
 &o OTtUtam OTor&stoortfj ; 
 
 The Poet Laureate to Her Mojesl;/. 
 
 Hail, Wordsworth, hail ! Laureate's Poet grand, 
 
 Thy fame has sounded throughout Britain's land ; 
 
 Tis thou canst weave thy Garlands for the Queen, 
 
 Or paint the cottage on the village green ; 
 
 Thy lovely Muse can soar the highest hills, 
 
 Or glide through vales among the winding rills ; 
 
 Or listen to the woodlark's early song, 
 
 "When Summer comes with all her husy throng : 
 
 The daisy meek which decks the fertile plain, 
 
 Touch'd by thy pencil virgin tints retain : 
 
 The cuckoo's note recalls thy boyish years, 
 
 Or the bright snowdrop when it first appears, 
 
 Tells thee of days and weeks and months gone by, 
 
 Of flowers faded 'neath the Winter's sky. 
 
 Thy Muse can sing of castles and of towers, 
 
 Of brooks and springs, and of ambrosial bowers : 
 
 Thou too canst tell of kings and statesmen wise ; 
 
 How Nations faded, and how Nations rise. 
 
 Lend me thy pen, to wish thy lengthened life 
 May ne'er know sorrow, or be cross'd with strife ; 
 May peace around thy home spread forth her wings, 
 While love and happiness in concord sings : 
 May sacred truth fly on the lip of fame, 
 'Till every Bard shall whisper Wordsworth's name ; 
 Whose fame shall live when beauty fades away, 
 And States and Kingdoms crumble to decay.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 Written in Memory of James Riley, late Keeper of the Museum Oj 
 the Halifax Literary and Philosophical Society, who having traversed a 
 great part of the Globe, died, on his way home, off Cape St. Vincent, on 
 the 9th of March, 1842, and was consigned to a Watery Grave the same 
 evening. 
 
 Twice thirteen fair moons o'er the ocean hath beamed, 
 And gilded with lustre each dark rolling wave ; 
 
 And often since then hath the red lightning streamed, 
 And darted its flash o'er the Wanderer's Grave ! 
 
 The evening was calm, and the sky was unclouded, 
 
 When they brought him on deck in his winding sheet 
 shrouded, 
 
 And the brave British Tars soon around him had crowded 
 To see him consigned to the deep ocean cave. 
 
 Perforated with holes was the bier where they laid him, 
 And cold cannon balls were heaped over his head ; 
 
 To sink his frail body afar from the ocean's brim, 
 Heaps of shot all around in his coffin were spread : 
 
 The death flag waved high on the Merchant Ship Rover, 
 
 And the signal gun sounded the blue waters over ; 
 
 There one silent friend o'er his ashes did hover, 
 To let fall a tear o'er the Wanderer's bed.
 
 86 FLOW KRS OF 
 
 His corse was soon sunk 'neath the waves of the ocean, 
 
 Where oft the loud thunder around him will roar ; 
 While the dark foaming billows will rage with emotion, 
 
 And keen blows the blast on the far distant shore ; 
 Yet he shall still sleep while the stormy wind's howling, 
 And deep dashing waves o'er his body are rolling, 
 Whilst the shark and the whale around him are prowling, 
 And shellfish bespangle his coffin all o'er. 
 
 No more o'er the Isles of the South shall he wander, — 
 
 No more shall he visit the land of his birth ; — 
 And hushed are the cold chilling curses of slander, 
 
 And severed the ties that once bound him to earth : 
 His friends at a distance in vain may deplore him ;— 
 The waves and the storms of the deep will roll o'er him — 
 And corruption again unto dust will restore him ; — 
 And dolphins shall wanton around in their mirth. 
 
 His wife long may weep for her husband's returning, 
 His children awhile for their father may rave; 
 
 But the storms of the deep o'er his ashes are mourning, 
 While lonely he slumbers below the salt wave : 
 
 Yes, yes, he is gone ! I shall see him — ah, never ; 
 
 The black hand of Death all our friendships doth sever; 
 
 But his chains — bless'd hope ! — do not bind us forever, 
 Then why should we weep o'er the Wanderer's Grave?
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 87 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 On gathering two Daisies after a severe Snow Storm early 
 in January. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, beauteous flowers, 
 Though the wind blows chill and cold ; 
 
 Though the rain in torrents pours, 
 You your beauties do unfold. 
 
 Not another flower is springing 
 On this wide extensive plain ; 
 
 You're the joyful tidings bringing 
 Of the Spring's return again. 
 
 Ah, but Winter reigns around you, 
 
 Not a leaf is on the trees ; 
 Fields and woods assume a brown hue — 
 
 Touched by Winter's chilling breeze. 
 
 Though the gnat doth dance its circles 
 In the Winter's noontide hour, 
 
 Frost ere night its path encircles, 
 Lays it 'neath the leafless bower. 
 
 But the wren is sweetly singing 
 By the brook in yonder tree ; 
 
 Its tuneful voice is loudly ringing 
 Through the woods melodiously. 
 
 You, of long lost friends remind me, 
 Who in youth were fresh and gay,
 
 88 FLOWERS OF 
 
 And in riper years were lovely, 
 But now moulder in decay. 
 
 You to day, beneath the bushes, 
 Hold aloft each pale white head ; 
 
 But to morrow these fair blushes 
 May be mouldering with the dead. 
 
 crijc ®ltf Heat's <Trarfc. 
 
 " Now bleak Winter on the mount ' 
 Whirls on heaps the dusty snow; 
 
 Seals with ice the sandy fountains, 
 While the streams can scarcely Bow." 
 
 John Nicholson. 
 
 A sprightly youth, on New Years's Day, 
 O'er the Eastern hills came bounding ; 
 
 His step was light, and his heart was gay, 
 But Death was his track surrounding. 
 
 He looked abroad, with a lovely smile, 
 On the prospect dark and dreary ; 
 
 But all seemed black as a funeral pile, 
 And his eyes at the sight grew weary. 
 
 He gazed on the leafless forest trees, 
 That low with the blast were bending ; 
 
 And marked the track of the rushing breeze, 
 As the withered leaves 'twas sending 
 
 O'er the wild moorlands far away, 
 
 To the shepherd's heath-clad dwelling ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 89 
 
 Or dashing them on the ocean spray, 
 
 Where the winds are the billows swelling. 
 
 I saw him when the sweet breath of Spring 
 Through the budding trees was flowing, 
 
 And the bee flew far on its golden wing, 
 Where the forest flowers were growing ; 
 
 His track was sweet on the high peak'd hills, 
 Where the furze and the heath-bobs blossom ; 
 
 And his march was swift by the sparkling rills, 
 Which flow o'er the earth's cold bosom. 
 
 I saw him again in the Summer hour, 
 
 When the young wild rose was blooming, 
 
 Sporting amidst the woodbine bower, 
 And sweets were his path perfuming. 
 
 I saw him droop, when the Autumn's wind, 
 The leaves from the trees was shaking ; 
 
 And the shrubs which time had left behind, 
 In the strong cold blast were breaking : 
 
 His voice, which in youth was sweet and loud, 
 
 Then sounded deep and hollow ; 
 And his tottering step in the busy crowd, 
 
 Another must quickly follow. 
 
 His track is marked by the hand of Time, 
 
 On History's brightest pages ; 
 And there it will stand in tints sublime, 
 
 To the world's remotest ages.
 
 90 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Zty ViUaqc Naturalist 
 
 (A Character of the present day. j 
 
 Not far from lovely Calder's vale 
 Resides the hero of my tale ; 
 A curious man, of ancient mould, 
 Like those who lived in days of old, 
 When Linnaeus the great arose, 
 And triumphed over all his foes, 
 By bringing hidden things to light, 
 And Nature's works arranging quite 
 In different wavs than heretofore 
 
 ml 
 
 They'd ever been in days of yore. 
 This man belonged the self-same school, — 
 His neighbours called him dunce and fool 
 For prying into such like matters, — 
 He being a man of rags and tatters. 
 They said, 'twas fitter far that he 
 Should mind his wife and familv, 
 And let such tawdry things alone 
 For those, who'd money of their own, 
 To seek o'er distant wood and glade, 
 Or buy of those, who would be paid. 
 
