O^bEJ^CAF^
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 ENDOWMENT FUND
 
 //^/. 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON.
 
 1
 
 THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OK 
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON 
 
 (THE AIREDALE POET) ; 
 
 CAREFULLY EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONAL NOTES, 
 
 AND A 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 W. G. H I R D, 
 
 I "SCRIPTURE NAMES and THEIR relation TO ANCIENT hi 
 
 LON DON: 
 
 S I M P K I N, M \ 1< S II A I, I,. & C O. 
 BRADFORD: THOMAS BREAR. 
 
 i S 7 6.
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 PRINTED EY M'FARLANE AND ERSKINE, 
 
 ST JAMES SQUARE.
 
 PR 
 57/ O 
 
 TO 
 
 $ir Situs $ali r SarL, 
 
 CROW NEST, NEAR HALIFAX, THE FOUNDER OF SALTAIRE, 
 ALSO A FORMER BENEFACTOR OF 
 
 THE AIREDALE POET, 
 
 AND THE GENEROUS FRIEND AND SUPPORTER OF EVERY 
 
 BENEVOLENT AND EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTION IN TH1 
 
 lo\VN AND NEIGHBOURHOOD OF BRADFORD, 
 
 THIS EDITION OF 
 
 TJirfjoIsoif s J?oqms 
 
 I [NS< IMBED, AS A TRIBUTE OF THE HIGHEST ADMIRATION 
 
 AND RESPECT, 
 
 BY THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 FORD, July i ' J 
 
 76571
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 !M 
 
 ^ 
 
 •■< 
 
 ' 
 
 u 
 
 ILtv 
 
 HE Poems of John Nicholson having been 
 some time out of print, and therefore both 
 scarce and costly, the Publisher after consult- 
 ing the Poet's sons, resolved upon bringing out a more 
 complete edition than had hitherto appeared, including 
 many of the separate pieces issued between 1821 and 
 1839.* Some of these are now rarely met with, but 
 being upon a variety of topics, of local and national im- 
 portance, deserve a place in any edition of his works. 
 The Editor felt some reluctance to undertake the 
 responsibility of collecting and revising the Poems for 
 the press, when first asked by the Publisher, but on 
 being informed that it was intended that the present 
 edition should be in every respect more complete and 
 better got up than its predecessors, lie cheerfully 
 
 * The present is the only edition issued under the sanction 
 and with the approval <>f the Poet's family.
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 undertook the task, and has endeavoured to make 
 the volume worthy of the Poet's well-earned reputa- 
 tion. The steel plate for the portrait has been 
 retouched expressly for this edition, by the original 
 engraver, William Overend Geller, Esq., now more 
 than seventy years of age, an " old Bradfordian," 
 and for many years a most intimate and steadfast 
 friend of Nicholson. The photographic illustrations 
 by Mr Albert Sachs, are exquisitely beautiful, and 
 being permanent, vastly superior to ordinary photo- 
 graphs. The sites have been happily chosen, and by 
 careful manipulation, the leading features and the 
 minutest details have been artistically brought out. 
 
 The chief topics of the long Poems in the first and 
 second volumes published in 1825 and 1827, have 
 been familiar to the Editor many years, and in fact 
 closely interwoven with some of his own earliest 
 recollections of the history of his native valley. 
 " Airedale " was from the first, and is still, his favourite, 
 on account of the glowing pictures of natural scenery 
 which it contains, and the vivid descriptions of 
 past events. He would particularly mention the life- 
 like picture of Druidical worship, and the joyous 
 return from the altar. It would be difficult to find a 
 more beautiful and faithful transcript of primitive 
 times, than is embodied in these few lines, as the 
 happy results of having obtained through the sacrifice 
 the favour of the Deity, and the reconciliation of
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 friends. The deep religious fervour which pervaded 
 the service at Kirkstall Abbey during the ministra- 
 tion of Turgesius, is touchingly real and character- 
 istic of true devotion. It is at once an appeal to 
 the heart's noblest sympathies, and the soul's highest 
 aspirations. 
 
 The present edition is not a mere reprint of the 
 fourth, or last, in which strange liberties were taken 
 in making alterations as improvements, but has been 
 compared with it throughout. All the Poems, long 
 and short, published during the Author's life have 
 been printed from the original editions, and every 
 line given in the form in which it first appeared, 
 except where some really necessary correction had 
 been introduced, or some faulty irregular verse 
 required altering and pruning. But even this has 
 been sparingly done, and no alterations made merely 
 for their own sake. In many cases, changing some of 
 his homely words and phrases would have been 
 like refining the dialect of Burns, by the substitu- 
 tion of more elegant English, and would have im- 
 paired the force of his earnest, manly verse. It may 
 appear somewhat invidious to contrast the present 
 with the third and fourth editions, but in simple 
 justice to the Publisher, the Editor perceives no 
 alternative. The third, published shortly after the 
 Poet's untimely death, for the benefit of the widow 
 and family, was exceedingly meagre, and only claims.
 
 x PREFACE. 
 
 in the original prospectus, to be a reprint of his best 
 productions. Hence, a great deal of deeply inter- 
 esting matters, contained in the longer Poems, and 
 several choice Lyrics, were entirely omitted. Amongst 
 the former we find " The Lyre of Ebor," the longest 
 of Nicholson's Poems, containing one thousand six 
 hundred and ten lines. It is slightly inferior in 
 composition and finish to " Airedale," and somewhat 
 fragmentary, but contains numerous passages of great 
 beauty, tenderness, and true poetic fervour. It also 
 abounds with historic interest as a record of nearly 
 all the great battles fought in Yorkshire, besides an 
 account of some of those exciting hunts formerly so 
 common in this part of the country. This Poem was 
 inserted in the fourth edition, except forty-two lines 
 referring to the Greek struggle for independence. 
 For some unaccountable reason these were left out, 
 unless it may be supposed that they were then 
 thought unnecessary, as the Greeks had long before 
 achieved their freedom. But this seems, as a reason, 
 too far-fetched, and entitled to very little considera- 
 tion. And if a similar mode of reasoning and 
 excision had been followed by the editor of Byron, 
 one of the sweetest and noblest lyrics in the lan- 
 guage, "The Isles of Greece," would ere now have 
 been almost forgotten ; and " The Bard," by Gray, 
 would have long since passed into oblivion. The 
 lists of the dependants and followers of the noble
 
 PREFACE. xi 
 
 Clifford, from the towns and villages around Bolton, 
 against the northern invaders, who several times 
 wasted and plundered the district of Craven, is an 
 invaluable record, showing the part taken by the 
 ancestors of many persons still resident in the same 
 places in defence of their homes and property. 
 These important lists, which appear to have been 
 omitted for the sake of brevity, have been carefully 
 printed and compared with the original edition, 
 published in 1827. The ballad of " Elwood and 
 Llvina," left out of the two previous editions, has 
 been again restored to its rightful place in Nicholson's 
 Poems. A few redundant words have been struck 
 out so as to bring the verses to the proper length, 
 and an occasional word changed to improve the 
 sense or rhythm ; and the Editor regards it as a 
 poem of considerable merit, although the Author 
 modestly says it was "written a few verses at various 
 distant intervals," and " never pleased himself," and 
 was only printed "in compliance with the wishes of 
 his friends." Perhaps its greatest faults are. its length, 
 and the use of purely Saxon names for the hero and 
 heroine, in the time of the wars of the Houses of 
 York and Lancaster. A similar objection applies 
 to the Latin and Greek names of the persons men- 
 tioned in "The Poacher." but here concealment 
 was impossible ; the individuals and their daring 
 exploits in the neighbourhood were too well known;
 
 xii PREFACE. 
 
 they were reckless and not easily entrapped ; in 
 short, they had become notorious by frequent fines. 
 The Rev. J. P. Chown, in February 1859, gave a 
 series of " Readings from the Bradford Poets," in 
 the Temperance Hall, interspersed with some genial 
 appreciative remarks of his own, and has admirably 
 indicated the chief characteristics of Nicholson's 
 poetry; — first, how, almost more than any other, "his 
 subjects are of local interest ;" second, his frank and 
 fearless "Yorkshi?-e utterances ; " and lastly, "his witty 
 impromptus and naturalness." But it may be added 
 that Nicholson's mind was not wholly occupied with 
 local matters. He was of that ardent temperament 
 which made it impossible for him to be an indifferent 
 spectator of current events, during the exciting period 
 which preceded the Catholic Emancipation Act ; and 
 like many others in all ranks, he regarded this tardy 
 act of justice with gloomy apprehension, and as a 
 fatal blow to England's greatness. The conduct of 
 the Earl of Eldon, in opposing the measure, filled 
 him with the highest admiration, and under the 
 influence of strong convictions of the anticipated 
 evils of the measure, he wrote and dedicated to the 
 noble earl, in 1829, the lines entitled " England's 
 Lament for the Loss of her Constitution." The 
 trade panic in 1825-26 caused great destitution and 
 misery amongst the working classes, and ultimately 
 led to political discontent to such an alarming extent
 
 PREFACE. xiii 
 
 as to force upon the Government the necessity of the 
 Reform Bill. This was soon followed by the rise of 
 Chartism and Socialism, which roused Nicholson's 
 soul and elicited the Poem on " Owen's New Moral 
 World," in 1839. This was his last great effort, as 
 he had published the Poem on " Low Moor Iron 
 Works" in 1829, and "Lines on the Present 
 Distress of the Country" in 1830, in a pamphlet 
 of 16 pp. j and in 1832, " The Factory Child's 
 Mother," 24 pp., published by Edward Baines and 
 Son, Leeds. The " Lines on the Present Distress of 
 the Country," and " The Factory Child's Mother," 
 are left out as greatly inferior in spirit and diction 
 to Nicholson's other Poems. The former is an 
 outburst of sorrow, in which the Poet gave utterance 
 to his own pent up feelings, under great family 
 privation ; and the latter would now expose him 
 to a similar charge to Dryden's against Elkanah 
 Settle : 
 
 " Who faggoted his notions as they fell, 
 And if they rhymed and rattled, all was well." 
 
 Besides this, the latter is of a personal character 
 throughout, is almost forgotten, and possesses little 
 that would interest the public generally. Whilst 
 everything lias been done to include all his Poems, 
 
 whether long or short, worthy of being preserved, it 
 was felt that the republication of the last-named two
 
 xiv PREFACE. 
 
 pieces would be derogatory, and by no means a 
 fair test of what Nicholson would have written under 
 more favourable circumstances. And it is only right 
 to state that he was singularly free from political 
 partisanship, considering the times in which he lived. 
 He shows, indeed, in several places, his decided 
 preference for the Established Church, and indulges 
 in an occasional fling at the Sects, so various that 
 they " teach a thousand different ways ; " yet it must 
 be allowed that he exhibited little bigotry. Amidst 
 all his failings, religion, home, and freedom, were 
 his favourite themes in his happiest hours ; and the 
 strictures on Ovvenism are a vigorous protest against 
 the evils of the system. The author disclaims all 
 pretensions to logic in his prefatory remarks, but 
 makes a powerful appeal to reason and common 
 sense, in favour of religion and virtue. And the 
 Poem is more a piece of earnest declamation and 
 invective, than a logical exposure of the immorality and 
 wickedness of a system which openly advocated acts 
 of unbridled passion and vicious indulgence. 
 
 In conclusion, the Editor gladly records his 
 obligations to the Poet's sons, Thomas, Joseph, and 
 George Nicholson, William O. Geller, Esq., Professor 
 C. A. Federer, and Mr William Maw, for the use of 
 some of the Poems, published separately, and now 
 for the first time inserted in any collection of Nichol- 
 son's Poems. The subject of Low Moor Iron
 
 PREFACE. xv 
 
 Works is not a very poetical theme, but has been 
 made the most of, as a descriptive Poem, and 
 possesses considerable local interest. The additional 
 notes at the end of the volume are only intended to 
 supply fuller information on a few particular subjects, 
 and some necessary corrections of matters of history ; 
 and have been inserted in square brackets. The 
 rest are Nicholson's own, and are worthy of an 
 attentive perusal. The Editor has freely, but he 
 hopes candidly, criticised a few of Nicholson's 
 opinions, but in every instance given his reasons. 
 Further, he was not required or expected to give an 
 unqualified approval or disapproval of each Poem, 
 but to give them as nearly as possible in the form 
 in which they were originally published; the only 
 exception being the " Lines on a Young Lady 
 drowned in the Strid," which were utterly unfit for 
 republication without considerable alteration. The 
 sad accident, although fifty-four years ago, is duly 
 chronicled in the neighbourhood, and their insertion 
 may serve as a warning to others of the danger of too 
 near a sight of the wild rush of the Wharf, in this 
 pari of its narrow rock-bound channel. "The Siege 
 ol Bradford," published in 1821, was greatly improved 
 in the second edition, issued ten years afterwards. 
 Two of Cromwell's letters, written just after the battle 
 of Marston Moor, are quoted by the Poel in full, and 
 termed hypocritical. Without attempting any elaborate
 
 xvi PREFACE. 
 
 argument in defence of either the matter or style, a 
 very different construction has been put upon them 
 in the concluding note, where they are regarded as a 
 fair type of the views and sentiments of some of the 
 best men amongst the Parliamentary generals, and 
 were well suited to the times. The momentous issues 
 of civil and religious liberty were at stake. On the 
 king's side were ranged the dashing cavaliers, many 
 of whom were thoroughly imbued with the notion of 
 the " Divine Right" of their royal master; on the side 
 of the Parliament were leaders filled with the purest 
 patriotism, fired with stern religious enthusiasm, and 
 possessing the indomitable energy and perseverance 
 requisite for the emergency. All the alterations have 
 been given at the foot of each page, or denoted by 
 square brackets where incorporated. 
 
 W. G. HIRD. 
 
 40 CORDINGLEY STREET, BRADFORD. 
 July 1876.
 
 CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I.i i i. of John Nicholson, xxv 
 
 Airedale in Ancient Times i 
 
 Though greatest bards have sung most earthly tilings. 
 
 The Lyre of Ebor, 26 
 
 Let Northern poets sing of Highland glens. 
 
 The Poacher 9° 
 
 This subject wants no Muse the breast l' inspire. 
 
 I.I W \\l> I .1 \ I\ \ 112 
 
 When York and 1 
 
 Genii \m> [ntempi rai 1 ;i 
 
 I ■ .'.ih and 1 1 he. 
 
 Till I >RUNK \.KD'S Rl I RIBU II"-. 
 
 When- is the ink so sable in its hue? 
 
 I'm F u 1 "i Bi 1 H VZZAF 169 
 
 Tli 1 Israel's God,— " Earth's inhabitants tell." 
 
 b
 
 xviii CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. 
 LYRICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Airedale's Beauties, 173 
 
 Poets in varied verse may sing. 
 
 Bingley's Beauties, 176 
 
 Thy beauties, Bingley ! never have been sung. 
 
 Fairy Song, 178 
 
 Let us trip in airy dances. 
 
 January, 179 
 
 Now bleak winter on the mountains. 
 
 Evening in April, 181 
 
 Welcome with thy monotone. 
 
 May-Day, 182 
 
 See the nymphs in May-day dresses. 
 
 Morning in May, 183 
 
 The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is uprearing. 
 
 Mary of Marley, 185 
 
 At Marley stood the rural cot. 
 
 The Maid of Lowdore, 188 
 
 The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary. 
 
 On an Old Oak-Tree, near Bradford, . . .190 
 Behold the place, ye youths and virgins, see. 
 
 On Visiting a Workhouse 192 
 
 Allowed to walk into the sad retreat. 
 
 The Malt-Kiln Fire, 194 
 
 When friends who loved from infant years. 
 
 The Snowdrop, 196 
 
 Pretty little modest gem.
 
 CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. xix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Place of Rural Retirement, . . . 197 
 
 Hail, thou sequestered rural scat. 
 
 The Vale of Ilkley, 199 
 
 Why does not some great bard, whose potent mind? 
 
 The Hunters' Dirg] 206 
 
 Ye woods, in Rishworth's verdant vale. 
 
 Female Constancy, 208 
 
 Stars through rolling centuries shine. 
 
 The Faithful Wifi 209 
 
 From times of ancient Greece, the fair. 
 
 Song [The Lament for Elvina], .... 210 
 
 The birks may wave, the heath may bloom. 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Al AS ! WHER] \v.\ I HEY ? 211 
 
 Soft ! behold in the shade the dark abbey appearing. 
 
 Consecration of Si Paul's Church, Shipley, . 213 
 1 [ow can a sinner dare to sing the praise ? 
 
 TheNewChurch \i Wilsden ~'' ; 
 
 What temples, various, since old Time began. 
 
 Ki 1 URN "i 1 111 SW \i 1 OW 
 
 Swift-winged and pleasing harbinger i>t spring. 
 
 \ G en's Balloon 
 
 I'., hold tli ' assembled myriads near. 
 
 Man's Littli Lifi 's a Life of Ca 
 
 I'll sing no more of cheerful things.
 
 xx CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Night Scene, 231 
 
 While others love the concert, mask, or ball. 
 