 He little cared for what they said, 
 Because he earned his daily bread ; 
 Therefore, he thought, his leisure hours 
 He'd spend among the Summer flowers, 
 In catching moths and dragonflies. 
 Beetles, or ants, or butterflies ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 91 
 
 And strange aurilia glittering bright, 
 
 He carried home with great delight ; 
 
 In short, whatever flies around, 
 
 Or rambles slowly o'er the ground, 
 
 Or torpid lays in woodland bowers, 
 
 Or skips about in twilight hours, 
 
 This man, with eagerness pursues, 
 
 And oft their shapes and forms reviews, 
 
 And tells, without the least disorder, 
 
 Each Latin name, and class, and order, 
 
 That to these insect tribes belong, 
 
 Which 'round our fields and woodlands throng. 
 
 The flowing brook, the bubbling rill, 
 
 Are objects of his nicest skill, 
 
 For there the dragonfly is seen 
 
 Sporting among the leaves so green, 
 
 When butterflies, in sunlit hours, 
 
 Dance lightly on the fairest flowers. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 ®f)e Naturalist's f^omr. 
 
 His house within the village stands, — 
 He has no barns nor fertile lands ; 
 No castles high, nor wide domains 
 Where he his costly game maintains ; 
 But round his cot, arranged in pairs, 
 Are snipes and woodcocks and fieldfares, 
 With hawks and golden-crested wrens, 
 And other birds — both cocks and hens : 
 And animals preserved with care, 
 Within this poor man's dwelling are ;
 
 92 FLOWERS OF 
 
 With land and good fresh water shells, 
 Brought from far distant woodland dells ; 
 And birds' eggs of each varied hue, 
 Spotted and white, and tinged with blue : 
 And on a shelf, near to the fire, 
 Are insect boxes, many a tier ; 
 And on them some cast wondering looks, 
 And think they are the choicest books ; 
 But open them, and there you see 
 Arranged with care and nicety ; 
 Spell-bound, as if by magic, they, 
 The flutterers of a Summer's day, 
 Which once, erewhile away could roam, 
 Regardless of their future home, 
 O'er lovely fields and fragrant bowers, 
 Where grow the sweetest scented flowers ; 
 But here, alas ! transfixed they stand, 
 And thus their glittering wings expand, 
 Like mummied men of ancient yore, 
 Brought from fair Egypt's distant shore, 
 Where once the stately courts they crowded, 
 Though now in searcloth stripes enshrouded. 
 So these fair things away could fly 
 O'er fertile vales and mountains high, 
 Drinking from flowers their honied sweets, 
 Or fluttering through the lone retreats, 
 Where sylvan songsters loudly sing, 
 And echo makes the woodlands ring, 
 'Till captured in Old Tommy's net, 
 And in these boxes nicely set, 
 Where any one who will, may see 
 Insect tribes of each degree. 

 
 CALDER DALE. j,; 
 
 Mv Houtfjful 13ag& 
 
 Oft I think on youthful days, 
 
 That are gone forever, 
 When I sung in joyful lays, 
 
 By the Calder's river. 
 
 Then I listened to the sound 
 
 Of the skylark singing, 
 As it warbled on the ground, 
 
 Or aloft was springing. 
 
 Oft through flowery meads I've stray'd, 
 When the sun was shining ; 
 
 Or amongst the daisies play'd, 
 At the day's declining. 
 
 These were joyful days to me, 
 
 For I knew no sorrow ; 
 Every day I longed to see 
 
 What would come to-morrow. 
 
 Rut they are forever fled, 
 
 I shall see them never ; 
 Youthful sports with me are dead, — 
 
 Left me altogether. 
 
 Calder still is on its course 
 
 To the ocean moving ; 
 Small and feeble is its source, 
 
 But it keeps improving,
 
 94 FLOWERS OF 
 
 'Till it falls into the Aire, 
 Far below my dwelling ; 
 
 Then murmurs through meadows fair, 
 'Till the tide 'tis swelling. 
 
 So is man ; in youthful morn 
 Trifles then are pleasing ; 
 
 When grey hairs the head adorn, 
 Youthful pleasures leave him : 
 
 Then he looks his lifetime o'er, 
 Back to childhood's morning ; 
 
 Thinks on time to come — no more — 
 Worldly pleasures scorning. 
 
 On hearing one sing in the snow, near Luddenden Foot, 
 January 9th, 1843. 
 
 Hark ! the redbreast sweetly singing 
 In the white and drifted snow, 
 
 Gladness, with its song, 'tis bringing 
 Though the Winter's wind doth blow ; 
 
 See its little neck is stretched, 
 And its wings are open wide ; 
 
 If its food be poor and wretched, 
 Harmony doth still preside.
 
 CALDEK DALE. 95 
 
 Cease thy song, thou pretty redbreast, 
 
 Winter is not yet half past ; 
 'Tis not time to build thy warm nest, 
 
 Loudly blows the raging blast ; 
 
 Stormy days do yet await thee 
 
 Ere the Spring returns again ; — 
 There is neither hip nor berry, 
 
 Nor a flower upon the plain. 
 
 There are no other songsters singing, 
 While the snow and frost remain ; 
 
 Soon the snowdrops will be springing 
 On these white and frozen plains. 
 
 Cease thy song, thou woodland ranger, 
 
 Come into my cottage, come ; 
 I'll protect thee from all danger, 
 
 Thou no farther now need roam. 
 
 &ty ILarfc. 
 
 See the lark is rising high, 
 Towering upwards to the sky ; 
 As it flies it sweetly sings, — 
 Spreading forth its little wings. 
 
 When the sun unfolds its rays, 
 Loud it chants its song of praise 
 Leaves its mate upon the nest, 
 With their little brood to rest.
 
 9G [LOWERS OF 
 
 When the evening's shades are nigh 
 Then it loves to soar on high, 
 To return its Maker praise, 
 In its wild enchanting lays. 
 
 Hark, it sings its swelling song 
 When the Summer's husy throng 
 Are engaged their lives short day, 
 Sporting on the flowerets gay. 
 
 Soon the Winter's wind will hlow, 
 And these hills be tipt with snow : 
 Then its lively tuneful voice 
 Will not bid my heart rejoice. 
 
 &n Acrostic. 
 
 T o thee, my dear friend, near the fair lakes residing, 
 O may my kind lay its sweet melody bring ; 
 
 W hile health, smiling health, o'er thy mansion presiding, 
 
 O suffer my Muse in thy presence to sing. 
 
 R e-echo that name o'er each valley and mountain, 
 
 D elighted ye woodlands, continue the sound ; [tain, 
 
 S well, swell, the sweet theme by the side of each foun- 
 
 While echo is chanting the chorus around, 
 
 O screen him from danger, ye guardians from heaven, 
 
 R eclined in your arms may he oftentimes lie ; 
 
 T hen when his frail bark o'er life's breakers is driven, 
 
 H ow calm and serene may he lay down and die.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 
 llajjolcon Bonaparte anB tije 10 ocr. 
 
 77;e folloxving Stanzas were penned on reading over this beautiful 
 Anecdote. " 77;e nutnber of dead near Bassano was considerable ; 
 curious to ascertain the loss of the enemy, Napoleon rode over the field 
 with his Staff, when their notice was attracted by the howling of a dog, 
 which seemed to increase as they approached the spot from whence the 
 sound proceeded. 'In the deep silence of a beautiful moonlight night,' 
 said the Emperor, ' a dog leaped suddenly from beneath the clothes of his 
 dead master, rushed upon us, and then immediately returned to his 
 hiding place, howling most piteously : he alternately licked his master's 
 hand, and ran towards us, as if at once soliciting aid and seeking 
 revenge : whether, owing to my particular turn of mind at that moment, 
 the time, the place, or the action itself, I know not, but certainly no inci- 
 dent on any field of battle ever produced so deep an impression on me, 
 and I knout if a suppliant enemy had solicited pardon, I should have 
 granted it.' " 
 
 Napoleon rode o'er the battle plain, — 
 And a star was his breast adorning, — 
 
 To look on the spot where lay the slain, 
 Who to battle came in the morning. 
 
 The moonbeams fell on the sacred spot, 
 Where the soldier lay in his glory ; 
 
 His eyes were closed, and his pulse beat not, 
 And his clothes were wet and gory.
 
 98 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Not the sound of a drum or a fife was heard, 
 And hushed were the cannons' rattle ; 
 
 And useless lay the blood-stained sword 
 On the dreadful field of battle. 
 
 But a loud piteous cry the silence broke, 
 And o'er the fields 'twas rolling ; — 
 
 It seem'd to come from a soldier's cloak, 
 Like the sound of a dog that's howling. 
 
 Napoleon hastes to the distant close, 
 From whence the sound proceeded ; 
 
 When a dog sprang from his master's clothes, 
 As if for help he pleaded. 
 
 He then returned to his hiding place, 
 
 And licked his master's hand ; 
 And looked up again at his blood-stained face, 
 
 As he lay in a distant land. 
 
 Napoleon stopped and surveyed the scene, 
 On his cheek was the tear of sorrow ; 
 
 Then road o'er the blood-besprinkled green, 
 And gravely thought on the morrow : 
 
 Perhaps, said he, some lady fair, 
 For her absent lord is weeping ; 
 
 While he lays upon the cold ground there, 
 And his dog is its vigils keeping : 
 
 I too may fall on the battle field, 
 Though now renowned in story ; 
 
 And have no friendly hand to shield 
 My head from the battle's fury :
 
 CALDER DALE. 99 
 
 If a fallen foe from a distant shore, 
 
 In the silvery moonbeams wander, 
 To seek a friend, when the fight is o'er, 
 
 'Midst the wreck of fallen grandeur, — 
 
 I'd guard him safe from this dreadful spot, 
 "Where the guns were this morning firing ; 
 
 And tell him of scenes not soon forgot, 
 As away from these plains retiring. 
 
 Thus spoke Napoleon, as he stood 
 
 By his faithful staff surrounded, 
 And heaved a sigh, in a solemn mood, 
 
 For his heart with grief was wounded. 
 
 SLmes 
 
 To Miss Sarah Nicholson, of Bradford, on receiving from her the 
 following Stanza, accompanied by a Rose. 
 
 " Go, lovely rose, to grace his humble cot, 
 Who soothes with song the children of the Bard ; 
 
 Like him, thou bloomed 'mid Winter's storms forgot, — 
 Give him my purest, truest, best regard." 
 
 Sarah Nicholson. 
 
 Sarah, the rose thou sent to me 
 
 Is withered, sear and dead ; 
 It brings to mind what we shall be, 
 
 When Time with us is fled.
 
 100 FLOWERS OF 
 
 It tells me of departed hours, 
 When in thy mother's cot, 
 
 We talked of long neglected flowers, 
 And scenes not soon forgot. 
 
 The glittering sunheams golden ray 
 May cease awhile to shine ; 
 
 The flowers that look so fair to day, 
 To morrow may decline : 
 
 The balmy breath of Spring may loose 
 Its fragrance in the vale ; 
 
 The new blown daisy soon may close, 
 And wither in the gale : 
 
 And some fell ruffian in disguise, 
 May blight thy virgin rose ; 
 
 And then, its wonted sweets despise, 
 And laugh at all its woes : 
 
 But I can ne'er that time forget, 
 While memory shall last ; 
 
 Though adverse billows 'round me set, 
 And stormy be the blast. 
 
 But this frail simple faded rose 
 I'll keep with fondest care ; 
 
 It oft will bring to memory those 
 On earth I love so dear.
 
 CALDER DALE. 101 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 On seeing an old Newspaper entitled, " The Leeds Intelligencer," 
 published August 5th, 1777. 
 
 The flowers of seventy years 
 
 Have nearly passed away ; 
 And gone are the hopes and griefs and fears 
 
 Of that long forgotten day, — 
 But still a friend hath preserved thy form 
 From the bitter blast of the Winter's storm. 
 
 The hand that touched thee first, 
 And the eye that scann'd thy page, 
 
 Are mouldering in the silent dust, 
 Borne down on the tide of age, — 
 
 But still thou the hand of Time defies, 
 
 And safe in my friend's possession lies. 
 
 The youths of the time have died 
 At their three score years and ten ; 
 
 And the colour has fled from the bride 
 Who blushed at the altar then ; 
 
 And the choicest friends have parted been, 
 
 Who laughed and played on the village green. 
 
 Old Time hath rolled along 
 
 O'er the mountain and the glen, 
 And swept off the stage the thoughtless throng, 
 
 Along with the best of men ; — 
 But still the " Intelligencer's " name 
 Is published to the world the same.
 
 100 FLOWERS OF 
 
 May truth and virtue be 
 
 Enstamped on every page, 
 That England's friends and foes may see, 
 
 In every clime and age : 
 'Till tyranny to Haydes is hurled, 
 Then love shall reign throughout the world. 
 
 ftfje pauper's jFuniral. 
 
 Written on seeing one in Luddenden Church Yard. 
 
 No nodding plumes waved in the air. 
 And not a mourning coach was there ; 
 The bugle made not its warlike sound, 
 And the silent escutcheon waved not around, 
 For it was a pauper's funeral. 
 
 No costly bier, or splendid pall, — 
 No mourners stood in the ancient hall ; 
 No friend or parent wept around, 
 As his corse was borne to the burial ground, 
 For it was a pauper's funeral. 
 
 Four men arrayed in the paupers' dress, 
 Through the silent crowd did onward press ; 
 While the church bell's most solemn toll, 
 A warning gave to every soul 
 
 Of the approach of a pauper's funeral.
 
 CALDER DALE. J 03 
 
 Then to his last home they took their way, 
 And laid him down on his bed of clay, 
 And not a single tear was shed 
 Over the resting place of the dead, 
 For it was a pauper's funeral. 
 
 And now he lies in the silent ground, 
 To rise no more till the trumpet's sound 
 Shall summon him above the sky, 
 To spend a blessed eternity, 
 
 Where there are no more funerals. 
 
 Written on the Author's 40M Birth Day. 
 
 Forty revolving years have fled 
 Since I into this world was born ; 
 
 Through various scenes I have been led, 
 And sorrow oft my heart hath torn. 
 
 The friends of childhood ! — where are they ?- 
 Once objects of my fondest care : 
 
 Reflection points me to the clay, 
 
 And says, alas ! they moulder there. 
 
 Their active limbs are laid at rest, 
 
 No more on Calder's banks they roam ; 
 
 Their hands in mine have often press'd ; — 
 I never more shall guard them home.
 
 101 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Youth's golden dreams have passed away, 
 Its frantic joys have failed to please ; 
 
 Its lovely hlossoms — where are they r 
 Long have they ceased to give me ease. 
 
 Care oft since then hath wrung my heart, 
 And anguish deep hath filled my hreast ; 
 
 Of poverty I've felt the smart, 
 
 And oft through want have been distress'd. 
 
 The flowers which then could please my mind 
 When dawning manhood first appeared, 
 
 Are gone, and left no trace behind, 
 
 To tell where they their beauties reared. 
 
 My mother too — that sacred name — 
 Sacred to friendship and to me — 
 
 Has gone, and left this world of pain, 
 I never more her like shall see. 
 
 But her loved name's engraven on 
 The tablet of my aching heart ; 
 
 While reason keeps her sacred throne 
 It never more shall from me part. 
 
 Like most young men, I sought the joys 
 That were in wedlock's holy tie ; 
 
 But soon I found them gilded toys 
 That glittered in the sun to die. 
 
 Alas ! the bliss I thought to share, 
 Was not in wedlock's thorny maze ,- 
 
 I found its paths bestrew'd with care, 
 And sorrow marked its devious ways.
 
 CALDER DALE. 105 
 
 Oft as bright Summer did return, 
 
 And the gay meads were deck'd with flowers, 
 After the butterfly I'd roam, 
 
 Or beat for moths the woodland bowers ; 
 
 Or seek the place amongst the trees, 
 
 Where the blue titmouse builds its nest, 
 
 Or through the bushes glide with ease, 
 To catch the wren with golden crest. 
 
 But time hath rolled these scenes away, 
 No more yon moorland hills I roam ; 
 
 No more with my dear Mary stray, — 
 For she hath reached her destined home : 
 
 Deep in the lone church yard she lies, 
 With two loved children by her side ; — 
 
 Another wife her place supplies, 
 
 To share with me life's foaming tide. 
 
 Sometimes we're toss'd by billows dark, 
 
 Upon the wild tempestuous sea, — 
 No glimmering ray shines on our bark, 
 
 But what is tinged with poverty. 
 