 Psalm xviii., 232 
 
 When in the temple of his God. 
 
 Psalm cxiv., 234 
 
 When from proud Egypt's cruel land. 
 
 Psalm cxlviil, 235 
 
 Praise ye the Lord ! let songs of praise. 
 
 Solemn Reflections, 239 
 
 My life wastes away, o'erburden'd with care. 
 
 LOVE POETRY. 
 
 The Absent Lover, 241 
 
 In vain the youths and rosy maids. 
 
 The Dying Lover, 243 
 
 Ah ! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine. 
 
 Love on the Heath, 244 
 
 On the heath-vestur'd hills, where I courted my Sally. 
 
 On Love, 245 
 
 The love how true — the love how sweet. 
 
 Love sans Reason, 246 
 
 Wild's the night, my love, my Mary. 
 
 I will love thee, Mary, 248 
 
 While the larks mount up in spring. 
 
 Mary, I will think of You, 249 
 
 When upon the heather bloom.
 
 CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. xxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ode to Laura, 250 
 
 Softly sighing will I mourn. 
 
 True Affection, 251 
 
 The face of Henry faded fast. 
 
 The Deserted Maid, 254 
 
 To some gloomy cave will I wander away. 
 
 A Cai.m Summer's Night, 255 
 
 The night is calm, the cygnet's down. 
 
 A Fragment (Dialogue on Love), .... 256 
 Banish the wealthless virgin from thy thoughts. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 
 
 Commerce of Bradford, 258 
 
 1 [ail, glorious Commerce ! goddess of our isle. 
 
 Low Moor Iron Works, 265 
 
 Ye that have trembled with the nerves unstrung. 
 
 AiTi u. of the Spanish Rei 27;, 
 
 The brave band of Mina's no more. 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Lord 1 . . . 274 
 
 The greatest bard i^ fall'n that ever str 
 
 Tin. Birthday of Burns (Commi mor vtion a i Li ins), 276 
 
 I :arning has many a rhymer made. 
 
 On the Death of the Poet's Child in London, . 1-- 
 
 \ sol nin scene was hei 
 
 On ki 11 1 mm. 1 ri im London 
 
 II iw oft the glorious morning broke.
 
 xxii CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wakening of the Poet's Harp, .... 280 
 
 With harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along. 
 
 From a Mother to her Daughter in London, . 281 
 How thoughtful oft I sit alone. 
 
 Lines written in Sickness, 283 
 
 Lovely darlings ! can you dry ? 
 
 Impromptu, 2S4 
 
 Did my estates extend for miles around. 
 
 Impromptu (Epitaph on a Landlord), . . . 285 
 Beneath this stone lies Harry Rinder. 
 
 To a Friend, 286 
 
 Whei-e's my harp, my soul to cheer? 
 
 On " Long Tom " at Bramham Park, . . . 287 
 
 O great Long Tom ! when thou with foam art crown'd. 
 
 At Tong Hall, ........ 289 
 
 All the joys of months and years. 
 
 On the Death of Lady Rickitts, .... 290 
 
 Well may the tears of overwhelming woe. 
 
 On the Death of a Young Lady, .... 291 
 Weep, all ye birds ! ye bowers ! 
 
 The Muse, 292 
 
 What means it though the poet's cot ? 
 
 Melpomene, 293 
 
 The Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd. 
 
 Dirge, 295 
 
 Blest may my children be.
 
 CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES, xxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song for a Wounded Seaman, 297 
 
 With my limbs in the deep. 
 
 Tnii Storm, 2 9 8 
 
 When gentle breezes kiss the tide. 
 
 Musical Festival \i York— 
 
 The Oratorio, 3°° 
 
 us of Music ! whom, as poets say. 
 
 The Concert, 3°S 
 
 The beams of day retire o'er western hills. 
 
 The Ball, 3 IQ 
 
 The Ball Room emulates the light of day. 
 
 Sports of the Field, 3 J 5 
 
 When oaks are brown, and birches bare. 
 
 England's Lament for the Loss of her Constitu- 
 tion, 3 I( > 
 
 Let verse in wild harmonious numbers flow. 
 
 on Owen's Proposed New Moral World, 327 
 
 To combat error in each varied form. 
 
 On mi Death of Thomas Cooper, Esq., Bingley, . 337 
 
 I [ow bootless are our tears, though ev'ry drop. 
 
 On a Young Lady drowned in the Strid, . . 34° 
 The lovely group adorn'd with ev'ry grai 
 
 'I'm Pol r'sSlCKBED 
 
 11./. lii the world to him in pain. 
 
 The Bibi e (An ] 
 
 '1 the various volumes in the land. 
 
 A PR w 1 1: 345 
 
 1 ) Thou, whose n.une with trembling angels u
 
 xxiv CONTENTS AND FIRST LINES. 
 
 To the Critics, 
 
 Sat down by my wee rusted lyre. 
 
 The Siege of Bradford in 1642, 
 
 The terms we offer'd are rejected. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 346 
 348 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Airedale in Ancient Times, 
 
 Lyre of Ebor, .... 
 
 The Poacher, .... 
 
 Genius and Intemperance, ' 
 
 On an Old Oak-Tree, 
 
 On " Long Tom " at Bramham Park, 
 
 England's Lament, 
 
 Owen's New Moral World, 
 
 On a Young Lady Drowned in the 
 
 The Bible, 
 
 The Siege of Bradford, 
 
 Strid 
 
 385 
 396 
 414 
 416 
 416 
 
 4i7 
 418 
 419 
 419 
 420 
 420 
 
 Index to First Lines, 
 
 429 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Gordale Scar, 1 
 
 Malham Cove, 3 
 
 Druids' Altar near Bingley, 10 
 
 Kirkstall Abbey, 23 
 
 Bolton Abbey, 55 
 
 Waterfall at Goit Stock, 197
 
 LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN NICHOLSON. 
 
 ' 
 
 plfTTlI I •'- Author of the following Poems was the 
 eldest son of Mr Thomas Nicholson of 
 Weardley, in the parish of Harewood, and 
 was born November 29th, 1790; but when a few weeks 
 old his father removed to Eldwick, near Bingley, where 
 the future Poet was brought up and received his early 
 education. The < ontrast between the father and son's 
 character and conduit, throughout their respective 
 lives, is singularly striking : the firmer was remarkable 
 for his steady, persevering, and industrious habits, 
 and with some slight assistance from his wile's father, 
 commenced business as a v. manufacturer, at 
 
 tained the position ofa respectable tradesman, brought
 
 xxvi NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 up a large family, and provided for a comfortable old 
 age ; whereas the latter seems to have been — if we 
 except his fondness for reading — the very opposite, 
 and utterly incapable of that patient plodding, and 
 close attention to business, so essentially necessary 
 in all the ordinary affairs of life. Thomas Nicholson's 
 fine example of a calm, dignified, and well-regulated 
 life, appears to have had little effect in moulding the 
 character and habits of his gifted, but wayward and 
 irresolute son, save in keeping him from the lower 
 forms of vice. The father was a man of sterling 
 character, possessed of a fair amount of intellectual 
 culture, fond of the poetry of the last century, and 
 who had committed to memory in his own boyhood, 
 a large portion of many standard religious poems. 
 Living on the edge of a wild moor, where there was 
 little to interest and instruct his rising family in winter, 
 he was in the habit of reading to them around his own 
 fireside, choice extracts from Shakespeare, Milton, 
 Young, and Pope, enthusiastically pointing out their 
 beauties, and endeavouring to imbue his offspring 
 with a love of noble and exalted sentiments. This 
 training was just the course to kindle the latent sparks 
 of genius, and rouse the poetic faculties of the eldest 
 son. And at the age of eight years, he displayed 
 some rhyming ability in satirising two notorious scolds, 
 who were a pest to his maternal grandfather, by writing 
 on his barn door :
 
 AND POEMS. xxvii 
 
 " Good God of Truth, take Mat and Ruth 
 Unto Thy heav'nly throne ; 
 Then good old Frank may live in crank, 
 And be disturb'd by none." 
 
 And here it may be added, that other two sons, Thomas 
 and Richard, although late in life, have shown true 
 poetic feeling and spirit in several short pieces written 
 at various times. The following, entitled " My Boy- 
 hood's Days," is by the former : 
 
 " Fond memory often takes me back 
 
 To scenes of youthful joy and mirth ; 
 And I again pursue the track 
 
 I never more may walk on earth. 
 
 " I see the primrose in its nook, 
 
 The foxglove nodding to the breeze, 
 The leaping, laughing, merry brook, 
 Glancing amid the greenwood trees. 
 
 " Again beneath the rocks I lie 
 
 1 l.ilf hid with rubied bilberry bloom, 
 List'ning the wild bird's melody, 
 >oit warbled from the yellow broom. 
 
 "Or search the tangled thicket throu 
 To find the throstle's plaster'd u< 
 Or paper'd lion .1 the bough 
 
 1 [anging like a balloon at 1. 
 
 " Below .1 hillork's mossy en 
 
 iath a bush of blossom'd doe, 
 1 found .1 yellow youldrin 
 
 With speckled eggs in doul le
 
 xxviii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 " Next morn I went with cautious tread, 
 My heart the only thing that stirr'd ; 
 I took my cap from off my head, 
 
 And thought to catch the brooding bird. 
 
 " Beneath the selfsame blooming thorn 
 A hare had made her cozy bed, 
 Sat listening to the sounds of morn, 
 Her ears laid squat behind her head. 
 
 " With sudden spring, upon the bird 
 I plac'd my cap for aught I knew ; 
 My very hair with terror stirr'd 
 
 When from my grasp at once it flew ! 
 
 " The 'ffrighted hare, from her soft bed 
 Started away — she seem'd to fly, 
 Bearing my cap upon her head, 
 
 For she was capp'd,* and so was I ! 
 
 " My native hills, and moorlands wild ! 
 I oft revisit you with joy, 
 For carking care is there beguiled 
 With dreaming I am still a boy." 
 
 But to return : John Nicholson's first rudiments of 
 education were taught by his father whilst engaged in 
 wool-sorting; and afterwards he attended, a few years, 
 a school on the southern slope of the moor, which 
 stretches sixteen miles eastward from Skipton, and 
 divides Airedale from Wharfdale. The school was 
 used in the season as a shooting-house, but the 
 humble schoolmaster (a person named Briggs) for 
 want of scholars had to eke out a living by making 
 
 * A local word meaning "astonished."
 
 AND POEMS. xxix 
 
 besoms, and selling them on the Saturday holidays. 
 During the summer he led forth his little band of 
 scholars to pull the ling for his besoms, whilst he 
 taught them their lessons. He is said to have been 
 a man of some attainments, and had the happy art of 
 easily communicating instruction to his pupils. Under 
 him young Nicholson made great progress. When 
 about twelve years old, he was sent to Bingley Gram- 
 mar School about a year, where he enjoyed the able 
 tuition of Dr Hartley, and although full of frolic, by 
 good conduct and attention to his studies, he won 
 the master's favour and friendship in after-life. Dr 
 Hartley also kindly revised " Airedale," etc., and 
 assisted him on various occasions. 
 
 On leaving school, Nicholson's father put him to 
 wool-sorting as a preliminary step to worsted manu- 
 facturing, for which he intended him. But being of 
 an unsettled mind, reading and poetry were allowed 
 to interfere with his pursuit of business, and instead of 
 becoming a manufacturer, lie had to follow the occupa- 
 tion of a sorter, or wool-comber, to the end of his life. 
 II s schooling at Bingley had opined out to him a 
 world of thought, and created an intense love for 
 learning j and, accordingly, for several . he read 
 
 nearly all our best English winks. but there 
 a want of method in his intellectual pursuits ; he 
 followed no particular branch of study, likely to be of 
 service in fitting him for a better position in society.
 
 xxx NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 However, by indomitable perseverance, he acquired a 
 vast amount of information on many topics, but it was 
 comparatively of no use. Unlike the chaos described 
 by Ovid, originally " rudis indigestaque moles" after- 
 wards moulded into order and beauty by the Deity, 
 Nicholson's acquisitions remained almost unimproved, 
 and were turned to little account. His application to 
 reading at nights affected his health, and when his 
 kind mother concealed the candles, his ingenuity soon 
 contrived a lamp out of an old mustard-pot, with a 
 cotton cord twisted as a wick, and fed with olive oil 
 used in his father's business ; and he thus gratified his 
 taste and love for reading when the family were in 
 bed. And frequently on market days, when his father 
 was away from home, he would quietly steal out from 
 work, and ramble on the wild moorland, or in some 
 of the romantic dells of Eldwick, spend the rest of 
 the day with some favourite author in hand, wholly 
 absorbed in thought and the bright reveries which 
 filled his youthful mind, often careless of food and 
 worldly pleasures. Pope's translation of Homer early 
 fired his soul, and perhaps contributed largely to his 
 partiality for the battle scenes, so finely described in 
 "The Lyre of Ebor." He studied the works of 
 Shakespeare and Young, and learned by heart many 
 of the sublime passages contained in the latter. Mr 
 John James says, " There is no spot in Yorkshire 
 better fitted to bring forth and nurture poetic ideas
 
 AND POEMS. xxxi 
 
 than Eldwick with its neighbourhood, for it embraces 
 every variety of lowland and mountain scenery ; and 
 the effect of pure mountain air in invigorating the 
 intellect, and producing noble and exalted sentiments, 
 is well established." During one of his rambles, in 
 " poetic mood," Nicholson, with an old hedging bill, 
 cut his name on the face of a bold rock, in Lower 
 Eldwick, where he had frequently retired for contempla- 
 tion, and which is still called " Nicholson's Rock " 
 by the country people. When young, he was passion- 
 ately fond of music, and learned to play spiritedly on 
 the hautboy, and "has been known often to travel to 
 Leeds, a distance of sixteen miles, for the sole purpose 
 of purchasing a reed for his favourite instrument." 
 On Sunday mornings he amused himself by strolling 
 on the heath to play sacred music ; but at other times 
 his performances were of a lighter kind, and led him 
 into wild company. " To music he was indebted for 
 his fust wife. Being engaged in playing at a wedding- 
 party, he met her there, and before he was twenty 
 rs of age, or had any experience of the world, 
 married a girl of eighteen. She was die daughter of 
 Mr James Driver, of Cote, near Stockbridge." Several 
 lyrics in this volume were addressed to her; that 
 commencing, 
 
 "Wild's the night, my love, my Mary," 
 
 shows the ardour of his affection, and is a cor:
 
 xxxii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 picture of the difficulties and dangers he had to 
 encounter in visiting her during their courtship. After 
 becoming his wife, she died in childbed of twins in 
 1810, one of whom arrived at manhood, but has since 
 died. She was deeply lamented by Nicholson, who 
 became soon after sincerely pious, and joined the 
 Wesleyan community. His father, mother, and ma- 
 ternal grandfather, were zealous followers of Wesley, 
 and earnest workers for the spread ot Methodism. 
 The fervour of their devotion kindled his ; frivolity 
 and worldly pleasure were abandoned ; his hautboy 
 was buried on the moor as a token of his entire 
 dedication to a strictly religious life. His warm- 
 hearted piety and fluency of speech induced the Rev. 
 Alexander Suter, then superintendent of the Bingley 
 Circuit, to put his name on the plan as an accredited 
 local preacher, as a preliminary step towards entering 
 the ministry, or being sent out as a missionary. Full of 
 zeal, energy, and originality, his sermons abounded 
 with poetical quotations from Blair and Young, and 
 were eagerly listened to by large congregations wher- 
 ever he preached. His delivery and style were easy 
 and natural ; and eminently fitted him for a sphere of 
 great usefulness. But after a probation of a year and 
 a half, he married again in 1813, which prevented his 
 becoming an itinerant minister — the Methodist rules 
 requiring a probation of four years. And in 181 5, his 
 connection with the Wesleyans finally ceased. He
 
 AND POEMS. x.xxiii 
 
 was strongly attached to both wives, and once told 
 his brother Thomas, to whom he unfolded his inmost 
 thoughts, that he never loved, in the true sense of the 
 word, " but two, and married them both." His second 
 wife was Martha Wild of Bingley, by whom he had a 
 large family. She continued through the rest of his 
 fitful life, under all circumstances, his faithful friend, 
 "the comforter of his adversity, and the cheerer of 
 his desponding moments ;" and survived him many 
 years. The verses headed " The Faithful Wife " (p. 
 209), were addressed to her. 
 
 1 )uring our struggle with Napoleon in the Peninsula, 
 Nicholson was balloted for the West Riding Militia, 
 and was out twenty-eight days on duty at Pontefract. 
 One day whilst at drill in the market-place, a boy ran 
 playfully amongst the troops, when the colonel in a 
 il him up with great violence and severely 
 injured his head against the pavement. As soon as 
 released from drill, Nicholson sought out the boy's 
 home, found him much hurt and his parents poor. 
 He gave them all he had, and on returning to his 
 •• billet," wroti pectful but manly letter to the 
 
 colonel, statin- that his conduct had left a painful 
 impression upon the men. It is probable that 
 Nicholson had betrayed himself at the tune, either by 
 word or look, as he was suspected and quickly sent 
 for by the colonel, who sternly demanded whether or 
 not he was the writer of the letter. Nicholson frankly
 
 xxxiv NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 admitted the fact, and related the circumstance of his 
 visit to the boy's home, and the poverty of his parents. 
 This artless appeal to the colonel's humanity triumph- 
 ed over his hastiness of temper and haughtiness ; he 
 expressed his regret, complimented him for his courage, 
 gave him two guineas for the boy's parents, directed 
 a surgeon to attend upon him, and ever after proved 
 himself one of Nicholson's best friends. 
 