 Whate'er I suffer here below, 
 
 Shield me, ye heavens, from black despair ; 
 Come health, come wealth, come weal or woe, 
 
 The Muse my leisure hours shall share. 
 
 Yes, I will tune its lovely strains, 
 
 Where'er my languid feet shall roam ; 
 
 While life and health my frame sustains, 
 Or I am blessed with peace at home.
 
 106 FLOWERS OF 
 
 £o ti)t <£al&er's Stream. 
 
 Thou bright and gentle stream that flows 
 Through Todmorden's sequestered vale, 
 
 Where many a tree majestic grows, 
 And small birds warble in the dale. 
 
 Where towering hills majestic rise, 
 And rocks on either hand appear, 
 
 Their summits seem to touch the skies, 
 The impress of Old Time they bear. 
 
 Their curious forms pourtray their age. 
 Struck by the storms of long past years ; 
 
 Their noble grandeur doth engage, 
 While distant hills my bosom cheers. 
 
 The oak, the elm, and ash trees grow 
 Where thy bright waters have their bed, 
 
 Unto the highest mountain's brow, 
 Or to the rock's rough crested head. 
 
 No grander sight was ever seen 
 In Erin's isle or Scotia's glen, 
 
 When clothed in robes of lovely green, 
 Than the sweet vale of Todmorden. 
 
 Oft have the sylvan songsters sung 
 Delightful strains in Summer hours ; 
 
 And oft these mountain glens have rung 
 In echoes through its woodland bowers.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 107 
 
 This stream hath still a charm for me, — 
 For ofttimes in youth I lov'd to roam 
 
 Beneath this aged forest tree, 
 Far from my little village home. 
 
 O could my Muse, by love inspired, 
 Sing of this vale in magic strains ; 
 
 Then would I, from the world retired, 
 Oft wander on these lovely plains, 
 
 And paint in sweet but lovely lays, 
 The scenes of this enchanting glen, 
 
 Where Nature's God his gifts displays, 
 In grandeur, that defies my pen. 
 
 But soon these eyes will cease to look 
 Upon this fair and silvery stream ; — 
 
 Must close these eyes on Nature's book, 
 And then fell death will end the dream. 
 
 % Sonnet 
 
 To the Winter Daisy. 
 
 To thee, fair flower of pure and spotless white, 
 Fain would I raise my sonnet with delight, — 
 Fain would I paint thy fair and lovely form 
 'Midst Summer's beauties and the Winter's storm 
 When Winter howls with its inclement breath, 
 And touches Nature with the hand of death,
 
 108 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Thy lovely form, beneath some woodland shade 
 Puts forth its beauties, like some spotless maid, 
 "Who, in despite of all the world can do, 
 When scandal whispers, or ill-will pursue, 
 Raises her head, while guiltless is her form, 
 Boldly she laughs, and dares the coming storm ; 
 So thy loved form, amidst the Winter's blast, 
 Rears its proud head, and laughs at dangers past. 
 
 £0 tije (£ucUoo. 
 
 Welcome, Cuckoo — bird of Spring — 
 Dost thou joyful tidings bring 
 From afar beyond the sea, 
 Pretty bird, come tell to me. 
 
 Hast thou been on India's land, 
 Sung upon its golden strand ; 
 Or within the jungle's shade, 
 Where the lordly lion's laid. 
 
 Or has some cavern hid thy form, 
 Amid the dreary Winter's storm ; — 
 Where thou hast slept, until the blast 
 Of the Winter's wind had past. 
 
 Still I love to hear thy voice, — 
 How it makes my heart rejoice 
 When I hear its tuneful song, 
 Near my native village throng.
 
 CALDKR DALE. 
 
 Soon thy singing will be o'er, — 
 Thou wilt sing for us no more, 
 'Till another Spring's return, 
 When bright flowers the earth adorn. 
 
 I have asked thee, lovely bird, 
 Thou my few requests hast heard ; 
 What I say, or what I do, 
 All thy answers are "Cuckoo." 
 
 109 
 
 &n ©legs on tfje BeatJ) of a jfxicnt}. 
 
 A friend I lov'd, ere youthful hours were fled, 
 Has left this world of sorrow, grief, and pain ; 
 
 His fragile frame lies mouldering with the dead, 
 No more to walk the lovely verdant plain. 
 
 Time was, when we o'er distant hills could rove, 
 
 When blossomed thorns their choisest sweets did yield, 
 
 To hear the blackbird warble in the grove, 
 When buttercups bedeck 'd each fertile field. 
 
 Oft have I met him, when the rosy morn 
 
 With orient grandeur tipp'd the Eastern hills ; 
 
 And the sweet bee tuned forth its tiny horn, 
 As it was fluttering by the murmuring rills. 
 
 But now, dear friend, our last long walk is o'er, — 
 Thy memory claims the tribute of a tear : 
 
 L
 
 1 10 FLOWERS OF 
 
 The long deep sigh will heave thy breast no more — 
 Ah me, alas ! 'tis dead upon the ear. 
 
 The worm of death has prey'd upon his frame, 
 And cut the tie that bound him fast to earth : 
 
 His children, now in sorrow breathe his name, 
 As each recounts some tribute to his worth. 
 
 His vacant chair, the widow's tears recall, — 
 His stick, neglected in the parlour lies, — 
 
 His portrait hangs suspended from the wall, 
 Which oft a treasure from the past supplies. 
 
 But now he lies enshrouded in the dust, 
 
 Where toil and care shall break his rest no more ; 
 
 His soul has gained the region of the just, — 
 Then why should we his earthly loss deplore ? 
 
 Zo tije Broom Jflotocr. 
 
 To thee, bright flower, I love my lays to sing, 
 When June hath touched thee with her balmy wing ; 
 When gentle zephyrs sweep along the grass, 
 Which shake the lovely dew drops as they pass 
 From thy loved form, thou beauty of the woods, — 
 Where grows the sapling, and the wild rose buds. 
 Thy lovely flower fresh beauties doth unfold, 
 In richest colours, bright as sparkling gold : 
 But soon, alas ! thy brightest tints will fade, 
 And withering die beneath the woodland shade.
 
 CALDER DALE. 1 1 1 
 
 a OTalft in 3f\mt. 
 
 In the month of June I love to walk, 
 
 "When the Summer flowers are springing ; — 
 
 Beneath the shade of the spreading oak, 
 Where the birds are sweetly singing. 
 
 I love to walk, when the cuckoo's note 
 
 Is sounding loud and mellow, 
 Where old Calder's stream through meadows float, 
 
 And in it dips the swallow. 
 
 The lark is rising high in the air, 
 
 And his morning's matins pouring ; 
 The dew on the grass is bright and fair, — 
 
 And not a cloud is lowering. 
 
 The fleecy flock on the mountains high, 
 
 The shepherd boy is keeping ; 
 And the playful lambs run sporting by, 
 
 While his dog by his side is sleeping. 
 
 The meadows sweet delight my eyes, 
 
 When the sun is brightly shining 
 Upon the flowers of varied dies, 
 
 Where the school-boy is reclining. 
 
 O, how I love bright Summer's hours, 
 When the rose is sweetly blooming, 
 
 And the blossoms of a thousand flowers, 
 The air with sweets are perfuming.
 
 1 12 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Stomas 
 
 On seeing a Faded Rose, in the latter end of December. 
 
 Ah, how pale that cheek of thine, 
 Time has thy blushes slighted ; 
 
 All thy beauties now decline, — 
 Thou by death art blighted. 
 
 Emblem of declining life, 
 Weak and faint and weary ; 
 
 Touched by sorrow, care, and strife, — 
 Every prospect dreary. 
 
 Not a ray of hope to cheer 
 Through this vale of sorrow : 
 
 Friends we loved on earth so dear, 
 We must leave to-morrow. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 To a Lady, on the Flight of Time. 
 
 Lady, time is flying 
 
 On its golden wing, 
 To the mind supplying 
 
 Many a precious thing ;— 
 Scenes gone by recalling fast, 
 
 Things to memory dear ; 
 Brightest treasures of the past 
 
 Oft our bosoms cheer. 
 
 Long neglected flowers 
 Cull'd in childhood's vears,
 
 CALDER DALE. 1 13 
 
 From sweet Nature's bowers, 
 
 Lovely still appears ; 
 Deck'd in colours bright and fair, 
 
 As they then were seen, 
 When the rose of youth was there, 
 
 And its buds were green. 
 
 Joys we once have slighted 
 
 Often haunt the mind ; 
 Hopes that have been blighted 
 
 Leave a stain behind ; 
 Fears that long have pass'd away 
 
 Creep upon the heart ; 
 Pleasures that are. sweet to day, 
 
 Quickly will depart. 
 
 Friends we loved so dearly, 
 
 Soon have fled away ; 
 Touch'd by death quiet early, — 
 
 Moulder in the clay : 
 All their joys on earth are past, 
 
 Grief with them is o'er ; 
 Time, with its cold chilling blast, 
 
 Beats on them no more. 
 
 Then, Lady, do not weep 
 
 Though these flowerets fade, 
 Though your friends are all deep 
 
 'Neath the church yard laid : 
 You will meet with them again, 
 
 When life's warfare's past ; 
 Where distress, and grief, and pain, 
 
 And sickness cannot blast.
 
 FLOWERS OF 
 OCJT; ^X)^C OtCjF. ^XJ>C aCXtfTOJ 
 
 ue£ ^erd i'^rcoc'Gt i^ft 3crc^ i"5c 
 
 £tan?ag 
 
 To the Children of the lute John Nicholson, the Aire Dale Poet. 
 
 Children of Aire-Dale's highly gifted Bard, — 
 
 Let these few lines your generous bosoms cheer — 
 
 Watch o'er your mother with a fond regard, 
 Nor stain her pillow with a falling tear ; 
 
 For she, when helplessness around you hung, 
 
 Watch'd o'er your footsteps with a mother's care ; 
 
 And oft, when silent grief her heart hath wrung, 
 Has o'er you wept and heaved a grateful prayer. 
 
 Strive then to smooth her passage to the tomb, 
 As she is journeying through this thorny vale ; 
 
 Though lowering clouds shall fill her heart with gloom, 
 A breeze of hope may whisper in the gale. 
 
 Though boasting friends have proved to you unkind, 
 And kept from you what justly was your due ; 
 
 Weep not — the tyrant yet may change his mind ; 
 It may be so — then keep the end in view. 
 
 Weep not, though clouds obscure the sparkling sky, 
 And raging billows beat upon the shore ; 
 
 Though vivid lightnings o'er the meadows fly ; 
 A calm will come — the storm will soon be o'er.
 
 CALDER DALE. I 15 
 
 Yea, Justice shall her sacred rights maintain, 
 And force the sycophant to loose his hold ; 
 
 The fatherless shall never cry in vain, 
 
 And widows' woes be to the world untold. 
 
 May generous love within your bosoms reign, 
 And pure affection fill each youthful heart ; 
 
 Then peace shall follow with her golden train, 
 And bid all sorrow from your home depart. 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 To the Summer Daisy. 
 
 When Summer comes with all her golden train 
 And lovely flowers bedeck the fertile plain, — 
 When warbling songsters tune their songs of love, 
 And make their voices echo through the grove, — 
 ! Tis then, I love to see thy form so fair, 
 In the sweet meadow, or the gay paterre : 
 Or on the banks close by the murmuring rill, 
 Or by the heather on the moorland hill : — 
 Or if I stray into the lone church yard, 
 Thy modest presence seems the dead to guard. 
 Thou growest as well upon the lowly bed 
 Of the young infant, as the hoary head. 
 Guard, with thy presence, pretty simple flower, 
 The sacred tombstone, and the garden bower.
 
 11C FLOWERS OP 
 
 m)t mn Irisfj #t<m 
 
 It was a beautiful morning, in the latter end of the month of June, 
 when I wandered from my humble dwelling in the glen, to visit a friend 
 in a remote part of Colder-Dale} — the sun was shining with grandeur 
 over the distant moorlands, and the verdant meads were nearly covered 
 with flowers Qf various shapes and hues ; a group of ragged children were 
 seeking the hedge rows for birds' nests. In a wood a little to the right of 
 the highway ivas a number of oak trees, dressed in the lovely garb of 
 summer ; on the top branch of one of the tallest, a thrush was tuning his 
 song melodiously, whilst, in the bushes beneath, the wren, the white-throat, 
 and the black-capped warbler were joining in chorus ; casting mine eye a 
 little to the left, the cabbage white butterfly, and various other insects of 
 summer, were dancing away their lives in the utmost gaiety ; passing 
 onward, musing over the various scenes which had passed since my boyish 
 days, I was suddenly accosted by a poor decrepid old man, bending 
 beneath the weight of at least seventy summers, whose haggard features 
 portrayed the deepest sorrow ; he begged me to relieve him, as he had not 
 tasted food for nearly two days; after having satisfied his appetite, I 
 asked him the particulars of his life, which he related in nearly the follow- 
 ing irords Verse 4th :— 
 
 One morn I met an aged man, 
 
 As I walked o'er the lea ; 
 His hair was grey, his visage wan, 
 
 And sore distress'd was he. 
 
 The brinv tear rolled down his cheek, 
 Which many a furrow bore ; 
 
 And often he essayed to speak, 
 But grief bis bosom tore. 
 
 He lifted up his eyes to heaven, 
 Then smote upon his breast ; 
 
 When awhile with grief he'd striven, 
 He thus his woes expressed : —
 
 CALDER DALE. 117 
 
 •"' I pray young man some pity take, 
 
 And help me in distress, 
 And give me food for Jesus' sake, 
 
 For hunger doth oppress : 
 
 I have not tasted yet to day, 
 And yesterday I'd none ; 
 
 give me some to eat, I pray, 
 Or life -will soon be gone : 
 
 1 little thought when I was young 
 
 That it would come to this ; 
 That grief would 'round my path be hung, 
 And not one ray of bliss. 
 
 My father was a sailor bold, 
 
 Upon the raging main ; 
 And oft he sailed where billows roll'd, 
 
 A livelihood to gain : 
 
 One night, the moon had hid her face, 
 
 And darkness reigned around, — 
 A dreadful hurricane took place, 
 
 Which struck the ship aground : 
 
 The raging surges of the deep 
 
 Filled all the crew with dread ; 
 And every soul on board did weep, 
 
 And many a prayer was said. 
 
 Home, with its twice ten thousand ties, 
 
 Comes swiftly to the mind ; 
 But home its wonted aid denies, — 
 
 Far, far, 'tis left behind.
 
 1 18 FLOWERS OF 
 
 No parents' hands are stretched to save 
 
 From the wild raging sea ; 
 No place of shelter now they have, 
 
 And nowhere left to flee. 
 
 A cry was heard, alas, she sinks ! 
 
 To float across the wave ; 
 And each from death with horror shrinks, 
 
 And strives himself to save. 
 
 The boats were launched upon the deep, 
 And quickly filled with men ; 
 
 And when the waves were hushed to sleep- 
 No friend to cheer them then. 
 
 But soon the wind began to blow, 
 Large billows lash the shore ; 
 
 The waves these vessels overflow, 
 They sink to rise no more. 
 
 They sink — but all their crews were tost 
 One moment on the wave ; — 
 
 Then in the surges they are lost, 
 And find a watery grave ; — 
 
 Except one youth, who far away 
 
 Was carried on the strand, 
 Where some of his companions lay 
 
 Amongst the wreck and sand. 
 
 He thought on home he loved so dear, 
 And smote his troubled breast ; 
 
 Then looked around, but shed no tear, 
 And thus his fears expressed : " —
 
 CALDER DALE. 1 19 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 " Scenes of death ray heart oppresses, 
 Languor fills ray tearless eye ; 
 
 Gloomy fear my mind distresses, 
 Where alas, ah, where am I. 
 
 Yon big wave has borne me hither, 
 
 To this barren sterile land, 
 Where I soon must droop and wither 
 
 Murdered by some ruthless band. 
 
 Stormy billows now are roaring, 
 On these clay cold rocks they lave ; 
 
 Birds of prey around are soaring, 
 For the sailor's corse they crave. 
 
 I till now the hope have cherished, 
 That companions I should find ; 
 
 But they in the sea have perished, — 
 I alone am left behind. 
 
 Hunger is my bosom tearing, 
 Terror almost stops my breath ; 
 
 Hope no more to me is cheering, 
 Soon I here must sink in death. 
 
 Farewell, home, with all its pleasures, 
 
 Farewell Erin's happy Isle ; 
 Land — where lies my chiefest treasures- 
 
 Thou dost now my thoughts beguile. 
 