 At the time of his second marriage, the Poet was liv- 
 ing at Eldwick, and was employed in his father's ware- 
 house about three years. In 1818, he went to live at 
 Red Beck, and worked at Shipley Fields mill, where 
 he wrote some satiric verses on a Bradford physician, 
 which greatly extended his poetic reputation in the 
 neighbourhood. One night on returning home he was 
 attacked by two men, and in the scuffle was dangerously 
 wounded under the eye with a sharp-pointed instru- 
 ment. This confined him to the house some time, 
 but as he knew the ruffian he determined to have him 
 apprehended. He was, however, induced to forgive 
 him through the affecting gestures and appeals for 
 mercy of the man's sister, who was deaf and dumb, 
 but had been made to understand the danger in which 
 he stood of being arrested. The earnest pleader, when 
 assured of Nicholson's entire forgiveness of her 
 brother's offence, went away in a transport of joy. 
 Another circumstance happened whilst residing at 
 Red Beck which shows his sympathetic and generous
 
 AND POEMS. xxxv 
 
 nature. During a visit to Bradford on a Saturday 
 night with his wife, to purchase the customary stock 
 of provisions for the ensuing week, he noticed at 
 the top of Ivegate, a weather-beaten and mutilated 
 tar singing in vain to excite charity. Nicholson 
 accosted him, found he had fought at Trafalgar, and 
 was greatly in want. This roused his feelings, and he 
 look the seaman to the Old Crown Inn, where he got 
 him a supper, and supplied him with money for the 
 following day. This old sailor's narrative furnished 
 the materials for the ode beginning (p. 297) — 
 
 " With my limbs in the deep," etc. 
 
 The five years during which Nicholson lived at Red 
 Beck, were the happiest period of his life. He re- 
 ceived good wages, had only a small family, and 
 enjoyed the friendship and society of a number of 
 genial, intellectual friends. Mr W. O. Geller, the 
 engraver, is one of the few now surviving of that 
 once large circle of kindred spirits who spent many 
 happy hours together; and he has many delightful 
 reminiscences of their past communings and inter- 
 course witli each Other. 
 
 The poet's first biographer says: "He possessed. 
 ;it this season of his life, a ready and abundant flow 
 of conversation, lighted up with humorous sallies, and 
 happy and ingenious turns of thought lie had also 
 acquired a sufficient fund of information to enable
 
 xxxvi NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 him to take part effectively in any discussion which 
 might arise. Besides the quick repartee, the striking 
 recitations of poetry, and the flashes of wit and 
 merriment, with which he was wont to set the table 
 in a roar, all conduced to render his company highly 
 attractive to his literary friends. When engaged in 
 animated conversation, his eye beamed with fire and 
 intelligence, and his whole countenance and manner 
 became excited and expressive of a remarkable man." 
 His fame and abilities brought him in contact with 
 Mr Thompson, the manager of the Bradford Old 
 Theatre, who persuaded him to write a drama in three 
 acts, entitled the " Robber of the Alps," which was so 
 well received, that he was induced to try his dramatic 
 powers again, and produced the " Siege of Bradford," 
 founded on the events of the Civil War. This 
 was successfully acted in 1820, for the benefit of 
 Mr Macaulay, one of the players, and yielded 
 a profit of ^47, but Nicholson derived nothing 
 from the performance, although he had been led to 
 expect a portion of the profit. It was, however, 
 printed and published in 182 1, with a few short 
 Poems. This was his first work, and was dedicated 
 to the Merchants, Manufacturers, etc., of Bradford. 
 The preface is dated May 14th, 182 1, and shows the 
 author's lowly estimate of his own productions. A 
 second edition of the " Siege of Bradford " appeared 
 in 1 83 1, very much improved, and illustrated by a
 
 AND POEMS. xxxvii 
 
 rather pretty etching by Mr W. O. Geller, represent- 
 ing the miser surprised by the robber, when about to 
 bury his gold. 
 
 In 1822 he removed to Harden Beck, near Bingley, 
 where the success of his first brochure determined him 
 to try again, and he fixed upon "Airedale" as a 
 descriptive poem. Whilst engaged on this work, 
 J. G. Horsfall, Esq., was passing his house one day 
 and asked for a drink of water, when Nicholson 
 obligingly handed him a draught of beer. His fame 
 for impromptu verse-making had spread far and wide, 
 and Mr Horsfall jocosely observed, " Nicholson, they 
 state you are a poet ; let us hear what you can say 
 about this pot of beer," when he at once complied 
 as follows : 
 
 " O for an everlasting spring 
 
 Of home-brewed drink like this ! 
 i 1 11 with my friends, I'd laugh and sing, 
 
 And spend the hours in bliss ; 
 Then come old Cue, link'd with Impair, 
 I. with thee made stn 
 M plunge them over head in b 
 And make them lead the s 1 
 
 Mr Horsfall was highly gratified by this prompt effu- 
 sion, encouraged him to j with his poetical 
 
 pursuits, and warml) d and promoted the 
 
 sale of his works as soon as they were published. 
 
 " Airedale " embraced a wide range of thought, and 
 required considerable application to arrange and ela-
 
 xxxviii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 borate the details of the different topics in this really 
 splendid poem. Whilst composing the greater part, 
 he was generously assisted by his patron, Mr Horsfall, 
 and allowed the necessary respite from his daily labour 
 as a woolsorter. His wife also heartily favoured his 
 poetic studies, by working at a worsted mill in the 
 neighbourhood. Several, however, of the choicest 
 lyrics, published in the volume containing " Airedale," 
 were written by Nicholson on the greasy surface of 
 the sorting-board with a skewer, when at work, and 
 with but little premeditation. His mode of study, out 
 of work hours, was singularly characteristic, and shows 
 how completely his whole thoughts were engrossed 
 with the various subjects. When engaged on sublime 
 or grave themes, he loved to stroll late at night, or by 
 moonlight, on the banks of the rivulet which ran near 
 his dwelling, studying his subject. A lovely spot near 
 Goit Stock was a favourite resort. Here on one 
 occasion, accompanied by his most intimate friend, 
 Mr W. O. Geller, he was laid in a nicely secluded 
 spot in "poetic mood," when a number of sprightly 
 mill girls, beaming with joy and health, indulged in 
 a trip on " the light fantastic toe," with a sportiveness 
 and glee worthy of fairyland itself. Perhaps the sight 
 gave birth afterwards to "The Fairy Song." In 
 summer he generally rose at four o'clock, and strayed 
 to a large flat rock which overlooks the valley, where 
 he indulged in poetic contemplation, and composed
 
 AND POEMS. xxxix 
 
 some of his most cheerful and thoughtful short poems, 
 e.g., "Morning in May" (p. 183), "Goit Stock" (p. 
 197), and "Return of the Swallow" (p. 218), etc. 
 His life had hitherto been remarkably free from 
 excesses; his habits industrious and steady, and 
 when not engaged in wool-sorting, his time was well 
 employed in reading and composing poetry. 
 
 After the completion of " Airedale," he removed to 
 Hewnden, where he was employed by Mr Stephen 
 Skirrow about three years. The Beck flows through 
 the hamlet in a romantic course, and after entering 
 the Hallas Wood, rushes over a ledge of rocks about 
 twenty-five feet in height, forming a beautiful cascade. 
 " Often, during storm and flood, when the ' Fall ' was 
 in full roar, he wandered to this spot, even at midnight, 
 to muse pensively; and here some of the sublimest 
 passages in his Poems were composed." The " Night 
 Scene," was written after a visit on a very wild night. 
 The Waterfall was called Hallas Lumb, till about 50 
 is ago, when it received the present name of 
 Goit Stock. The estate formerly belonged to M 
 Hod on of Hallas, 01 Hallowes Hall, then Mr Iks of 
 Lincolnshire, and Captain Letch, and the woods were 
 afterwards pur. hased by W. Ferrand, Esq., of St I\ 
 
 "The Poacher" was written at the suggestion of 
 Mr |. G. Eiorsfall, whilst Nicholson resided at Hewn 
 den. Nearly all the incidents are faithful pictures 
 from real life, and were obtained by the Poet frequent-
 
 xl NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 ing the company of a daring and desperate band of 
 poachers who lived in the neighbourhood. He often 
 sat up with them whole nights, treating them liberally 
 with beer, whilst they gleefully related their exploits. 
 He first composed the " Poacher's Song," which the 
 delighted heroes sang lustily at the Poet's home, and 
 the neighbouring public-house. Two persons named 
 Jack Moore and Dan Ingham were the real Ignotus 
 and Desparo. The latter had been fined about forty 
 times, and several times in prison for not paying the 
 fines imposed upon him. Shortly after Nicholson's 
 death, Mr John James met Dan Ingham near Hewn- 
 den Mill, and asked him how much game he thought 
 he had bagged as a poacher. He replied, pointing 
 to the mill, "As much as that mill would hold if well 
 packed." 
 
 The manuscript for the first volume was ready for 
 the press in 1824. Dr Hartley, the head-master of 
 Bingley Grammar School, and Mr Hudson, solicitor of 
 Bradford, made a few verbal corrections, so that the 
 Poems as they appeared at first were truly Nicholson's 
 own productions. A numerous list of subscribers was 
 readily obtained, and the modest, well-written Preface 
 is dated April 9th, 1825. Nearly the whole impres- 
 sion was disposed of in a few months ; and the 
 Preface to the second edition is dated November 5th, 
 1825. The great success of the first volume is unpre- 
 cedented in the annals of local poetry. But this was
 
 AND POEMS. xli 
 
 his bane, and led to habits of intemperance. As many 
 of the subscribers belonged to the nobility and gentry 
 of Yorkshire, Lancashire, and adjoining counties, and 
 lived at a distance in some of the most picturesque 
 places in the kingdom, the poet gave up his regular 
 employment to deliver and sell his own books. He 
 everywhere met with a hearty reception, was much 
 caressed, and received substantial favours and assist- 
 ance from the great, which with the proceeds of the 
 sale of his books, would have been amply sufficient 
 to have saved himself and family from the privations 
 and sufferings occasioned by the trade panic in 1825- 
 26, if the money had been properly used, instead of 
 being spent in reckless dissipation. Mr James thinks 
 that he received enough for " a moderate competency 
 for life," but says he " seldom returned from book- 
 vending excursions with a penny in his pocket." 
 But being an anient admirer of natural beaut}-, the 
 delightful scenery of many of the localities visited in 
 these tours, left an indelible impression upon his 
 mind, and served as the foundation for some of his 
 finest descriptions in the " Lyre of Ebor," for which 
 he had begun collecting materials, as the greater part 
 of the second edition of " Airedale." etc., was «[uickly 
 sold. At times his rustic appearance caused gentle- 
 men on whom he waited with his Poems to doubt his 
 
 * This is .1 mi the Po II remember his 
 
 bringing home c msiderable sums of money at different tin.
 
 xlii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 identity • but his happy impromptus soon dispelled 
 their incredulity : e.g., when he called upon Mr Brooke 
 of Meltham Mills, Huddersfield, he was presented 
 with a glass of porter newly drawn, and asked to 
 write a verse upon it. This he did instantly as 
 follows : 
 
 ' ' The gallant, the gay, and the sporter, 
 Have here but little to stay ; 
 For life's like the froth on that porter, 
 And quickly doth vanish away." 
 
 This was satisfactory, and Mr Brooke became a warm 
 friend of the poet. During his visit to the Lake Dis- 
 trict he became acquainted with the steward of George 
 Lane Fox, Esq. of Bramham Park, who recommended 
 Nicholson to his notice. He was highly pleased with 
 the perusal of his Poems, and on hearing that he was 
 in straitened circumstances, generously gave the poet 
 ,£20, and ever afterwards welcomed him on his visits 
 to the mansion at Bramham Park, where he often 
 quaffed the contents in strong beer of a horn called 
 " Long Tom," which holds about three pints. And 
 at various times afterwards, Mr Fox presented him 
 with more than ^"ioo, besides befriending the widow, 
 and promoting the sale of the volume published after 
 Nicholson's death in a manner never to be forgotten 
 by the family. 
 
 The immense success of Nicholson's " Airedale," 
 etc., filled him with the visionary idea of being able
 
 AND POEMS. xliii 
 
 henceforth to obtain a livelihood by the sale of his 
 works. The amiable and talented Editor of the 
 Sheffield Iris, James Montgomery, Esq., wrote a very 
 favourable review of the first volume, and remarked 
 that it was "as natural for" Nicholson "to write poetry, 
 as for the lark to sing." This and the general praise 
 of the Yorkshire Press caused more copies to be sold in 
 Sheffield than any other town. And on receiving the 
 ^£20 from George Lane Fox, Esq., previously alluded 
 to, he gave a part to his wife for the maintenance of 
 herself and children, and on the 27th of October 1827, 
 started for London with the rest of the money, and a 
 large number of his books, in the hope of obtaining 
 not only wider fame, but from its teeming population, 
 a still greater sale. He met with a generous reception 
 from Dr Birkbeck, a native of Settle, then very popular 
 in the metropolis from his labours in connection with 
 the founding of Mechanics' Institutes, and was by him 
 introduced to many persons, amongst whom he sold 
 a considerable number of his works, and everywhere 
 received marked attention and kindness. Still the 
 sale did not realize his expectations, and his stay in 
 London was brought to a sudden termination by the 
 following freak, lie had been indulging rather too 
 freely " in good cheer," with a Yorkshire barrister and 
 a number of gay friends at the Inner Temple, who 
 took him to the opera at Drury Lane Theatre on the 
 evening of the 15th November, paid for his admission
 
 xliv NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 to the dress boxes, and then, either through accident 
 or design, left him in the saloon. Under the excite- 
 ment of the wine of which he had partaken during 
 •the day, Nicholson began apostrophising a statue of 
 Shakespeare, which from his rustic appearance im- 
 mediately attracted the attention of "a number of 
 Cyprians and their beaux," and caused a disturbance. 
 For this he was rudely seized by a Bow Street officer 
 named Bond, and placed in " durance vile " for the 
 night. Next morning, after a laughable hearing before 
 Sir Richard Birnie, he was discharged, but not before 
 he had seized Bond and dragged him about the room 
 in a similar way to what he had experienced when 
 taken into custody. This created great merriment, 
 and elicited from the worthy magistrate the remark 
 that the Poet had paid the officer .well off for his 
 pains. The incident was sufficiently droll in itself, 
 but was greatly improved by the reporters, who 
 eagerly embraced the opportunity of most amusingly 
 dressing up a paragraph for many of the London 
 papers headed — " The Yorkshire Poet in trouble." 
 He now hastened back home, lest his wife should 
 start to London in search of him after hearing of his 
 having been in prison. Whilst in London, he had 
 visited many places of amusement and interest, and 
 gazed with wonder and delight upon the monuments 
 in St Paul's Church and Westminster Abbey, besides 
 having seen the Tower, Greenwich Hospital, the
 
 AND POEMS. xlv 
 
 dockyards at Woolwich, the Thames Tunnel, then 
 about half completed, and through the kind introduc- 
 tion of a friend had been permitted frequently to call 
 and inspect Chantrey's works at Pimlico. At this 
 place he was much struck with the skill and intelli- 
 gence of the workmen, and in his homely way 
 criticised the sculptures in progress. On one occa- 
 sion he conversed with Chantrey himself, and made 
 the uncouth remark in extolling the great sculptor, 
 what merit had done in raising him from carrying 
 milk into Sheffield when a youth. One of the men 
 followed Nicholson to his lodgings, told him of his 
 mistake, and said he ought to apologise in verse. 
 This he did promptly as follows : 
 
 '• Merit ascend ! true Genius spread thy wings, 
 Rise, worthy Chantrey, o'er created things; 
 Soar through the azure, let thy fame extend, 
 But oh ! forgive the errors of a friend." 
 
 The Poet also witnessed the procession on Lord 
 Mayor's Day, but considered it extremely tawdry and 
 childish. On his return he wrote an account of his 
 journey to London (including a sketch of his visit to 
 the I ' District), of which two editions were printed. 
 He givi a decided pre! to a cottage on the 
 
 edge of " Rumbald's Moor " to a residence amidst all 
 the splendour and magnifii nice of London. 
 
 In spite "i" his better judgment, he had now con 
 traded habits of intemperance and recklessness which
 
 xlvi NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 clung to him the rest of his life, except a few brief 
 intervals of entire abstinence from all intoxicating 
 drinks. And at this time he wrote " The Drunkard's 
 Retribution " and other pieces for a small book of 
 poems issued by the Wilsden Temperance Society in 
 favour of their principles, published in 1836. The 
 long Poem, " Genius and Intemperance," inserted in 
 the same volume as the " Lyre of Ebor," was com- 
 posed in the intervals of his previous drunken adven- 
 tures, and in many places is a faithful transcript of 
 the results of his own observation and bitter experi- 
 ence. The inconsiderate kindness of friends and 
 patrons tended largely to form his dissipated habits. 
 The late Lord Ribblesdale and the Earl of Harewood 
 always welcomed him as a guest at their mansions, 
 and on his departure made him considerable presents 
 of money. He met with similar kindness at Tong 
 Hall and Bramham Park, as previously related. At 
 Tong Hall, Miss Tempest, afterwards the wife of Sir 
 Cornwallis Rickitts, showed the Poet especial kind- 
 ness during his visits ; and when in London, before 
 leaving for France and Italy, sent him several small 
 articles as tokens of her esteem. This excellent lady 
 died suddenly whilst with the family on the Continent. 
 After their return, when informed of her death, he 
 went at once, deeply affected, to sympathise with the 
 family at Tong Hall, where he composed the impas- 
 sioned lines at pp. 290, 291, on the sad occasion,
 
 AND POEMS. xlvii 
 
 after beholding the bust of the late amiable lady in 
 one of the rooms. 
 
 Nicholson's open-hearted nature and lively disposi- 
 tion easily gathered round him a large circle of 
 acquaintances and friends, who were often willing to 
 treat for the sake of spending a jovial hour in his 
 company, and enjoying his witty impromptus on 
 anything that might turn up in conversation. One 
 of his contemporaries, a true poet, Mr Thomas 
 Crossley of Ovenden, near Halifax, says : " I have 
 heard him hit off many a good extemporary stanza, 
 which, though deserving a better fate, has now gone 
 for ever down the stream of Lethe. At impromptu, I 
 think he stood unrivalled. The following on a landlord 
 of the Malt Shovel Inn, Halifax (whose habits of 
 intemperance were well known), I think very happy. 
 On one occasion Nicholson called at the inn, when 
 the landlord, excited with liquor, met him at the 
 door, and seizing him by the hand, exclaimed, " I'.less 
 the poet! come, give us averse.' Nicholson instantly 
 complied with the request, and gave the follow;: 
 
 " ' Oil Jack ! oh |;uk ! W not a fool, 
 But taki 
 
 l u if thou 'l"-t nut, I'm afraid 
 Tin " I" will dwindli 
 
 \s these effusions were not always written down at 
 the time, but in some cases seem to have been 
 supplied to persons afterwards, several versions are
 
 xlviii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 found in the poet's own handwriting, having been 
 quoted from memory. We give an illustration sent 
 to the Poet's widow by James Hamerton, Esq. of 
 Hellifield Peel — who says it was written as an epitaph 
 for a person who of course expected something com- 
 plimentary (seep. 285): 
 
 " Beneath this stone a man is laid, 
 Who never lik'd the butcher's trade ; 
 He dearly lov'd the painter's art, 
 But from it was obliged to part. 
 At length he took himself a wife, 
 And felt the bliss and cares of life ; 
 And all the time he was a brewer, 
 No man to wife was ever truer. 
 At length death came and found him pale, 
 He thought, how have I brew'd my ale ? 
 Have I sent man unfit to ruin, 
 By putting drugs in ev'ry brewing ? 
 Thus conscience spake is Harry clear ? 
 Did he put in his ale and beer 
 Tobacco, berries, drugs, and drops, 
 Or aught but water, malt, and hops?" 
 
 A gentleman who lived with Mr T. Nicholson, jun., 
 whilst learning the wool business in Bradford, and 
 who had often enjoyed the Poet's company, and who 
 was leaving for Australia the following day, jocosely 
 remarked that he ought to furnish a verse as a 
 memento of their friendship. Nicholson in his usual 
 happy vein replied : 
 
 " When far away on feath'ry spray, 
 When winds are blowing hard ; 
 When dashing waves the vessel braves, 
 Think of the hapless bard."
 
 AND POEMS. xlix 
 
 Some of his impromptus have a remarkable pun- 
 gency, and would not readily be forgotten by an 
 obnoxious person. A neighbour to whom he had a 
 great dislike, and who was not noted for veracity, 
 once asked Nicholson to write him an epitaph, when 
 he immediately replied in the following coarse but 
 witty stanza : 
 
 " Old Beelzebub sent his best servant on earth 
 To fetch him a wonderful liar; 
 Ha ! ha ! how the devils burst out into mirth, 
 When back he returned with old F r." 
 
 A small manufacturer had outwitted some of his 
 tenants by seeming generosity in offering to contribute 
 twice as much, and join them in a sweepstake for the 
 person who kept the little gardens attached to the 
 houses in the best order and free from weeds. He 
 succeeded in carrying off the prize by rousing his own 
 apprentices before the ordinary hours of labour and 
 employing them in his garden. Whilst passing one 
 evening Nicholson chalked on his door, in a caustic 
 humour : 
 
 " W — d — n gardens we must own 
 
 .mi. 
 
 'I'll. old Tw — 
 
 The poet's aflfe< tion for his mother was very strong, 
 
 and he happened to call unaware after she had been 
 
 suddenK taken ill and lay prostrate in bed ; he 
 
 ed a moment in silent anguish, then burst into
 
 1 NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 tears, and wept like a child ; and when a little com- 
 posed, he wrote the following verse on a slip of paper 
 on the dresser : 
 
 " I see and feel an awful change 
 In her who gave me birth ; 
 She sinks in years, and hastens down 
 Towards our parent earth. " 
 
 During the commercial distress which followed the 
 panic of 1825-26, the Poet's family had to undergo 
 severe privation whilst he was away on one of his 
 book-vending excursions. The owner of the house 
 wanted it for some reason, and levied a distraint for 
 the rent. In this emergency, Mrs Nicholson got a 
 friend to write and state the facts of the case simply, 
 to George Lane Fox, Esq. of Bramham Park, who 
 had become one of Nicholson's warmest admirers. 
 With that large-hearted generosity for which he was 
 so well known, he despatched a messenger on horse- 
 back early the following morning before six o'clock, 
 who paid all the landlord's claims, and left the family 
 in undisturbed possession of their home. On his 
 return, and learning what had happened, Nicholson 
 chronicled the event with a diamond on a window 
 pane as follows : 
 
 " O C — k — n, C — k — n, hard's thy heart, 
 Harder than Bingley rocks ; 
 Thou wouldst have sold the Poet up, 
 But for his friend Lane Fox. "
 
 AND POEMS. li 
 
 The following impromptu lines on Mr Fison, of 
 
 Burley-in-\Yharfdale, are dated 1835: 
 
 " Where wisdom is mayst thou young Fison be ; 
 In ev'ry action may thy heart be free ; 
 Living with truth, the finest gem below, 
 Like the bright spangles in the purest snow. 
 In dark temptation call for wisdom's Light, 
 And she will aid thee, for in her is might : 
 Mind well thyself, nor idle ever be, 
 Forget not thrift, nor steady industry. 
 In Christ stand fast, on Ilim be lix'd thy creed, 
 Saviour of all, for lie is 1 :ed, 
 
 Omnipotent, eternal, God o'er all, 
 None ever perish'd that on Him would call." 
 
 The Bow Street affair did not deter Nicholson from 
 another journey to the metropolis, where he imagined 
 his works must have a large sale when better known. 
 His wife tried in vain to dissuade him, but finding 
 him fully bent upon going, she resolved to accompany 
 him, in order to bring back some part of the profits, 
 if the enterprise was successful. The Poet did his 
 utmost to escape without her, but failed, and accord- 
 ingly they went together, ami after an amusing journey, 
 leached London in the spring of 1828. His former 
 friends again treated him with kindness, and his wife 
 effectually checked the excesses in which he would 
 otherwise almost certainly have indulged. 1 luring their 
 stay of five weeks, they buried a favourite infant, and the 
 Poet wrote a monody on the occasion, which was 
 inserted in the Morrti A ■ with some tlatter- 
 
 ing remarks upon Nicholson's ability. He obtained
 
 lii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 at this time, through the kind recommendation of Mr 
 Nichols and Dr Birkbeck, the sum of ,£10 from 
 the Literary Fund Society ; and the latter gentleman, 
 who had previously given him several sums of money, 
 gave Mrs Nicholson £4 on leaving London. The 
 sale of his works had not been equal to his expecta- 
 tions, although considerable as the productions of a 
 " local poet," and he returned home somewhat dis- 
 appointed. An event occurred shortly afterwards, 
 which put an end to his bookselling excursions. His 
 printer occupied the shop in Kirkgate, on the right 
 entrance to Albion Court, for some years, but became 
 bankrupt, and a large stock of Nicholson's poems 
 was seized, and sold by public auction during several 
 days, at about half their value. Nicholson remonstrated 
 in vain, showed that he had bought and paid for the 
 paper, and on obtaining no redress, pulled the auc- 
 tioneer from his stand whilst engaged in selling. The 
 circumstances excited public curiosity very much, and 
 the sale was so large, that some of them were rapidly 
 reprinted and sold wet from the press. " Hence- 
 forward," as Mr James says, " the demand for them 
 in this quarter was glutted, and the source whence 
 Nicholson had for some years drawn the main portion 
 of his supplies, cut off." He had given up his trade 
 as a woolsorter three years, and in consequence of 
 the general depression of the worsted business, had to 
 follow the laborious and ill-paid occupation of wool-
 
 AND POEMS. liii 
 
 combing some time for a livelihood. In 1S33, he 
 removed to Bradford with his family, where he was 
 employed in the warehouse of Mr Salt, then of Union 
 Street, Bradford, now Sir Titus Salt, Bart, of Saltaire 
 who kindly and generously overlooked his failings and 
 disjointed labour. Several of Nicholson's children were 
 employed in the mills, were affectionate, and cheerfully 
 laboured for the maintenance of the household, whilst 
 through intemperance he carried but little of his 
 weekly earnings home. His conscience, however, 
 frequently reproached him for his misconduct. 
 
 At the time of Mr Richard Oastler's labours on 
 behalf of "The Ten Hours Bill Movement," Nicholson 
 was sent for to Fixby Hall, where he remained two or 
 three weeks, and composed a poem on the sufferings, 
 etc., of factory children, but soon afterwards the Poet 
 and his patron disagreed. In 1837 Nicholson's claim 
 was again brought before the Literary Fund Society 
 by Ellis Cunliffe Lister, Esq., M.P.. ably assisted by 
 Mr W. ( ). Geller, and another J~,\o obtained for 
 him. After the Poet's death the latter gentleman 
 
 I Octavius Blewitt, Esq., succeeded in gettinj 
 further grant of ,£40 for the widow from the same 
 meritorious society. 
 
 The closing period of Nicholson's life was an alter- 
 nate Stl between labour and dissipation. 11 is 
 early religious impressions and convictions were 
 strong in bis sober moments, and on Sundays he de-
 
 liv NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 lighted to read to his family the poetical books of 
 Scripture, and point out the sublimest passages. He 
 was one of the first employed by Sir Titus Salt, Bart., 
 in sorting alpaca and mohair, which are now so largely 
 used in our textile manufactures. Full of good resolves 
 in his thoughtful hours, when suffering from the effects 
 of drinking, he often earnestly determined upon 
 amendment one day, and the next fell again into 
 dissipation. This irregular course of life unfitted him 
 for mental pursuits, and blunted his powers of poetical 
 conception, so that he wrote little towards the end of 
 his life worthy of being preserved. Still at times he 
 felt a consciousness of being able to achieve greater 
 poetic fame by trying loftier themes, but allowed them 
 to remain in embryo. His love of the wild scenery 
 around Eldwick grew with years, and rambles on the 
 moorland or the shady dells in the neighbourhood 
 afforded him the highest gratification during his 
 holidays. The charms of the country exceeded those 
 of the town at such times, and he used to say, " I'll 
 be off to Eldwick to breathe a little mountain air, and 
 get my throat cleansed from the smoke of Bradford," 
 and generally started the night before the holiday. 
 Accordingly, he left home the evening before Good 
 Friday, April 13th, 1843, t0 visit his aunt, and called 
 at several places on the way. Towards midnight he 
 was seen going up the canal bank in the direction of 
 Dixon Mill, where the Aire was crossed by means of
 
 AND POEMS. lv 
 
 stepping-stones. " The night was dark and stormy, 
 and the river swollen." He appears to have missed 
 his footing when nearly across, fell into the deep part 
 of the current, and was carried down eight or ten 
 yards, when he caught hold of some hazel boughs, 
 and by great exertion struggled out of the water. 
 He afterwards crept through a hole in the hedge which 
 fences off the river, and lay down benumbed and 
 exhausted till about six o'clock next morning, when a 
 half-witted person as he was passing heard him groan. 
 and saw him rise into a sitting posture. The man was 
 alarmed and rendered no assistance, but hastened to 
 the farm-house where he was going for milk, said noth- 
 ing, and returned home another way. Two hours later 
 he was found by a farm labourer, who called out, but on 
 receiving no answer, ran to inform his master at Baildon, 
 who immediately returned with him to the place, where 
 they found poor Nicholson quite dead, but still warm. 
 The body was removed to the bay Horse Inn. Bail- 
 i, where a medical man was soon in attendance 
 and attributed his death to apoplexy caused by ex- 
 lire to the cold after having been in the water. 
 The coroner, at the inquest, recorded a verdict in 
 agreement with the medical testimony ; and on Tues- 
 day, A pul [8th, Nicholson's remains were interred 
 in Bingley Churchyard, in the presence of more than 
 a thousand spectators. A muffled peal was rung on 
 the bells, and a full choir took pait in the burial
 
 lvi NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 service. A neat tombstone was raised over his grave 
 by the widow, with the kind assistance of George 
 Lane Fox, Esq., shortly afterwards. At the time of 
 his death Nicholson's family consisted of eight chil- 
 dren, two of them young. But the widow was 
 generously assisted during her lifetime by Sir Titus 
 Salt, Bart., the Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M.P., 
 and M. W. Thompson, Esq. The proceeds of the 
 edition published in 1844, enabled her to send the 
 youngest son five years to the Bradford Grammar 
 School. The fourth edition (1859), was intended for 
 her benefit, and expected to leave a sum sufficient to 
 place her in comfortable circumstances the rest of her 
 life, but as the impression was very large, a consider- 
 able number remained sometime unsold, and the profits 
 were consequently small. She died at the age of eighty- 
 two, on the 31st of January 1874, having survived her 
 husband nearly thirty-one years, and been partly 
 supported by the unmarried sons and daughters. 
 
 The portrait of Nicholson was painted by Mr W. 
 O. Geller, and also engraven by him on steel, and 
 with characteristic generosity presented gratuitously 
 for the edition of 1844, and is considered a capital 
 likeness of the Poet when he was about forty years of 
 age, before " time and intemperance had made much 
 havoc in his look or constitution." Mr James says : 
 " There are some points which the burnisher of the 
 artist could not bring out. Our Poet was of a very
 
 AND POEMS. Ivii 
 
 ruddy complexion, with a dark brown eye, in which fire 
 seemed to roll at the bottom. His eye and massy 
 overshadowing brow were the only indexes in his 
 countenance of the intellectual power he possessed. 
 He was about five feet ten inches in height, of robust 
 make, broad shouldered, and rather stooped." In 
 disposition he was frank, generous, humane, and 
 sincere ; and his sole vice appears to have been 
 intemperance ; for he seldom misbehaved in any 
 other manner than "raving in poetry," when intoxi- 
 cated. His manly, upright, open nature soon gained 
 him a wide circle of admirers and friends, who adhered 
 to him throughout his chequered career, and evinced 
 their real sorrow at his death, by their practical 
 sympathy for the widow and family. 
 
 In forming a critical estimate of Nicholson's Poetry, 
 it would be obviously unfair to judge him by the 
 same standard as Campbell, Rogers, Byron, Southey, 
 Coleridge, and others who had enjoyed all the advan- 
 tages of a good and systematic education. Nichol- 
 son, like Burns, Bloomfield, Story, and other bards in 
 the lower walks of life, was almost self-educated, 
 which must l»c regarded as an ample excuse for a tew 
 minor defects in method, expression, and composi- 
 tion. If any apology for these imperfections is neces- 
 sary, it cannot be given better than in his own words, 
 in the prefa< e to the first volume of his Poems, wh 
 with unaffected modesty, he says : " The whole volume
 
 lviii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 deprecates the severity of criticism, and claims that 
 indulgence which the author is confident would be 
 extended to him were the circumstances known under 
 which it has been written. The truth is, that it is 
 the production of one self-taught, and living from his 
 childhood on the edge of a wild uncultivated moor — 
 the rocks his summer's evening study, and a few 
 borrowed books his sole companions ; destined, too, 
 to labour for the support of a numerous family, de- 
 prived of all intercourse with the literary world, and 
 even destitute of the opportunities of knowing what 
 passes in it." 
 