 Parents dear, farewell for ever, — 
 Mary dear, farewell to thee ;
 
 120 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Seas and rocks, and mountains sever 
 Me from where I fain would be : 
 
 But a prayer I now will offer, 
 To my God for pardoning grace ; 
 
 And I hope he will discover 
 To my view a resting place, 
 
 Where I safely may abide in 
 
 While this dreadful storm is past ; 
 
 When some ship may here be riding. 
 Which shall bear me from the blast." 
 
 THE OLD MAN CONCLUDED. 
 
 " Then from the sandy beech he 'rose 
 Where his companions lay, — 
 
 And thought upon unnumbered woes 
 Since he and they were gay. 
 
 Hush'd was the wild tempestuous sea, 
 And hush'd the thunders roar ; 
 
 Sails that had flutter'd fair and free, 
 Lay scattered on the shore. 
 
 He gazed around in wild surprise 
 
 On the adjacent land ; 
 Where wood crowned hills majestic rise, 
 
 'Midst objects rich and grand. 
 
 Behind the trees he saw a grot 
 Of curious shape and form ; 
 
 It looked like some lone hermit's cot, 
 Which long had stood the storm.
 
 CALDER DALE. 121 
 
 He entered with a trembling heart, 
 
 But not a friend was there, 
 To ease his body of the smart, 
 
 Or save him from despair. 
 
 He stood, and longed to lay him down, — 
 
 Then slowly looked around, 
 And saw no footsteps, but his own, 
 
 That mark'd the clay cold ground. 
 
 Then lay down on some leaves to rest, 
 And thought no more he'd roam ; — 
 
 When balmy sleep his eyelids press'd 
 He dreamt of his dear home. 
 
 When morning came he bent his way 
 
 Again towards the sea, 
 And there a bag of buscuits lay, 
 
 From the salt water free ; 
 
 Which he took, with whate'er he could, 
 
 Unto his lonely grot, 
 And mused, as he in silence stood, 
 
 Upon his hapless lot. 
 
 One day, when three long months were past, 
 
 He stood upon the beach, 
 Gazing upon the waters vast, 
 
 As far as eye could reach ; 
 
 And there he saw a swelling sail, 
 
 Upon the foaming wave ; 
 With which he did his eyes regale, 
 
 And soon a signal gave. 
 
 M
 
 122 FLOWERS OF 
 
 A boat was o'er the billows sent, 
 To bring him from the shore ; 
 
 And verv soon on board he went 
 While the loud storm did roar. 
 
 Upwards of three long tedious years 
 From Erin's Isle they sailed ; 
 
 And oft, with painful doubts and fears, 
 His bosom was assailed. 
 
 He wished to see his home again, 
 
 For Mary oft he sighed ; 
 And scarce he could from tears refrain, 
 
 When his own land he spied. 
 
 He quickly leaped upon the shore, 
 And started for his home ; 
 
 Resolved to sail the seas no more, 
 Nor e'er aarain would roam. 
 
 '6' 
 
 His parents dear well pleased were 
 
 To see their son's return ; 
 But William sought his Mary dear 
 
 Down by the woodland burn. 
 
 He saw her walking all alone, 
 Her skin was spotless white ; 
 
 Her ebon locks with lustre shone, 
 Her eyes were sparkling bright. 
 
 Calm as the Summer's evening breeze, 
 And as the dew drops fair ; 
 
 She sat her down beneath the trees 
 Musing on days of care ;
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 When lifting up her eyes, she saw 
 
 Her lover standing by ; 
 Whose countenance betokened woe, 
 
 And oft he heaved a sigh. 
 
 He talked of days forever fled, 
 
 Of happy moments past ; 
 Of friends now with the silent dead, 
 
 Since they had parted last. 
 
 Meanwhile distress in hideous forms, 
 Had torn my mother's breast ; 
 
 At midnight oft she dreamt of storms, 
 'Till she could take no rest. 
 
 Sickness had laid her on her bed, 
 Ere she had heard the tale, 
 
 That William had from shipwreck fled, 
 And reached his native vale. 
 
 He came, and told of scenes of death, 
 
 On a far distant shore ; 
 Where my poor father lost his breath, 
 
 Amid the tempest's roar. 
 
 The terrors of that dreadful night 
 
 He pictured with dismay ; 
 My mother trembled with affright, 
 
 As on her bed she lay. 
 
 Sad boding thoughts and anxious care, 
 Soon preyed upon her frame, 
 
 She died, — the picture of despair — 
 Calling on father's name. 
 
 123
 
 124 FLOWERS OF 
 
 So I was forced at six years old, 
 
 To beg at every door ; 
 Through Summer's heat, and Winter's cold, 
 
 Or when the wind did roar. 
 
 In some great barn at night I lay, 
 Or 'neath the hedgerow's shade ; 
 
 And when I 'woke at opening day, 
 O'er the wide world I strayed. 
 
 When six long years had gone and past, 
 
 A lady took me home ; 
 And sheltered me from the cold blast, — 
 
 Nor wished I thence to roam. 
 
 For eighteen years with her I lived 
 
 With a contented heart : 
 But death, my fondest hopes deceived, 
 
 Which forced me to depart. 
 
 Since then an outcast I have been 
 Upon the wide world's stage ; 
 
 But ere long I shall quit this scene, — 
 I am bent down with age. 
 
 So fare-thee-well, my youthful friend, 
 
 For you and I must part ; 
 I hope that God will you defend 
 
 And bless your generous heart." 
 
 We parted then, no more to meet 
 In Time's all withering blast ; 
 
 But oft I hope I shall him greet 
 When life's short journey's past.
 
 CALDER DALE. 
 
 125 
 
 2Tije Song of tfje ©migrant. 
 
 Adieu ! fair Calder's lovely stream, 
 
 I once by thee did roam, 
 But now, my song lias changed its theme, 
 
 And I have left mv home : 
 Have left the cottage of my birth, 
 
 From poverty to flee, 
 To this far distant spot of earth, 
 
 Yet oft I think on thee. 
 
 I think upon thy heath-clad hills, 
 
 Thy wood embowered vales, 
 Thy gentle sweet meandering rills, 
 
 Thy winding pleasant dales ; 
 Thy sylvan scenes, thy lone retreats, 
 
 Have still a charm for me ; 
 And all thy flowers have pleasant sweets, 
 
 Compared with these I see. 
 
 The sweetest joys of childhood's years 
 
 Run back upon my mind ; 
 And waken up a thousand fears, 
 
 Of friends far left behind, 
 Who once with fond endearing care, 
 
 Through Hebden's valley strayed, 
 When Spring was dress'd in colours fair, 
 
 And the sweet waters played.
 
 12G FLOWERS OF 
 
 But, ah ! those scenes away are fled, 
 
 Beloved in happier hours, 
 When lovely sweets around were spread, 
 
 And gay the hawthorn howers : 
 While far in distant lands I sigh, 
 
 And to these wilds reveal 
 The thoughts that in my bosom lie, 
 
 And all the fears I feel. 
 
 The whistling breezes gently blow, 
 
 The song birds warble free, 
 And sweet the tuneful waters flow, 
 
 But they've no charm for me : 
 No, still I sigh for fatherland 
 
 Yon bonny distant shore, 
 Where Nature, with a generous hand, 
 
 Unfolds her golden store. 
 
 Hope often cheers my drooping heart, 
 
 When lowering clouds prevail ; 
 And bids these boding thoughts depart, 
 
 That whisper in the gale. 
 Where'er I go, where'er I roam, 
 
 Howe'er by grief I'm torn, 
 I never can forget my home, 
 
 The land where I was born.
 
 CALDER DALE. 127 
 
 &ty Summer's Sag. 
 
 Briffhtlv shines the Summer's sun 
 When its race is just begun ; 
 Tips the mountain tops with gold — 
 Beauties to the eyes unfold. 
 
 Barren hills and fertile vales, 
 Smiling woods and flowery dales, 
 Blest with its enlivening view, 
 Shoots afresh and blooms anew. 
 
 Insect creation throngs the air, 
 Lighting on the flowers fair ; 
 Dancing in the Summer's breeze, 
 Sporting 'mongst the lofty trees. 
 
 Warbling songsters in the grove, 
 Carol forth their songs of love ; 
 While the lark high in the air, 
 Pours forth its morning prayer. 
 
 Gentle zephyrs sweep along 
 Lofty trees, and flowers among ; 
 Gathering incense as they go, 
 To perfume the vales below. 
 
 Little fishes sporting glide 
 Through the waters silvery tide ; 
 Swimming far into the deep, 
 Or above the surface leap.
 
 128 FLOWERS OF 
 
 Youth is but a Summer's day, 
 As a flower it fades away, — 
 Like the Mayfly sports at ease, 
 Dies before the evening's breeze ; 
 
 Or a fish that swims the brook, 
 Bites the school-boy's barbed hook ; 
 Drawn out of the water, dies — 
 Man, this lesson learn — be wise. 
 
 % Sonnet 
 
 To James Montgomery, Esq., Sheffield. 
 
 Hail ! Nature's highly gifted Bard, — 
 
 Long may thy sacred lyrics charm ; 
 Long mayst thou be in great regard, 
 
 And Heaven preserve thee from all harm. 
 May Peace her pinions o'er thee spread, 
 
 And Patience guard thee from each storm, 
 As months and years fly o'er thy head, 
 
 May Grace preserve thy feeble form : 
 And when thy locks are white with age, 
 
 And Nature's dissolution's near, 
 May brighter scenes thy soul engage, 
 
 And Hope thy dying moments cheer : 
 Then when thou art called to leave thy clay. 
 Angels shall carry thee away.
 
 CALDER DALE. 129 
 
 &ty &utf)or's Soliloquy 
 
 Perchance these Flowers of Calder Dale 
 May wither in their virgin bloom ; 
 
 Some noxious odour, in the gale, 
 May lay them in the silent tomb. 
 
 The critic's eye, may look with scorn, 
 On this my Wreath of Forest Flowers, 
 
 And say they are but rudely torn 
 
 By untaught hands, from sylvan bowers. 
 
 The Bard of Nature here may meet, 
 , Sweets that are pleasant to the taste ; 
 May here a kindred spirit greet, 
 
 While journeying o'er life's dreary waste. 
 
 I covet not the lordly halls, 
 
 I wish no costly gifts to share ; 
 
 Nor care I for the high park walls, 
 For pleasure seldom enters there. 
 
 Ambition tempts me not to roam, — 
 For other lands I do not sigh ; 
 
 But I should love my cottage home, 
 
 With land that would my wants supply. 
 
 More leisure hours to read and write, 
 And time my plaintive Muse to swell ; 
 
 Then would I oft, with great delight, 
 Ramble around the woodland delL
 
 130 FLOWERS OP 
 
 Then should some friend, in rich attire.. 
 
 Seek the mean cottage where I dwell ; 
 And with new strains my pen inspire, 
 
 Or hid my Muse with vigour swell. 
 
 Oft would I rove o'er heath-clad hills, 
 And think of hours long gone and past ; 
 
 While life's warm blood my bosom fills, 
 Or keenly blows Time's withering blast. 
 
 And when I'm summoned to the tomb, 
 And finished is my last long tale, 
 
 I hope these modest flowers will bloom, — 
 These simple Flowers of Calder Dale.
 
 NOTES 
 
 TO 
 
 4ttu0fttg8 in Caltier Sale. 
 
 Page 1. 
 The ancient Briton, with his curious spear, &c. 
 
 The inland inhabitants are represented as extremely nume- 
 rous, living in cottages thatched with straw, and feeding 
 large herds of cattle : they lived mostly by the chase, and 
 on the milk from their own kine. 
 
 While sacred Bards, heroic strains did sing, &c. 
 
 The Bards were the first of the three great classes of the 
 Druids ; and were so called because they were the Heroic 
 Historians and Geneological Poets. The clothes they wore 
 were made of the skins of beasts, but the arms, legs and 
 thighs were left naked, and usually painted blue ; their hair 
 was long, and hung down upon their backs and shoulders. 
 
 Page 2. 
 The wily fox, with other beasts of prey, &c. 
 
 That foxes, badgers, and wolves, frequented this valley is 
 quite certain, as their skulls and bones have been found in
 
 13:2 notes. 
 
 different places ; so late as the year is 1,"> the skull of a badger 
 was found iu Hathershelf Scout, near Mytholmroyd. 
 
 From sea to sea, from every foreign land, 
 
 Sweet commerce flows, and anchors on our strand. 
 
 These lines allude to the internal communication between 
 the two great seaport towns of Liverpool and Hull, both by 
 Canal and Railway, through this valley. 
 
 Page 2. 
 
 Could but my pen describe yon moorland scene 
 Where Calder rises in Cliviger Dean. 
 
 Dr. Whitaker, in his History of Leeds, says (page 373) that 
 the River Calder takes its rise in a marsh in Cliviger Dean, 
 where once stood an Ancient Cross. 
 
 Page 3. 
 
 But faintly touch, though with a schoolboy's skill, 
 The various turnings of this moorland rill. 
 
 Watson, in his History of Halifax, says that Calder is com- 
 posed of two streams, the one Cal, and the other Dar ; which, 
 as soon as they unite together, are called Calder; but I thought 
 I would bring in the first four streams, that is, Cross Heath 
 Dean, near Holmes Chapel ; Cliviger Dean ; Calder Moor ; 
 and Jump Clough. 
 
 Far to the west another stream flows free, &c. 
 
 This stream commences between Todmorden and Burnley ; 
 the district through which it runs is very romantic. A little 
 way up this beautiful pass, on tin- right hand side of the road 
 to Burnley, is a rock called the Eagle's Crag, famed for its 
 traditionary lore.— See Roby's Traditions of Lancashire.
 
 NOTES. 133 
 
 Page 4. 
 
 Old England's sons by Norman lords were slain, 
 And Harold left unknown upon the plain. 
 
 This alludes to the battle of Hastings, which took place 
 October 13th, 1066, between Harold the British King, and 
 William, son of the Duke of Normandy, and continued from 
 seven o'clock in the morning until near nightfall. Harold was 
 urging on his followers, sword in hand, when an arrow from 
 the long bow of a Norman penetrated his brain and laid him 
 lifeless on the plain. — English History. 
 
 A distant hill fair Studely Pike displays, &c. 
 
 Studely Pike was built to commemorate the peace of 1814 : 
 the building was commenced in the same year, but not com- 
 pleted until the year following ; it is 37 yards, 2 feet, 4 inches 
 high, and has two floors, besides a landing at the top which is 
 seated round, and contains a fire place. The ascent is by a 
 circular step way, consisting of 156 steps. The door way has 
 long since been walled up and some of the steps broken off. 
 It was built by subscription. — See Laws' /Panderings of a 
 IVanderer, page 154. 
 
 Page 5. 
 Here let me stand, and gaze with wondering awe, &c. 
 
 Whitaker, in his History of Leeds, (page 404) says that 
 there are two scenes in this valley, the one west of Todmorden, 
 and the other of Hebden Bridge, which are superior in gran- 
 deur to most of the Highland Glens, especially the first, which 
 strikingly resembles the far-famed Killicronkay Pass. 
 
 Hathershelf scout is in the distance seen, 
 Where a deep cave has in past ages been, &c. 
 
 Whitaker, in his History of Leeds, (page 393) says that in 
 the year 1778 or 9, a man was going through Hathershelf 
 
 N
 
 134 NOTES. 
 
 Scout, attended by a dog, when it suddenly rushed in at a hole 
 in the rocks ; the man thought it was going to unkennel a fox, 
 but after waiting awhile, and no fox making its appearance, he 
 ventured into the cave, but was soon stopped by a man putting 
 a loaded pistol to his breast ; he then returned and made the 
 alarm, and the robber was soon captured, and the cave searched ; 
 a large quantity of stolen goods of various descriptions were 
 found, and amongst the rest two surplices, which had been 
 stolen from Rochdale Church not long before : he was taken 
 and transported for life. The cave has long since disappeared, 
 the rocks having been cut up for building purposes. 
 
 Page 6. 
 Where a fair stream comes gurgling from its bed, &c. 
 
 This brook rises amidst a bed of rushes on the borders of 
 Haworth Parish. 
 
 The Romans once have through this valley stray'd, 
 And on the hills their valiant warriors laid, &c. 
 