 The publication of " Airedale," etc., gained for the 
 author at once the appellation of " The Airedale 
 Poet," and made his name a "household word" 
 throughout the West Riding, precisely in the same 
 way that Campbell's great poem obtained for him 
 the designation of " The Author of the Pleasures of 
 Hope." Nor can this be wondered at when we come 
 to examine in detail the glowing descriptions of the 
 beautiful scenery, and the various stirring incidents so 
 graphically related of events in ancient and modern 
 times. In a few lines, by the masterly touches of 
 creative genius, he frequently produces outline pic- 
 tures so natural, forcible, and " full of life and beauty," 
 that spell-bound we seem to realise the presence of 
 both the actors and the places. Airedale and its 
 history formed a theme worthy of his noblest efforts
 
 AND POEMS. lix 
 
 in verse, and from his vigorous and well-sustained 
 treatment, both in design and execution, deserved the 
 encomiums with which the Poem was first received, 
 and accounts for the estimation in which it is still held 
 by competent judges. The versification, on the whole, 
 is remarkably good, although by no means faultless. 
 Still, as Mr James says, the Poem "has fewer faults 
 in plan and style" than any of his succeeding long 
 Poems. But there are many passages, which, for 
 vigour and smoothness, will bear comparison favour- 
 ably with the best productions of our most highly- 
 gifted poets, as correct delineations of romantic 
 scenery, the manners and customs of the times, and 
 those higher appeals to man's religious nature. Some 
 of his figures of speech are peculiarly suitable and im- 
 pressive; for example, his Terror and Grandeur in the 
 second paragraph of " Airedale," like Milton's personi- 
 fications of Sin and Death in " Paradise Lost," add 
 greatly to the effect and marvellous completeness of 
 the picture. Others, however, are not strictly appro- 
 priate and would probably have been somewhat 
 modified, if the Poet could have been induced to re- 
 touch and improve Ins first effusions. But unfortun- 
 ately his mental habits were rather loose, and the 
 trouble of rewriting or altering what lie had once 
 written, was distasteful and seldom attempted, although 
 indispensably necessary in all works of real excellence. 
 The introdu< tory lines in " Airedale" are admirable,
 
 Ix NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 and clearly indicate the exalted position which 
 Nicholson might have attained by careful culture. 
 The grandeur and sublimity of Gordale are thrillingly 
 depicted by the crowded imagery so skilfully employed 
 in the second paragraph. The personification of 
 Terror, sitting like a monarch enthroned in state and 
 magnificence, scorning alike 
 
 "The poet's pen, 
 The painter's pencil, all the powers of men," 
 
 is exceedingly bold and striking. Nor is the picture 
 less remarkable, 
 
 " Where Grandeur revels in her palace wild ; " 
 
 and the climax so cleverly given in the following lines: 
 
 " E'en those that to description would aspire, 
 
 Gaze mute with awe, and silently retire." 
 
 The hyperbole of poet, painter, and observer, retiring 
 overwhelmed with the vastness and sublimity of the 
 spectacle, awe-stricken and incapable of attempting 
 a description, is wonderfully suggestive, and perfectly 
 allowable in poetry, although in prose it would be 
 considered rather overdrawn. But Mr Thomas 
 Hurtley, whose ancestors formerly owned this re- 
 markable spot, and who himself by a long residence 
 in the neighbourhood was familiar with the sight, 
 says : " It is a question . . . whether anything 
 like an adequate idea can be given either by the pen 
 or pencil * of so grand a scene " (A Concise Account 
 
 * Dr Whitaker, in his "History of Craven " (p. 208), expresses 
 a similar opinion.
 
 AND POEMS. lxi 
 
 of some Natural Curiosities in the Environs of Mal- 
 ham, in Craven, Yorkshire, p. 63). The poet next 
 gives a charming picture of real enjoyment on Malham 
 Water, with the boatmen singing whilst conveying 
 " the lovely nymphs of Craven o'er," and the echoes 
 repeating the joyous sounds ; also when the still lake, 
 like a vast mirror, reflects the surrounding objects. 
 This is quickly followed by a short but happy de- 
 scription of The Cove, standing 
 
 " Finn fixed near, Like the great throne of Jove," 
 and the exciting hunt of the mountain deer by the 
 brave Percies and Cliffords, and the neighbouring 
 gentry, who were passionately fond of the chase. 
 Another rapid change of subject brings vividly before 
 us the events of the period just after the battle of 
 Bannockburn, when, during several succeeding years, 
 the Scots repeatedly ravaged the north of England. 
 The invaders paid three unwelcome visits for plunder 
 to Bolton Abbey, and carried off immense mini! 
 of cattle from the district of Craven. The incidents 
 of one of these incursions are touchinglv and forcibly 
 when the "sons of Gargrave" met the 
 invaders with great bravery, and, like the Spartan 
 d at Thermopylae, were almost cut off to a man. 
 The Scots plundered the d 1 town and burned the 
 
 church, but fled on the approach ofa force fromSkipton. 
 The Poet next touches very cleverly upon thebl 
 of peace and commerce, and epitomises the history of
 
 Ixii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 Skipton Castle and its noble owners, with their costly 
 dresses, splendid furniture, revelry and sport — 
 
 " Their imitations of the monarch's court ; " 
 
 but only alludes in a single line to 
 
 " The sieges which the lofty towers sustained." 
 
 This is followed by a picture of rural simplicity and 
 
 pastoral enjoyment on the village green, where, in 
 
 harmless sport, with music and song, 
 
 " The loving pairs would play, 
 And quite forget the labours of the day," 
 
 till the venerable sire calls his household in to the 
 evening's devotions. 
 
 The title of the Poem, " Airedale in Ancient 
 Times," is almost a misnomer in many places, but 
 on page 9 it becomes applicable as the Poet gives 
 a deeply interesting description of the sacrificial 
 worship of the Druids. The care in the selection 
 of the victim, the acclamation with which it was 
 brought to the sacred groves, decorated with gar- 
 lands of the choicest flowers, culled by the virgins, 
 whilst the bards, with their harps, accompanied by 
 the peasants, joined in singing the praises of the 
 deity, form in the least possible compass a very im- 
 posing and natural picture of the worship of the 
 ancient Britons. But the effect is greatly heightened 
 through the sacrifice, as shown by the various emotions 
 of the worshippers on the return from the altar, whilst
 
 AND POEMS. lxiii 
 
 the bards again lead the song of joy and thanksgiving 
 to the gods (pp. 10, n). The domestic life of the 
 ancient Britons, with their love of hunting and their 
 warlike habits, are briefly sketched. We have next the 
 patriotic song of the bards and the British virgins 
 inciting the warriors to deeds of bravery on leaving 
 home for the field of battle. The song is extremely 
 simple in structure, but it is full of the noblest incen- 
 tives to heroism by its allusions to the sacred ties of 
 home and devotion to the gods, and properly ends 
 with the sixth stanza. The remaining nine ought to 
 be in the ordinary metre of the poem, as they are 
 descriptive of the encounter between the Britons and 
 their foes. Their mode of fighting from their chariots 
 with the Picts and Romans is graphically described ; 
 but the next paragraph is objectionable, and liable to 
 the charge of national vanity. A masterly descrip- 
 tion of " Bingley's glories " follows. 
 
 -• When in lull splendour wore ii 
 The decay of its castle and the numerous changes of 
 the course of the Aire are delineated with something 
 like tnagii al effect. After briefly moralising on the rise 
 and fall of ancient kingdoms, the poet again vigorously 
 ts upon the beauties of his "native vale'' in a 
 strain so melodious that it can hardly fail to pie 
 the most ardent admirer of nature in her various 
 aspects. The next i of subject brings before 
 
 us a scene of still greater interest, namely, Kirkstall
 
 lxiv NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 Abbey, with its pious abbots and the throng of earnest 
 devotees flocking thither from the surrounding villages, 
 
 " At early dawn upon the holy day." 
 
 The bright side of the feudal times is parenthetically- 
 sketched, followed by a picture of the abbey in ruins ; 
 then suddenly 
 
 " Imagination sees the whole entire," 
 
 and we have an account of " Kirkstall in all its 
 glory " during some grand festal occasion, with all its 
 imposing ceremonies, appealing so powerfully to the 
 senses rather than the intellect of the worshippers. 
 This is followed by a description of the Abbey in 
 modern times, tenantless, and partly overgrown with 
 ivy. The havoc which was made at the dissolution 
 of the religious houses is touchingly depicted. The 
 changes in the face of the country by the rapid growth 
 of towns ; the cessation of hunting and rural sports ; 
 and a lament for the " good old times," form the 
 concluding topics of Airedale. We have only briefly 
 summarised the leading features of the scenery of 
 Airedale, and some of the interesting events described 
 in the Poem, but we trust sufficiently in detail to 
 prove that it is a real work of genius, the production 
 of a true poet, and not that of a mere versifier. 
 
 "The Lyre of Ebor" is constructed on the same 
 general plan as "Airedale," but is treated with greater 
 freedom, and in a few places is wanting in finish. 
 The descriptions ot the localities are always good,
 
 AND POEMS. lxv 
 
 and true to nature ; sometimes chaste, fresh, and 
 original ; and the events often related with great fair- 
 ness and ability. Some of the songs are gems of 
 their kind, and highly characteristic of the patriotism, 
 tender emotions, and warlike spirit of the men of 
 Craven at the period. The hunting scenes at Barden 
 and Harewood are vividly described, and show the 
 wild excitement and enjoyment of persons devotedly 
 fond of the chase. A summary of this Poem is given 
 in the Preface, pp. x., xi., and exception taken in the 
 Notes to several statements as matters of history with 
 respect to Cromwell, etc. ; but these do not detract 
 from the general excellence and merits of the Poem. 
 
 "The Poacher" added greatly to Nicholson's fame 
 from the deep insight which the Poem gave of the 
 character and habits of some of the reckless persons 
 who had furnished him with the details of their ex- 
 ploits. Nothing was exaggerated ; — it was throughout 
 a faithful narrative of actual events. Its truthfulness 
 and naturalness added the most intense interest I 
 subject which at that time deeply engrossed public 
 attention in many parts of the country. The wretch- 
 edness of the family and sorrows of the poacher's wile- 
 are most pathetically described : the poachers 1 narrow 
 escape from drowning whilst crossing the swollen 
 Wharf on the back of a horse taken from a field ; 
 their reception at a farmhouse by the son. who had 
 joined them in their "lawless sport;" the anxiety of
 
 lxvi NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 the old farmer and his wife to get rid of their unwel- 
 come visitors, and fears for the safety of the son who 
 had neglected the farm through being out at nights, 
 are all cleverly hit off, rather than given in full. The 
 narrative grows in tragic interest. The old farmer's 
 remonstrance is unheeded by his abandoned son, who 
 guides the poachers to a neighbouring wood in search 
 of pheasants, which are quickly obtained and left 
 whilst they ranged the open ground 
 
 "To catch the rich Theancler hares alive." 
 
 The dogs were soon seen in full pursuit by two keep- 
 ers, who 
 
 " Levelled their pieces at the vital part, 
 And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart. " 
 
 Infuriated by the dying cries of the dog, the poachers 
 hastened to the spot, but found him dead. Ignotus 
 began to extol the merits of Stormer, when they were 
 attacked by four keepers, and an unequal fight was 
 fiercely waged for some time, but ultimately the latter 
 
 "Took to their heels, and let the poachers go." 
 
 This was followed by a feast with some friends the 
 next night at Desparo's house, and free indulgence in 
 "home-brewed ale and smuggled rum," with music, 
 dancing, and singing "The Poachers' Song" (pp. 105, 
 106). The Poet was there, and by his witty ex- 
 temporary lines in praise of poachers, raised shouts 
 of applause, when the entertainment was abruptly
 
 AND POEMS. lxvii 
 
 ended by four keepers bursting open the door, and 
 capturing all except Desparo and Ignotus.* 
 
 " Game, newly killed, was in the cellar found ; 
 Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread around ; 
 The poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport, 
 To meet the dreadful audit of a court." 
 
 This is succeeded by an account of the heartless 
 conduct of one of the poachers on the death of his 
 wife; some brief reflections on the inevitable evils, 
 physical and moral, attendant on poaching; and the 
 disastrous end of Ignotus, whilst attempting to cross 
 the ice over the river with a load of game, form the 
 remaining incidents in this "Tale from Real Life." 
 This poem is, we believe, the only one of its kind in 
 the language, and its occasional ruggedness and sim- 
 plicity are far more suitable to the subject than more 
 polished verse would have been in describing the 
 stirring events and evils necessarily connected with 
 poaching. 
 
 The ballad " Elwood and Klvina " abounds with 
 interest, and gives a correct picture of the exploits of 
 neighbouring chiefs during the Wars of the Roses, 
 and finely depi< tS the torment and evils of jealousy. 
 \ thoughtless admiring glance by Elwood at the 
 i harms ol the beautiful and virtuous Agatha, during a 
 festivity and dance at her brother 1 castle, is < ught by 
 Klvina. which like a demon ever after haunts her. tires 
 
 * Of course Nicholson was not ai
 
 lxviii NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 her with the purpose of dire revenge, and hurries her 
 on to her own destruction. The description of the 
 effect of bardic minstrelsy is singularly grand in 
 rousing and soothing the warriors (p. 119). The 
 second part of the ballad records minutely the details 
 of a terrible encounter, and the defeat of the Red 
 Rose party. This delayed Elwood's return home 
 till the last kind offices had been performed for the 
 dead, and the wounded Reginald slowly conveyed to 
 his own castle. In the interim the demon jealousy 
 incited Elvina to venture out in a fearful storm, and 
 conceal herself in the courtyard of the castle where 
 her imaginary rival dwelt, armed with a dagger to 
 plunge into the bosom of Agatha if her lord showed 
 any undue attention to her on the return of the troops. 
 Agitated by contending emotions, she carefully watched 
 her husband from her hiding-place near the gate, after 
 bidding adieu to the wounded chief, hastily depart 
 for his own castle. Ashamed of her unjust suspicions, 
 Elvina wildly hurries homeward by a nearer path, to 
 greet him on his return, but in the darkness of the 
 night, misses her footing, falls over a precipice, and is 
 killed. Her mangled remains are found by a peasant, 
 and borne to the castle, when distraction seizes upon 
 Elvvood, who seeks relief at the head of his warriors — 
 
 " On Hexham's bloody plain ; 
 And when for him his warriors sought, 
 They found him 'mongst the slain."
 
 AND POEMS. lxix 
 
 The short poem entitled, " Reflections on the re- 
 turn of the Swallow," Mr James says, "according to 
 its length, [is] the best production of his pen. It is 
 in many parts deficient in rhythm ; it must, however, 
 always be kept in view that poetry is the soul, diction 
 merely the body ; but then to be perfect, they should 
 be in harmony — beautiful thoughts in beautiful lan- 
 guage. This piece is in almost every line imbued 
 with the very soul. I have read it repeatedly, and 
 confess that if Nicholson had written nothing beside, 
 it would have been sufficient to give him a high place 
 in my estimation. It was written upon the before- 
 mentioned rock at Harden Beck, on first observing, 
 in the year in which it was written, the swallow skim- 
 ming along the surface of the pool of water below. 
 The passage commencing 'Search for great Hanni- 
 bal,' is an excellent epitome of the vanity of human 
 greatness.* 
 
 " It would be a lengthy task to mark the varied 
 excellence of the minor pieces in the following pages. 
 
 ' Mr James appends a I the very remark- 
 
 able coincidence "f sentiment with a passage in Juvenal's tenth 
 Satire (Badham's translation), ami >ays he believes Nicholson 
 never read it. viz. : 
 
 " The urn of ashes t" the balance bear, 
 And mark how much <>f Hannibal be then." 
 
 The probability is, however, that Nicholson had read it, and 
 msciousl) 1 th'' idea of the Roman poet, as he 
 
 had before been kindly allowed access t" the libraries of I m 
 Hartley, the vicar of Bingley, and B. Ferrand, Esq ofSt Ives.
 
 Ixx NICHOLSON'S LIFE 
 
 Several of them are full of originality, grace, and 
 feeling ; and would not disgrace a collection of the 
 choicest pieces of English poetry. ' He has written 
 his heart in his Poems,' and it may be there legibly 
 read. He was no pander to vice. It is greatly to his 
 credit that neither in his published nor unpublished 
 writings are to be found (as I remember) any immoral 
 sentiments. 
 
 " x\lmost all Nicholson's pieces were written on 
 subjects which came within the sphere of his own 
 observation. ' Mary of Marley/ ' Maid of Lowdore,' 
 ' Sally on the heath-vestured hills,' had all their 
 living originals, with whom he was well acquainted " 
 (Life, etc., of Nicholson, prefixed to the Poems, pub- 
 lished in 1844, pp. 35, 36). 
 
 The " Lines on a Visit to a Workhouse," are no 
 imaginary theme, or mere sentimentalism, but a record 
 of a stern reality ; and exhibit genuine sympathy with 
 great delicacy of thought and purity of expression, 
 for an old man who had made him toys, and assisted 
 him to fly his kite when a boy. The realistic char- 
 acter of all the incidents exhibits a sad phase of the 
 want of parental affection in children towards their 
 aged and helpless parents. The effects of dotage are 
 given in a few lines, with much tenderness, and the 
 old man's prayer on behalf of his ungrateful offspring, 
 leave a painful impression on the reader's mind. 
 Well might the Poet say in conclusion :
 
 AND POEMS. Ixxi 
 
 " Touched with the scene, I turned aside to weep, 
 And like a child he calmly fell asleep." 
 
 The verses on the commemoration of Burns's birth- 
 day at Leeds in 1826, were reprinted, and a copy 
 sent to Lieutenant-Colonel Burns during the Glasgow 
 Centenary Festival, in honour of his father, and he 
 thought so highly of them, that he wrote to Nicholson's 
 widow, on behalf of his brother and himself: "We 
 think this poem superior to, and more to the purpose, 
 than many of the centenary poems." The last verse 
 has been pronounced by competent judges the finest 
 tribute ever penned to the memory of Burns. 
 
 Nicholson's rendering of the eighteenth Psalm is 
 deserving of the highest praise, and is vastly superior 
 to any other version. Mr James says : "The bending 
 heavens obeisance made," is "unmatched," and we 
 would add — can scarcely be surpassed. His moral 
 and religious poems are characterised by a tone of 
 cheerful piety, with an occasional sombre tinge. The 
 beautiful prayer at pp. 345-6 was one of the short 
 pieces which appeared in Nicholson's first pamphlet. 
 published ID 1821. It breathes the true spirit of 
 devotion, and shows the depth and fervour of his 
 religious principles at the time. I he wide-spread 
 popularity of his poetry is largely due to its varied, 
 earnest, natural character, and entire freedom from 
 affectation. [ts local colouring also serves as a 
 charm in his native county. His rank an
 
 lxxii NICHOLSON'S LIFE AND POEMS. 
 
 the poetic brotherhood was duly felt and acknow- 
 ledged by his contemporaries, Robert Story, Thomas 
 Crossley, and Edward Collinson, each of whom wrote 
 elegiac verses of great beauty on Nicholson's death, 
 and have all since passed away. And in con- 
 clusion we may note, in the words of the Rev. 
 J. P. Chown, " How thoroughly, genuinely Yorkshire 11 
 Nicholson is, "in his sturdy, outspoken, manly spirit; 
 not over-polished it may be in its utterance, but rich 
 in its full, deep, earnest feeling — worth more than all 
 the polish in the world — his song was like the river 
 poured out from the desert rock of old ; and while we 
 would acknowledge the power that gave it, we would 
 be thankful that we may still drink of its streams." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THOMAS CROSSLEY'S ELEGY 
 ON NICHOLSON'S DEATH. 
 
 " The Harp of Aire, by abbey old, 
 
 Of rapture yields no more a token ; 
 The hand which waked its fire is cold, 
 And all its thrilling chords are broken ! 
 
 " The spirit of old Ebor's sires, 
 
 How well his living verse portrays, 
 And bannered towers, and battle fires, 
 And sylvan songs of ancient days ! "
 
 (^OJ^DALE^CAR. 
 
 " — \©
 

 
 P O E M S. 
 
 AIREDALE IN ANCIENT TIMES. 
 
 Though greatest bards have sung most earthly things, 
 And scarcely left me room to touch the strings, 
 Yet humbly would I from the crowd retire, 
 And strike, though feebly, the responsive lyre. 
 By Nature's hand, O, may my harp be strung, 
 While I attempt the Vale that ne'er was sung ! 
 Spirit of Ancient Times ! my genius turn 
 To scenes long past — and make my fancy burn ! 
 Genius of History ! Learning's loveliest maid, 
 Around me let thy mantle be displayed ; — 
 Let all thy powers together be combined, 
 My soul t' illumine, and support my mind ! 
 
 Lead me, <> Muse, along Aire's winding course, 
 To sing of Gordale — its tremendous sotm ■■. 
 Where terror sits, and scorns the poet's pen, 
 The painter's pencil, — all the pow'rs of men :
 
 2 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Where sons of science oft confounded stand, 
 To view this wonder of the Almighty's hand ! 
 Here, in dark shade, the rifted rocks appear, 
 The bursting cataracts assail the ear ; 
 Projecting masses to the clouds are piled, 
 And Grandeur revels in her palace wild ! 
 E'en those that to description would aspire, 
 Gaze mute with awe, and silently retire. 
 Here fierce banditti once securely slept, 
 And joyous revelled, while the plundered wept. 
 We now, secure, these awful cliffs survey, 
 Nor dread to fall the base assassin's prey. 
 
 But softer scenes on Malham Water view, 
 When its smooth breast reflects the azure blue ; 
 Or when the skiffs, departing from its shore, 
 Convey the lovely nymphs of Craven o'er 
 The still lake ruffled by each rower's stroke, 
 And its smooth surface into surges broke, — 
 The circling woods return their cheerful song, 
 As nymphs and swains harmonious glide along ; 
 While at the flies the glittering fishes bound, 
 And twice ten thousand eddies circle round. 
 Anon 'tis ruffled like the foam-white sea, 
 Then smooth as glass, reflecting ev'ry tree ; 
 The lofty fells upon its breast are seen, 
 Brown here with heath, and there with brackens 
 green ;
 
 ALHAM LOVE. 
 
 Co
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 3 
 
 Health, rosy Health, diseases drives away, 
 And Pleasure loves amid those scenes to stray. 
 
 Firm fixed near, like the great throne of Jove, 
 Stands, rudely great, old Malham's lofty Cove, 
 From whence, in storms, the bursting streams are hurled, 
 Met by the winds, to misty vapours whirled. 
 Here the brave Percies, foremost in the chase, 
 Were followed by the sons of Clifford's race ; 
 Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn, • 
 Obeyed the cheerful summons of the horn ; 
 Malhams and Martons, on their hunters fleet, 
 Scattered the moorland moss beneath their feet, — 
 Rode down the rocky hills with rapid force, 
 And still undaunted held their ardent course, 
 While nodding antlers of the mountain deer 
 Topped the high hills, — the hounds, the hunters near ; 
 Next took the vale, and with ambition tried 
 Which rider durst o'erleap Aire's infant tide. 
 The shepherds in the valley left their Hocks. 
 Climbed the high hills, and shouted on the rocks. 
 But, oh ! how soon does human greatness fall I 
 Wha! years has ruin dwelt in Clifford's hall ! 
 The lord, the baron, and the warrior still, 
 And unite the horn on Elso's loft}- hill ! 
 
 The sons of Craven now are happier far, — 
 No Scottish warriors wage the cruel war,
 
 4 AIREDALE IN 
 
 As when the sons of Gargrave sallied forth 
 
 To meet the fierce invaders from the north ; 
 
 When on the shields the battle-axes rung, 
 
 Spears broke, helms cleft, and many a bow was strung ! 
 
 Death through Northumbrian fields had marked their 
 
 way, 
 And mothers wept where lifeless husbands lay ; 
 Friends, kindred, lovers, on the earth expired, 
 Their dwellings plundered, and their churches fired ; 
 The holy crucifix away was borne, 
 And from the shrines the sacred relics torn ; 
 The sacramental wine they rudely quaffed, 
 Smiled o'er the flames, and at destruction laughed ! 
 
 But when these hordes arrived on Craven's height, 
 The sons of Gargrave met them in the fight ; 
 Percy and Garri made a noble stand, 
 And fought their threefold numbers hand to hand. 
 His well-tried sword brave Garri whirled around, 
 And brought three Scottish leaders to the ground; 
 The blade of Percy bore the fray so well, 
 Beneath his arm five Northern warriors fell, 
 Their helms he cleft with many a mighty stroke, — 
 His tempered weapon bent — but never broke. 
 No banner waved, no trumpets sounded clear, 
 T' inspire their breasts — 'twas silent conflict there ! 
 The brackens green, where the hot battle burned, 
 To crimson with the warriors' gore were turned ;
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 
 
 But soon of Percy's band but ten remained, 
 
 The mountain stream with streaks of blood was stained; 
 
 The deep-dyed waters crept, meandering slow, 
 
 As loth to tell the tragic tale below ; 
 
 There many a wounded youth, oppressed with pain, 
 
 Laid on the earth— their pillows were the slain. 
 
 With conquest fired, the Northerns sallied down, 
 To plunder Gargrave's lone deserted town ; 
 The blazing brands within the church they hurled, 
 And soon the flames around the altar curled, 
 While from the burning roof the molten lead 
 Dropped on the ancient tombstones of the dead ; 
 The blood-red sun sank slowly in the west, 
 As by the dreadful scene of woe oppressed : 
 But plunder ceased not in the shades of night, 
 The blazing ruins lent a baleful light, 
 Till Ski] iton's sons appeared, with banners red — 
 The Scots beheld their glitt'ring arms and fled ! 
 
 What little cause have moderns to complain. 
 Throughout our isle ! — no native warriors slain ; 
 < )tir fertile valleys, in improving charms, 
 Willi Commerce smile, secure from war's alarms. 
 How changed, since Skipton's ancient towers arose, 
 Their country's strength, and terror of its foes ! 
 Where Mes< nines, the long ejected heir. 
 Led to the altar Cicily the Fair,
 
 6 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Obtaining thus, what many a life had cost, 
 With his fair bride, the lands his father lost ;— 
 All those domains which Edwin once possessed, 
 Where famed Romili fixed his place of rest. 
 By ancient chiefs to Skipton then were brought, 
 The arms with which the Norman warriors fought ; 
 Cuirass and corslet, helm and brigantine, 
 Worn by the warriors of the Norman line, 
 Bows, quivers, darts, and many a massive spear, 
 Lances and swords, have oft been polished there ; 
 Banners, which waved when shields and helmets rung, 
 Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung 
 High in the tower, as in a place of trust, 
 Now wasted all, and worn away with rust. 
 Here, gorgeous, glittered, once in days of old, 
 Satins of various dyes, adorned with gold ; 
 The ladies' vests with gems were spangled o'er, 
 And silvered robes the ancient Cliffords wore ; 
 Their hangings were of silk, with silver tinged, 
 And velvet canopies with gold were fringed ; 
 Whole butts of wine were in the cellar stowed, 
 And in the hall the vessels oft o'erflowed, 
 Upon each dish the dragon was portrayed, 
 And underneath a gory lion laid, 
 Warriors and arms were 'graven on the plate, 
 To show their fathers wished them to be great ; 
 Upon their cups, embossed, was many a shield, 
 And this strong charge — " Let Cliffords never yield ! "
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 7 
 
 Upon the wall their bright steel armour hung, 
 
 With dimples marked, where many a spear had 
 
 rung. 
 Then many a sumptuous lordly feast was kept', 
 And ladies here o'er warriors slain have wept ; 
 Here lords have hunted through their wide domains, 
 Rode o'er the rocks, and galloped on the plains ; 
 Here ancient sports, and many a Northern bard, 
 Passed not unheeded nor without regard ; 
 Here many a night of jollity has been, 
 And festive mirth was stamped on every scene : 
 But how can scenes of centuries long gone by, 
 With all the ancient feats of chivalry, 
 Their feuds, their battles, revelry and sport, 
 Their imitations of the monarch's court ; 
 Their priest, revered, by superstition fed, 
 Who, they believed, could liberate the dead ; 
 The sieges which the lofty towers sustained, 
 Till on their tops no battlement remained ; 
 Their great possessors, since the Norman king? — 
 iwd all at once — too much for me -to sing: 
 ien, oh forgive a feeble rustic bard, 
 When he admits tin mighty task too hard! 
 Yet here, alone, to pass some pensive how 
 
 In walking round these desolated towei 
 
 Where late such greatness and such valour dwelt. 
 
 Reflection, sure, the hardest heart would melt.
 
 8 AIREDALE IN 
 
 But to the vale I'll turn, where Aire winds slow, 
 And its pure waters scarcely seem to flow ; 
 Where cattle fed, and scarce a wall was seen, 
 But all one wide extended park of green ; 
 Or, when the native butter-flow'rets blew, 
 The valley shone in robes of golden hue, 
 The mountain's side with ash was spotted o'er, 
 Which Nature planted centuries before ; 
 Above, the huge grey rocks, which ne'er had broke 
 Since the creation with the hammer's stroke, 
 Where prickly furze for ages blossomed round, 
 And the brown heath the lofty mountains crowned, 
 From whence the crystal rills did gushing flow, 
 To seek repose within the vale below ; 
 Where the young shepherds sought the cooling shade, 
 And underneath the far spread branches laid, 
 Tuned their sweet pipes, their flocks all grazing round, 
 While their loved nymphs stood list'ning to the sound. 
 Then near some lonely grange upon the green, 
 Where the old yew-trees had for cent'ries been, 
 In rural bliss the loving pairs would play, 
 And quite forget the labours of the day, — 
 Sing of some ancient warriors whom they knew, 
 Firm to their king, and to their country true ; 
 Or of some maid, who loved, but could not gain 
 The fickle heart of her too haughty swain, — 
 How oft she wandered in the fields alone, 
 Till reason and her beauty all were gone.
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 9 
 
 They sung, till tears stood trembling in each eye. 
 And not a heart was there but heaved a sigh. 
 Next, on his staff, oppressed with weight of years, 
 The father comes, and calls them in to prayers ; 
 His reverend looks they dare not disobey, — 
 The worst from ev'ning worship could not stay : 
 Then from his heart the Pater Noster flows, — 
 He worships God as truly as he knows ; 
 No new fanatics can with him compare, 
 In true devotion, and the fervent prayer. 
 
 But I must sing of scenes more ancient still, 
 When offerings smoked upon the rocky hill ; 
 In days long past, when, circled round with wood, 
 The lowly huts of pristine warriors stood, 
 Where the majestic oaks their branches spread, 
 And for the Druids formed a sacred shade. 
 Who, at one period of the changing year, 
 Did for their deep, imposing rites prepare. 
 White as the snow their sacred vests appeared ; 
 They as the gods' vicegerents wire revered. 
 ( >n every hill the milk-white beasts were sought ; 
 When found, with joy they to the groves were 
 
 brought 
 Then \ illed the flowers with I st care. 
 
 To strive who could the richest wreath prepare ; 
 While to the harps of bards the peasants sung, 
 And round the beasts the rosy garlands hung.
 
 10 AIREDALE IN 
 
 The rock, which yet retains the Altar's name, 
 Had honours paid, and mighty was its fame. 
 There, 'tis presumed, the mistletoe was laid, 
 While to their unknown god the Druids prayed ; 
 There were domestic quarrels made to cease, 
 And foes at variance thence returned in peace. 
 Unlike the various priests of modern days, 
 So different, that they teach a thousand ways ; 
 And though they boast superior knowledge given, 
 Who knows but Druids taught the way to heaven ? 
 Then all returning from the Altar's height, 
 Some filled with awe, some smiling with delight, 
 While ancient bards, as slow they moved along, 
 Touched their wild harps, and this their artless song 
 
 Now with the gods our peace is made, 
 
 No demon's spell or charm 
 Can make our hawthorn blossoms fade, 
 
 Our flock or herbage harm. 
 
 Safe from the wolf and furious boar 
 
 We rest another year ; 
 No fox shall take our feathered store, 
 
 Or make our springs less clear. 
 
 No fairy climb the lofty oak, 
 The sacred plant * to kill ; 
 
 * Mistletoe.
 
 XhE .0 RUIDS' \'LTAP V .
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 11 
 
 No warrior wear a bloody cloak, 
 Or fall upon the hill. 
 
 No eagle, from the stormy north, 
 Shall our young lambs destroy ; 
 
 Nor hawk nor raven shall come forth, 
 To blast our rural joy. 
 
 But ev'rything we want is ours, 
 Bestowed by bounteous Heaven, 
 
 And falls like fruitful rain in showers, 
 If for them praise be given. 
 
 Oft on the hills, to chase the dappled deer, 
 The painted Britons would in troops appear ; 
 Swift as the hind they bounded o'er the plain — 
 The sportive chase was then their only gain. 
 They knew not then the sickle, scythe, nor hoe ; 
 No panting oxen laboured at the plough : 
 Their flocks and herds were then their only store, 
 They lived content, nor knew, nor wished for 
 
 more. 
 But, if their chiefs had struck upon the shield, 
 And railed their warriors to the embattled field. 
 They left their houses, and all their rural charms, 
 And o'er their painted shoulders threw their arms : 
 The British virgins, while their bows were strung, 
 Joined with the native bards, while thus they sung :
 
 12 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Britain ! the land by gods beloved, 
 The land of warriors brave, 
 
 Who ever meet their foes unmoved, 
 Nor dread the hero's grave. 
 
 By barbarous foes unconquered still, 
 The pastures yet our own ; 
 
 And ours the grove and sacred hill, 
 While Cuno * wears the crown. 
 
 The northern nations, fierce, may come, 
 To waste our fruitful field ; 
 
 But those shall rue they left their home, 
 And soon to Britons yield. 
 
 Arm, warriors, arm ! your children call — 
 The gods will give you aid ; 
 
 Before your spears your foes shall fall, 
 The mighty army fade ! 
 