 Evidences of Roman occupation are very numerous in the 
 Parish of Halifax ; these consist of camps and military and vici- 
 nal ways, &c. The hills in the neighbourhood of Luddenden 
 still retain traces of Military occupation, and are crossed by 
 Roman roads, in one direction from Ilkley to Manchester, and 
 in another from Stiperden Cross, eastward by Camp End, in 
 Warley. The ancient appellation of this village, (Warlcester) 
 in a great measure, proves it to have been occupied by the 
 Romans. 
 
 Time's biting blasts have turn'd yon mountains grey, 
 Since the arch Druid on their heights did pray. 
 
 Amongst the numerous relics of Druidical Worship which 
 unquestionably remain on the uncultivated wilds of the Paris!
 
 NOTES. 135 
 
 of Halifax, there is not one, perhaps, more striking in its 
 general character than the pile of rocks on Saltonstall Moor, 
 known by the name of the " Rocking Stone." 
 
 This singular remain (though of natural formation) has 
 evidently been made available for Druidical Worship by the 
 operations of art. The large block which has given the name of 
 " Rocking Stone" to the whole mass, lies thrown from its balance 
 near its original base ; but tradition still preserves the memory 
 of its ancient position and moving capabilities. Another portion 
 of the remain presents the appearance of a Tolmen, having an 
 opening large enough for a man to pass through, and the table 
 rock above it is covered with numerous basons of large size 
 and singular formation. The whole mass of rocks presents 
 *.he appearance of having been overthrown by great violence.
 
 LIST 
 
 OF 
 
 SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 
 coriES. 
 
 Akroyd, Jonathan Esq., JFood Side 2 
 
 Aked, Miss, Kershaw House 2 
 
 Alderson, Mr. Jonas, Booth 1 
 
 Ambler, Mr. John, Peel House 1 
 
 Ambler, Mr. Timothy 1 
 
 Ambler, Miss, Ovenden 1 
 
 Ancient Foresters, Luddenden 4 
 
 Baldwin, Rev. William, Mytholmroyd 1 
 
 Bairstow, Mr. John, Halifax 1 
 
 Barrett, Mr. Richard, Luddenden Foot 1 
 
 Bancroft, Mr. James, Halifax 1 
 
 Bedford, Miss Hannah, Dean Mill 1 
 
 Beverton, Mr. William, Hand Carr I 
 
 Blagbrough, Mr. William, Boy Scarr 1 
 
 Bischoff, George, Esq., Leeds 4 
 
 Bowring, Dr. M. P., 2 
 
 Broadbent, Mr. Ely, Boy Mill .■ 1 
 
 Coates, Mr., Surgeon, Rochdale 2 
 
 Cockroft, Mr. A, Ovenden 1 
 
 Cockroft, Mr. J, Booth Cottage 1
 
 138 LIST OK SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Crowther, Mr. Abraham, Mythobnroyd 
 
 Crowther, Mr. William. Bay Mill 
 
 Dearden, Mr. William, Hollins 
 
 Dyson. Mr. Ely, Boy Scarr 
 
 Eastwood, Mr. James, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Ferrand, W. B., Esq., Harding Grange 2 
 
 Fielding, Mr., Surgeon, Luddenden 
 
 Fox, George Lane, Esq., Bramham Park 
 
 Gaskell, Daniel, Esq., Lnpset Hall 
 
 Gaukroger Mr. A, Holme House 
 
 Green, Mrs. Eliza Craven, Leeds 
 
 Greenwood, Mr., Waterside 
 
 Greenwood, Mr. Thomas, Carr House 
 
 Greenwood, Mr. James, Luddenden 
 
 Greenwood, Mr. Thomas, Mytholmroyd 
 
 G run well, Mr. William, Queen's Head 
 
 1 1 artley, Mr. John 
 
 Hellawell, Miss Mary, Blackwood 
 
 Hey, Mr. Henry, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Hodson, Mr. Jonathan, Boy Mill 
 
 Holroyde, Mr. James, do. 
 
 Hollas, Mr. David, Boulder Clough 
 
 Howarth, Mr. William, Pellon 
 
 Jordan, Mr., Surgeon, Ovenden 
 
 Jackson, Mr. Thomas, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Library, Luddenden 
 
 Library, Sowerby 
 
 Magson, Mr. Jonathan, Luddenden 
 
 Mellin, Mr. G 
 
 Mellin, Mr. J ohn, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Midgley, Mr. Ambrose, Boy Mill 
 
 Midgley, Mr. Itobert, Booth 
 
 Milne, Thomas, Esq., fParley House 
 
 Milne, Charles, Esq., Cliffc Hill 
 
 Milne, Samuel, Esq., Gordon Bank 
 
 Mitchell, Mr. John, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Mitchell, Mr. James, fVintcrncb
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 139 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 Mitchell, Mr. James, Blackwood Hall 1 
 
 Montgomery, James, Esq., Sheffield 2 
 
 Morpeth, Lord Viscount, M. P., 4 
 
 Morley, Mrs., Water Side 
 
 Murgatroyd, Miss Hannah, Elland 
 
 Murgatroyd, Mr. J., Luddenden Foot 
 
 Murgatroyd, Mr. W". Friendly 
 
 Naylor, Mr. W., Burnley 
 
 Naylor, Mr. B., Dean Mill ; 
 
 Nelson, Rev. James, Incumbent of Luddenden 
 
 Nelson, George, Esq 
 
 Nelson, Mrs 
 
 Nicholson, Mrs., Bradford 
 
 Nicholl, Miss, lve House - 
 
 Nicholl, Miss, Grey Stones 
 
 Ogden, Mr. Thomas, Hollins Lodge 
 
 Ogden, Mr. John, do. 
 
 Oldfield, Mr. Thomas, Stock Lane 
 
 Patchett, Mr. W., Luddenden 
 
 Piatt, Mr. Philip, Ripponden 
 
 Ratcliffe, Mr. S 
 
 Redman, Mr. George, Luddenden 
 
 Robertshaw, Mr. J., Peel House Lodge 
 
 Rogerson, T. Boulton, Esq., Manchester 
 
 Rothwell, Mr. Thomas, Holme House 
 
 Rowbottom, Mr. John, Luddenden 
 
 Scott, Mr. John, Boy Scarr 
 
 Sharp, Mr. Abraham, Denholme 
 
 Shepherd, H. Esq., Lynn, Norfolk - 
 
 Siddal, Mr. Thomas, Myfholmroyd 
 
 Skelton, Mr. T., Ovenden 
 
 Smith, Mr. F., Miller Place 
 
 Smith, Miss, Luddenden 
 
 Spencer, Mr. G., Halifax 
 
 Stott, Mr. Samuel, Luddenden 
 
 Sutcliffe, Mr., Surgeon, White Lee S 
 
 Sutcliffe, Mr. Edwin, Newlunds 1
 
 140 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Sutcliffe, Mr. Thomas, fittddenden Foot . . . 
 
 Sutcliffe, Miss Ellen, do. 
 
 Sutcliffe, Mr. W., Haug/i House 
 
 Sutclift'e, Mr. Henry, Boulder Clough 
 
 Sykes, Mrs. II., Halifax 
 
 Tattersall, Miss Sarah, Mare Hill 
 
 Tattersall, Miss Ellen, do. 
 
 Teal, Mr. Jonathan, Boy Scarr 
 
 Titterington, Mr. James, High Lees 
 
 Townsend, Mr. John, Dean Mill 
 
 Turner, Mrs., Illingworth 
 
 Turner, Mr. Jonas, fVarley Town 
 
 Wadsworth, Mr. William, Blackwood Hall. 
 
 Wadsworth, Mr. John, Luddenden Foot 
 
 Wainhouse, Mr. Edward, New House 
 
 Wainhouse, Mr. John, do. 
 
 Wainhouse, Mr. Robert, Apple House 
 
 Wainhouse, Mr. Samuel, Halifax 
 
 Watson, Mr. James, Halifax 
 
 Westerman, Mr. J 
 
 Wilson, Mr, H., Halifax 
 
 Wilcock, Mr. John, Ovenden 
 
 Wilcock, Mr. George, Halifax 
 
 Wordsworth, William, Esq., Ambleside ... 
 Worthiugton, Mr. T., Luddenden Foot ... 
 Wright, Miss, do. 
 
 %• The Author begs to apologize to those Subscribers 
 whose names' do not appear in the List, as the whole of the 
 Subscription Lists have not yet come to hand. 
 
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