 Arm, warriors, arm ! your all defend — 
 The Highland foe is near ! 
 
 Let all upon the gods depend, 
 And strangers be to fear ! 
 
 *&» 
 
 With quivers filled, and brazen spears, 
 With trumpets loud and strong, 
 
 Rush to the fight — the foe appears, 
 But foes shall not be long. 
 
 * Cunobuline, a British prince.
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. I 3 
 
 Thus sung the bards — and at their words, 
 
 At once the warriors drew 
 From brazen sheaths their glitt'ring swords, 
 
 And to the conflict flew. 
 
 So 'twas of old, one dreadful day, 
 
 Which ancient bards did sing, 
 When mighty warriors fled away, 
 
 Like hawks upon the wing. 
 
 Fierce were their foes, — the savage boar 
 
 Had lent its bristled hide, 
 Which they for barbarous helmets wore, 
 
 With various colours dyed. 
 
 Upon their breasts imagined beasts 
 
 And monsters were portrayed ; 
 The Highland skins, with labour dressed, 
 
 Was then their tartan plaid. 
 
 Dreadfully grim the van appeared, 
 
 A far extended line ; 
 l rom wing to wing their spears, upreared, 
 
 1 >id bright as silver shine. 
 
 The Britons waited cot to \ iew 
 
 < >r study dangers o'er ; 
 But, dauntless, in their chariots flew, 
 
 And stained their arms in gore.
 
 14 AIREDALE IN 
 
 The conflicts on the fields of Troy 
 
 To this were but a fray ; 
 Each Grecian warrior but a boy, 
 
 To those who fought that day. 
 
 . No room to bear the banners high ; 
 No breath to give command ; 
 No heart to fear, no way to fly ; 
 But warrior hand to hand ! 
 
 Swords cut like saws, and broke in twain, 
 
 And spears as crimson red, 
 Were strewed all o'er the bloody plain, 
 
 Or grasped by many dead. 
 
 Thus, when the Picts or Romans came in sight, 
 The Britons rushed like torrents to the fight ; 
 Their chariot wheels with sharpest weapons hung, 
 And from each car were darts and arrows flung ; 
 Death marked the way where'er the chariots turned, 
 And round each chief the bloody battle burned : 
 But if the artful cohorts gained the field, 
 The Britons made the woods their nightly shield, 
 And when the Romans thought the battle won, 
 They found, next morn, the conflict scarce begun. 
 Thus Britons fought, — by Boadicea led, 
 And on the slain the wolves and eagles fed.
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 15 
 
 Say, winding Aire, ye rocks, ye woods, and hills, 
 How you were stained — and how your crystal rills 
 Ran crimsoned with your native warriors' blood, 
 When on the heights the Roman eagles stood, 
 Where Olicano's rocky station rose, 
 And Briton bowed, reluctant, to her foes ! 
 But now, could Greece her ancient grandeur gain, 
 Could Roman chiefs once more resume their reign ; 
 Could Caesar leap on shore to invade our land, 
 And all his legions pour upon the strand ; 
 Should Alexander, with his mighty host, 
 With Xerxes in the rear — all threat'ning boast 
 To bring the myriads of their warriors here, 
 The troops of Waterloo would never fear, 
 For one dread day like that at Trafalgar, 
 Had brought to peace the ten years' Trojan war ! 
 
 O Nature ! be my muse — to touch the scene 
 Of Bingley's glories, which long since have been : 
 When in full splendour were its ancient halls, 
 And high achievements graced their massy walls; 
 W hen oaks, which now the whirlwind's force with- 
 stand, 
 
 LTth beneath an infant's hand. 
 Where winding Aire, enamoured of the place, 
 Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze : — 
 To leave the scene the glitt'ring river rooun 
 And shows reluctance in its varied turns,
 
 16 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Till, forced at last, it rushes down the steep, 
 Turns into rage, as if too proud to weep ! 
 
 Could I but call some venerable shade, 
 Whose earthly part a thousand years has laid 
 Within the tomb, in silent, soft repose, 
 Perhaps it might such things as these disclose : 
 Where rolls the stream above yon sacred fane, 
 And where the hills, in Time's all- wasting reign, 
 Have changed their forms; while, struggling for its way, 
 The furious flood has torn a part away 
 Of yonder fields, which bear a castle's name, — 
 There once a castle stood, though lost to fame : 
 But, safely sheltered from the feudal rage, 
 It gained no place in the historian's page ; 
 And as the greatest temples rise and fall, 
 So none can tell where stood its ancient hall ; 
 Its Gothic arches and strong-built keep, 
 Within th' adjacent floods are buried deep ; 
 The strong foundations of its lofty towers, 
 Crumbled to sand, and washed away with showers ! 
 
 The river's course a thousand times has changed, 
 Since on its banks the ancient Druids ranged ; 
 The fords, which once the Roman cohorts crossed, 
 Filled up with sand, are now for ever lost. 
 The course, now fields, where once the river ran — 
 Emblem of empires, and of changing man !
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 17 
 
 The streams of Science once through Egypt flowed, 
 
 When Thebes in all its ancient grandeur glowed ; 
 
 Then left the margin of the fruitful Nile, 
 
 Crossed o'er to Greece, and made great Athens smile. 
 
 Athens and Corinth fell — and Rome appeared, 
 
 Stretched forth her empire, and no danger feared, 
 
 Till Gothic ignorance, with sable robe 
 
 Of darkest superstition, wrapt the globe. 
 
 Then bigot Fury reared its hydra head ; 
 
 Then Science sunk, and all the Muses fled 
 
 To their own shades, and there for cent'ries mourned, 
 
 Nor to Parnassus have they yet returned : 
 
 At length on earth again they deigned to smile, 
 
 And fixed their residence on Albion's isle. 
 
 But stop, my Muse — haste not so far away ! 
 I'll woo thee in my native vale to stay. 
 Its beauties be thy theme — the woods and dells, 
 Sequestered bowers, and sweet melodious bells ; 
 The flow'r-deck'd lawn, the distant heath-crowned 
 
 hills, 
 Stupendous rocks, and softly-murmuring rills; 
 The woodland e< hoes whispering in the trees, 
 < >r floating loudly on the fitful breeze : 
 Where nought of sameness the charmed sight offends, 
 
 But every Si ene the former scene transcends ; 
 Where rocks in rich variety are dressed, 
 Some in the grey, and some the auburn vest :
 
 18 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Where varying Nature gives the lovely tinge, 
 And on the banks suspends the mossy fringe. 
 But where's the bard can sing of Bingley's vale, 
 And never once in his descriptions fail ? 
 'Tis here the modest snow-drop first appears, 
 Drooping its head, and wet with icy tears, 
 Like some poor bard, unknown to public fame, 
 It shrinks and withers on its native stem. 
 And here the primrose, from its mossy bed, 
 Silver'd with dew lifts up its lovely head, 
 Where springing woodbine to the hazel cleaves, 
 With snow still pressing down its velvet leaves. 
 How pleasant here to walk, when daisies spring, 
 While the sweet bells in tuneful changes ring, 
 When ev'ry tone the echoing woods receive, 
 And thus delightfully the ear deceive, 
 Reverberating, mellow, sweet and clear, 
 As though a far more dulcet peal was there ! 
 
 Could I describe the days of olden time, 
 When first this valley heard the varying chime ;— 
 I hear them yet — am present at the hour 
 When zealous crowds from every village pour, 
 At early morn, upon the holy day, 
 To worship God, confess their sins, and pray. 
 No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find, 
 But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind.
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 19 
 
 The Church, established, is their favourite place, 
 And reverence dwells on every varied face. 
 The manor's lord, with all his household, comes,— 
 His honest tenants leave their distant homes ; 
 The rural peasant takes his frugal wife, 
 And ev'ry child, without religious strife. 
 The aged come, with years of labour worn, 
 Nor stop, though distant, on the holy morn. 
 The daughter here an aged mother bears, 
 Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers ; 
 And there the son leads on his pious sire, 
 Warmed with devotion's purest, holiest fire. 
 'Tis reverence all — no lightsome smile appears, 
 See them, and blush, ye modern worshippers ! 
 Your fathers met their Maker to adore, 
 Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er, 
 And from the priest words of affection flowed 
 He prayed, he wept — until the list'ning crowd 
 Melted to tears; and tears that were not feigned, 
 Like crystal drops, from all the audience rained. 
 Such were the days when churehes were rebuilt, 
 Though days of darkness, not so great their guilt. 
 
 Igh history has .shaded o'er with < rimes 
 The Ion- past period of the feudal u\< 
 line foreign luxuries were yet unknown, 
 And all they wished was in the valley grown, —
 
 20 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Their wholesome food was butter, cheese, and milk, 
 
 And Airedale's ladies never shone in silk ; 
 
 The line they grew their own soft hands prepared, 
 
 The wool unheeded to the poor was spared ; — 
 
 But few the poor, unless by age oppressed, 
 
 At little rent some acres each possessed. 
 
 When from the fields the golden sheaves were 
 
 led, 
 The lovely fair could glean their winter's bread ; 
 The husbandman could to his cottage bear 
 The withered boughs, his frugal hearth to cheer, 
 Or oft at eve his willow basket, stored 
 With wholesome viands from his lib'ral lord ; 
 Or did he want for Lent a proper dish, 
 Aire's silv'ry streams produced unnumbered fish ; 
 Their fruitful boughs the mellow apples bore, 
 And plum-trees bended with the sable store ; — 
 The ills which crowded population brings, 
 Had never broke, sweet rural bliss, thy wings ! 
 Then on the green the nymphs and swains would 
 
 dance, 
 Or, in a circle, tell some old romance ; 
 And all the group would seriously incline 
 To hear of Saracens and Palestine, — 
 Of knights in armour of each various hue, 
 Of ladies left, some false, and others true. 
 Their pure descriptions showed how warriors bled, 
 How virgins wept to hear of heroes dead —
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 21 
 
 The furious steeds swift rushing to the war, 
 The turbann'd Turks, the bloody scimitar,— 
 The cross-marked banners on the lofty height, 
 The impious struck with terror at the sight ! 
 Then told what spectres grim were seen to glide 
 Along this dale, before its heroes died, 
 Then marked their fall within the holy vale, 
 Described them, lifeless, in their coats of mail,— 
 Told how some lady, frantic with despair, 
 Shriek'd, as she plung'd into the deeps of Aire, 
 When tidings reach'd her from the Holy Land, 
 That her lov'd lord lay dee]) in Jordan's sand — 
 And how her shrieks flew echoing through the 
 
 wood, 
 While her rich jewels glittered in the flood ! 
 Thus happy they their summer's evening spent. 
 Parted in peace, and homeward singing went ; 
 Their voices, soft as th' iEolian strings, 
 Flew to sweet Echo on the halcyon's wings. 
 Such was this vale when Kirkstall's glories shone. 
 And who can help but sigh that they are gone? 
 
 "I'is plea-ant yet to sec hew ivy clin. 
 Around the walls where night birds clap their wings . 
 A solemn awe pervades the feeling bre 
 To view the sacred earth with ruins pressed — 
 The fallen anh, the shattered tower <>n high, 
 Remind us of the days and years gone 1>\ :
 
 22 AIREDALE IN 
 
 Imagination sees the whole entire — 
 
 The smoke yet curling in the ancient choir, 
 
 And slowly as the clouds of incense roll, 
 
 The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole, 
 
 While the great organ, solemn, deep, and strong, 
 
 Joins with the worshippers in sacred song ; — 
 
 Beholds the Abbot in his robes arrayed, 
 
 The altar wet, where once Turgesius prayed, 
 
 The tapers burning, till each holy shrine 
 
 More brilliant than the thrones of monarchs shine. 
 
 The glitt'ring cross, the Virgin's image there, 
 
 Before the imagination all appear ; 
 
 The veiled nuns, on some grand solemn night, 
 
 Ranged on each side, in vests of purest white. 
 
 Though centuries intervene, yet fancy hears 
 
 The Abbot reading o'er the Latin prayers ; 
 
 How still — how awful ! as the solemn strain 
 
 Now swells, and now to whispers falls again ! 
 
 Till the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd, 
 
 Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud, 
 
 In all the diapasons deep or clear, 
 
 Man could invent, or his weak passions bear ! 
 
 The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen, 
 
 Is cover'd with a mossy robe of green ; 
 
 Elms in the cloisters grow, and like a pall, 
 
 Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall ; 
 
 Upon the place where many a knight lies low, 
 
 Weeds, nettles, and the baneful nightshade grow,
 
 irkstallAjbbey. 
 
 <sr — »
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 23 
 
 While on the cornice wildly waves the fern, 
 Like verdant plumes, in many a graceful turn. 
 
 How chang'd is Kirkstall, since to ruin turned, 
 And slow departing the last abbot mourned ; 
 When ancient records, kept with pious care, 
 Clung to the boughs which overhung the Aire, 
 Or, tossed in flames, or into pieces torn, 
 Like autumn leaves upon the winds were borne ; 
 Its income gone, and lost its fruitful land, 
 Which was bequeathed by many a dying hand ; 
 The granges ruined, and the cattle sold, 
 The sheep removed to a far distant fold ; 
 All that was good and precious swept away, 
 And seiz'd by desolation as its prey ! 
 Of all its wealth the once famed place bereft, 
 And but the walls were to the artist left, 
 While many a pensive stranger, passing by. 
 Stops to admire, then leaves them with a sigh ! 
 
 The scenes how changed, since Loidi's castle stood 
 Encircled by the ancient park and wood ! 
 Where streets are now, the shining pheasants flew, 
 
 ( )r cattle Cropped the daisies closed witli dew ; 
 
 Commerce, to All modern sons so 
 
 Had never spread her -olden pinions there. 
 Where churches stand, some centuries . 
 The swift-wing'd arrow left the an
 
 24 AIREDALE IN 
 
 A village small, no vessel then could ride, 
 
 The sails unfurling in commercial pride, 
 
 A place of little note and scarcely known, 
 
 Whose fame now widely spreads through ev'ry zone. 
 
 The village youth then heard but Kirkstall's bells, 
 
 And rustics sported where the organ swells ; 
 
 Where now extends the great commercial street, 
 
 The virgins pluck'd the hawthorn blossoms sweet, 
 
 And where the spacious public halls are seen, 
 
 In times remote was once the village green, 
 
 Where noontide hours, and many a summer's night, 
 
 Were danc'd away with feelings of delight. 
 
 Upon the hills where oaks for cent'ries grew, 
 
 Years, undisturbed, the glossy pheasants flew ; 
 
 Partridge and hares in ev'ry field were bred, 
 
 And never fell, struck by the murd'ring lead. 
 
 From aged furze, or from the lonely rocks, 
 
 Oft nightly wander'd forth the wily fox ; 
 
 The valleys echoed on the early morn, 
 
 With hounds, with huntsman, and the cheerful horn ! 
 
 Then, as they crossed the vale, fleet as the air, 
 
 Forsaken, lagg'd behind, old wrinkled Care, 
 
 Joy joined the chase, and cheered each sportive mind, 
 
 And Sorrow there could no companion find. 
 
 The life-inspiring cries the hunter knew, 
 
 And from each breast dark melancholy flew ; 
 
 Pleasure and Mirth the foremost led the chase, 
 
 And rosy health was shining on each face.
 
 ANCIENT TIMES. 25 
 
 With all our modern concerts, parties, balls, 
 Assembly rooms, our theatres and halls, 
 Are we more happy than the ancient lord, 
 With good October sparkling on his board, 
 His warriors round him, and the tuneful lyre 
 Strung by the bards, who sang his valiant sire ;— 
 A lady lov'd, who strove her lord to please ; 
 A priest at hand his troubled breast to ease ? 
 One wife he lov'd, the chase, and moral song,— 
 No follies broke his constitution strong : 
 His guests true hearted, each a warrior brave, 
 And not a heart but scorn'd to be a slave. 
 To-day they to the chase or feasting yield, 
 To-morrow duty calls them to the field. 
 With learning unrefined, they knew no fear, 
 When front to front they met the shining spear. 
 Such were the sons of Leeds when Towton's plain 
 Was crimsoned o'er with thirty thousand slain ; 
 Their king they lov'd, and for their king they died. 
 While Wharfs clear stream roll'd on a purple tide ; 
 And if our favoured isle continue free, 
 Such musl tin- modern lords of Britain be. 
 
 -.-*
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Let Northern Poets sing of Highland glens, 
 Their rocky caverns, and their sombre dens ; 
 The heath-clad mountains, and their high cascades, 
 Their gurgling streams, and moonlight fairy shades ; 
 Their rugged tow'ring rocks, grown grey with years, 
 On whose rough front the bilberry bloom appears ; 
 Their ancient oaks, by Nature tumbled down, 
 O'er whose huge trunks the mossy robe is thrown ; 
 And scenes which triumph o'er description's power — 
 All these are seen near Barden's ancient tower, 
 Where peaceful, dwelt, some centuries ago, 
 Those that durst meet in arms the Border foe. 
 Or climb the hills, in ancient hawking skilled, 
 And bear the bow with brazen quivers filled, 
 Then send the arrow from the powerful string, 
 That stopped the fleeting salmon's finny wing ; 
 Or, did the eagle soar above his head, 
 A shaft flies swift — the soaring eagle's dead. 
 Oft, when at eve, he wandered near the rocks, 
 And on their shelves beheld the wily fox,
 
 THE LYRE OE EBOR. 27 
 
 Swift flew the arrow from the well-strung bow, 
 
 And brought his victim to the vale below. 
 
 In this romantic, wild, and hidden place, 
 
 The sons of Craven oft enjoyed the chase ; 
 
 When Cliffords for a time hung by their arms, 
 
 And lived secure amidst their valley's charms. 
 
 The deer and fox they seldom then pursued, 
 
 But monsters, that oft stained their tusks with blood, 
 
 To which the traveller feared to fall a prey, 
 
 And mothers wept for children borne away. 
 
 A crimson robe o'er Sol's bright orb was spread, 
 Which tinged the hills, and every mountain's head, 
 When near the rural stables, formed of wood, 
 With horses fleet, the humble vassals stood ; 
 Then the old horn, with long-forgotten sound, 
 Sent forth its notes to all the woods around ; 
 The woods, as though they each possessed a horn, 
 
 e softer tones, t' improve the jocund morn. 
 The ancient Cliffords, with the bow and sp< 
 In hunting dress of bristled hides appear; 
 Their vassals send to range the forest e'er. 
 And find the cavern of the furious hoar. 
 PrimO gave mouth, as down the hills they went. 
 When- tlie rough monster late had left his scent : 
 
 As bees, when swarming, near their queen are 
 
 found. 
 So sung around the best, each favourite hound.
 
 28 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The various deep-mouthed notes, distinct and strong, 
 
 Flew to the woods, as echo flies along ; 
 
 The deer, affrighted, climbed the park's high hill, 
 
 Ranged for the worst, in silence all stood still. 
 
 The boar, enraged, the loosened earth upheaves, 
 
 Shows his huge fangs, his den reluctant leaves ; 
 
 Ten years of rapine had improved his strength — 
 
 His tusks and bristles each a foot in length. 
 
 Then were the sons of ancient Barden near, 
 
 And those of Buckden, who the chase could cheer. 
 
 Bolton's strong youths, and those of Hazelwood, 
 
 In rustic pride upon the mountains stood ; 
 
 And on their steeds old Skipton's sons came o'er 
 
 The rocky hills, to hunt this mighty boar. 
 
 Then were no dandies, delicately laced, 
 
 With all the beauty of a Frenchman graced ; 
 
 But each was such as might have met in war 
 
 Foes on the rock, the mountain, or the scar, 
 
 And such as for their country had been tried, 
 
 With those who for their constitution died ; 
 
 Such as had fought, but none could make them 
 
 yield, 
 When front to front they met on Flodden field, 
 Where many left their nearest kindred slain, 
 But ne'er refused to meet their foes again. 
 
 The sand young Clifford held was half run down, 
 When for the chase the cheerful horn was blown ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 29 
 
 Then was the best of Craven hunts begun, 
 The lords e'er saw, or hounds could ever run. 
 Down bent the bushes as he ran along, 
 While every hound joined in the enlivening song, 
 Old Garden's oaks so low their branches spread, 
 That none could ride, but each his hunter led. 
 ( )fttimes the monster stopped, as in disdain, 
 Then heard the shouts, and hastened on again ; 
 Till from the woody shades he burst away, 
 And with him burst the glories of the day ! 
 Some sunk in bogs, and nearly buried, stood, 
 While others, shouting, issued from the wood ; 
 Beheld the hounds spread on their scented way, 
 While Posforth Gill just kept them from their 
 prey. 
 
 Clifford rode first, and swift the chase he led, 
 While the black heath was dimpled as he fled : 
 Next Skipton's sons, and those of Barden Fell, 
 Followed in « jui«k succession through the dell : 
 Anon, the youths of Bolton led the v. 
 Then Eastby hunters rode the first that day ; 
 While Rilstone riders showed themselves to be 
 
 better horsemen than the moderns see. 
 The footmen stopped behind, half tilled with f< 
 That his rough hide was proof against their spe i 
 Then high o'er Hober's hill, whose sable crest 
 ( >ft with the furious monster had been prest,
 
 30 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The cheerful tenants of the woody vale 
 
 Shouted sometimes, then told a hunting tale ; 
 
 Till, swelling on the breeze, they hear the sounds 
 
 Of hunters' shouts, and cry of eager hounds. 
 
 The answering shouts from its high top arise, 
 
 And hats and caps are cast toward the skies ! 
 
 Ofttimes the boar would strive to seek repose, 
 
 Then front to front would meet his coming foes ; 
 
 And, as he found his every effort vain, 
 
 He hastened, panting, further up the plain. 
 
 At length he found a chasm, where oft he'd lain, 
 
 Half filled with bones of victims he had slain. 
 
 The hunters came, and raised their shining spears — 
 
 His blazing eye-balls showed he knew no fears. 
 
 The fiercest British bull-dogs stood around, 
 
 At last a mastiff his deep cavern found ; 
 
 Three bull-dogs followed, two of which were slain, 
 
 Before they brought him to the light again. 
 
 A rash young hunter would have thrown his spear, 
 
 But Clifford raised his arm, and cried, " Forbear ! 
 
 The sun has reached not the meridian sky, 
 
 Let there be nobler sport before he die." 
 
 The streams of Wharf roared not in rapid flood, 
 But sung in semichorus through the wood. 
 The hunters saw him rise the western hill, 
 Then those were tried who had true horsemen's 
 
 skill. 

 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 31 
 
 Clifford stopped not at Wharf to ask how deep, 
 When each had swiftly galloped down the steep, 
 But crossed the ford, and on the sporting day, 
 His followers whitened Wharfs broad streams with 
 
 spray. 
 The waters curled around each horse's mane, 
 While the beat foam fell on their heads like rain : 
 But soon all forded safe, and every care 
 Was thrown like feathers to the empty air. 
 
 The calling of the Muse has grown so stale, 
 And in the foremost lines of every tale, 
 Such invocations by each scribbler's penned, 
 That she'll no more to poets' prayers attend ; 
 Else for her aid would I sincerely pray, 
 T inspire me while I sing that glorious day, 
 When swift to Simon Seat's dark rocky height, 
 The bristly monster took his rapid flight ; 
 Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near, 
 
 oft he turned, and stopped their speed with tear. 
 Since Wh irfs clear stream within the Strid was bound, 
 The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a sound : 
 
 all the hunting of the fox and d 
 < mid equal this in true heroic cheer. 
 The hills and vales in i 
 
 Till near the rocks the hunters' hows were strur, 
 Then was the glory of the hunting crowned. 
 And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hou:
 
 32 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 All on an acre of the rocky hill, 
 Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill. 
 Low on the earth the savage monster sate, 
 And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate ; 
 Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide, 
 But, weary, thrice fell panting at his side. 
 Though better steeds for hunting never met, 
 The brightest bays were changed to brown with sweat ; 
 And such had been the chase, the stoutest there 
 Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear. 
 But brave young Clapham, of old Beamsley Hall, 
 Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall. 
 While low was laid the tyrant of the wood, 
 Each hound seemed greedy to devour his blood : 
 But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain, 
 And dared his various foes to approach again ; 
 Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath, 
 Before the mighty monster fell in death. 
 Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead, 
 Took his bright spear, and pierced him through the 
 
 head. 
 In death his bloody jaws were opened wide, 
 While the red foam was thrown on every side ; 
 The vale of Barden now with shouting rung — 
 This song the harpers have for ages sung : 
 
 Young Clifford, the hunter, who rode on that day, 
 From Barden's strong portals first hasted away;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 33 
 
 His horse was the fleetest that e'er trod the moss, 
 And the best that the streams of a river could cross : 
 Whether hounds were pursuing the fox or the boar, 
 He seldom was left on the wild heathy moor. 
 
 Three times to the Strid his brave master he bore, 
 And thrice on that day the deep gulf he leaped o'er. 
 Whenever they hunted the boar or the fox, 
 The hoofs of his hunter would ring on the rocks ; 
 A better in Craven there never was tried, 
 And none but brave Clapham could come near his 
 side. 
 
 The foam from his mouth as the feathers he throws, 
 Or white as the flakes, when it silently snows ; 
 He is fit for the mountain, the valley, or scars, 
 And he champs his bright bits when he goes to the 
 
 wars ; 
 As L, r ood as the steed was the rider he bore. 
 And his equal in Craven shall never be more. 
 
 Strike the harp to his praise, and the praise of the fair. 
 May hi attend them wherever they are ' 
 
 If the soft kiss of ] i tl lot of the bride, 
 
 Or the tear-drop of love, when affection is tried. 
 
 When happy at home, or engaged on the field, 
 
 May her prayers be all answered, and Heaven his 
 
 shield ! 
 
 c
 
 34 THE L YRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The monster dead, the valleys rung with praise, 
 In louder shouts than those of modern days ; 
 Then from this dreaded powerful beast of prey, 
 With Clifford's sword, the head was cut away : 
 Then vassal, tenant, shepherd, lord and knight, 
 To Barden haste to spend the festive night. 
 Whate'er great Clifford's table could afford, 
 Was then enjoyed by vassal, knight and lord ; 
 Then o'er old Barden Bridge young Clifford led 
 His comrades, shouting, with the monster's head. 
 
 But clouds obscured the fast declining sun, 
 To rumble deep the thunder had begun ; 
 The pouring torrents, lightning, hail, and rain, 
 Hid Whernside's top, and deluged all the plain. 
 The mountain rocks, clad in their moss array, 
 Reared their high heads, by time half worn away. 
 The pond'rous blocks were hurried down the steep, 
 Hurled o'er the cat'racts to the foaming deep. 
 Old oaks, which long in Bolton Park had stood, 
 Forced from their stations, rolled upon the flood ; 
 What once were weak and tinkling crystal rills, 
 Rolled rumbling, foaming, dashing down the hills, — 
 Clothed in a brown and muddy robe of spray, 
 Bearing the rocks, like captives forced away. 
 The pond'rous bridge, perhaps three centuries 
 
 old, 
 Gave way, and on the dashing flood was rolled,
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 35 
 
 And stones which on the battlements had stood, 
 Were hurried far down Wharfs deceitful flood : 
 While every torrent from the heathy brow, 
 Gushed in grand cat'racts to the floods below. 
 The Vale of Desolation was a scene 
 Which for long ages never once had been. 
 The massive rocks, which had for ages stood, 
 Were tossed like pebbles in the boiling flood ; 
 The mossy robes torn off they'd borne for years — 
 And left the valley as it now appears, 
 Rough, waste, and wild, in every varied form 
 Mi irked with the terrors of the thunderstorm. 
 The river's brink with withered roots is hung, 
 Roots which had lived perhaps ere Chaucer sung. 
 Broad in the east the sable cloud was spread, 
 The lightnings flashed o'er Chevin's lofty head ; 
 While o'er the west an azure robe was cast, 
 Spangled with stars, which showed the storm was 
 
 past. 
 Then mirth began in Barden's ancient hall, 
 The huntsman gave again the morning call ; 
 Inspired with good old ale his horn he took — 
 They shouted till the massive pillars shook. 
 When Clifford brought the boar's terrific he. id. 
 With whose huge fangs a thousand deer had hied : 
 Then, as in mirth the evening passed along, 
 A Craven warrior sang his favourite soul; :
 
 36 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 I have been on the stormy wave, 
 And fought upon the gory field ; 
 
 Laid many a warrior in his grave, 
 My lovely Jane of Hellifield. 
 
 On northern hills I met the foe, 
 
 Where furious strength my sword did wield, 
 And she who made me use it so, 
 
 Was my dear Jane of Hellifield. 
 
 I thought upon her lovely form, 
 
 And knew 'twas death, should I once yield ; 
 Love, honour, glory, like a storm, 
 
 Raged for my Jane of Hellifield. 
 
 I thought each warrior gains the praise 
 Of all, if he's the country's shield ; 
 
 Then rushed amid the battle's blaze, 
 To fight for Jane of Hellifield. 
 
 The Highland Scots came boldly forth, 
 And bravely did their claymores wield, 
 
 Fierce as the tempest of the north — 
 Then I forgot sweet Hellifield. 
 
 We met ofttimes, each side pursues, 
 And many a steel-cased warrior reeled ; 
 
 At last they fled — I hoped the news 
 Would reach my Jane of Hellifield.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 37 
 
 The English ranks they could not break, 
 While these with spears and lances kneeled ; 
 
 And Scotland's army soon grew weak, 
 Or I had ne'er reached Hellifield. 
 
 But, marked with scars, with pension blest, 
 My heart's with scenes of battle steeled ; 
 
 Yet, there's a place within my breast 
 That still loves Jane of Hellifield. 
 
 Now will I drink unto my king, 
 
 May subjects ever be his shield, 
 And time fly sweetly on the wing 
 
 With me and Jane of Hellifield ! 
 
 The bard was called — to Craven then unknown, 
 Who oft his fingers o'er the harp had thrown ; 
 Nature to him had such a genius given, 
 That his wild fancy almost soared to heaven. 
 The hard appears, and with a modest air 
 
 struck his harp, as merit's self was there ; 
 True native genius beamed in either eye, 
 Ami on his lyre hung wildest melody. 
 1 [e borrowed net his airs, nor learnt the chords, 
 Bui both composed, while nature brought the words; 
 His harp lie touched in ancient concert tine. 
 While sofl atti ntion hung for every line — 
 They hoped to hear some cheerful sportive air, 
 But wildly thus he sung, as in despair :
 
 38 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The noble hall, where beauty reigns, 
 The hall that's now a peaceful home, 
 
 Shall soon be lost, and youth and bliss 
 Shall fade, and ruin hither come. 
 
 This night I saw a spectre bard 
 
 In martial chords sweep o'er his lyre ; 
 
 I saw the warrior chiefs prepared, 
 In shining arms and bright attire. 
 
 I saw the lovely lady fair, 
 
 Weep as she parted with her knight ; 
 And heard her breathe to Heav'n a prayer 
 
 That Heav'n would shield him in the fight. 
 
 ■&■ 
 
 I heard the whizzing arrows fly, 
 
 And saw the battle-axes broke ; 
 The stoutest of the warriors die, 
 
 When death was victor ev'ry stroke. 
 
 I saw the great portcullis fall, 
 
 Which shook the gateway with its power ; 
 Beheld the engines at thy wall, 
 
 Whose force could shake the topmost tower. 
 
 My fancy saw the bloody field, 
 
 Which stretches into yonder plain ; 
 
 On its dread space was many a shield, 
 And pale the features of the slain.
 
 THE LYRE OE EBOR. 39 
 
 I thought in this dread scene I stood, 
 Though trembling yet I longed to stay. 
 
 Though moonbeams glittered on their blood, 
 And plund'rers took their spoil away. 
 
 The harper struck a martial air, 
 
 Ruin and desolation came ; 
 A brand was hurled by wild despair, 
 
 And every tow'r was soon on flame. 
 
 Their arms were nerved with dying pain, 
 And every blow they struck the last, 
 
 The soldiers lay with nobles slain — 
 So this portentous phantom past. 
 
 No cheerful strains upon my lyre 
 
 The bard this night can bring to you, 
 
 The scene of Barden, wrapt in fire, 
 
 Has made me think 'twill soon be true. 
 
 Prepare — prepare these arms in rust. 
 
 bring forth St George's banner red ! 
 These towers must shortly kiss the dust — 
 
 He ceased and all their joys were tied. 
 
 But Clifford's noble soul was not oppre 
 
 His father's fire yet -lowed within his breast ; 
 
 He said "Though long in rust our arms have lain. 
 
 Turn [joint to hilt, they spring out straight again.
 
 40 
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Now let the song of Craven knights be sung 
 
 As when on Scottish shields their weapons rung." 
 
 Come forth from thy hall, gallant Lister, come forth, 
 Let thy sons of the Ribble be armed for the north ; 
 Tell Tempest, the Borderer's standard is nigh, 
 And the downfall of Craven's the Highlanders' cry. 
 The shade of some bard late has been near our hall, 
 He has sung to the winds that these turrets shall fall ; 
 But not by the Northerns, for Wharf's crystal flood 
 Ere we yield, shall be changed to a torrent of blood. 
 
 Let Hammerton mount on his high-mettled steed, 
 And gather the horsemen of Skipton with speed ; 
 Let the Parkers below, in old Bingley's fine vale, 
 Bring their followers cased in the brightest of mail. 
 Brave Vavasour, rise from the oak-covered den, 
 Blow strong thy old horn, and the best of thy men 
 Will be cased in their armour, and as you march near 
 Give a shout, and bold Middleton's youths will appear. 
 
 Three times we have seen the great cross of our sires 
 Destroyed as a brand in the plunderers' fires ; 
 But now we have armour, and now we will stand 
 Till the cold grasp of death keeps the sword in each 
 
 hand. 
 Shall the pibrochs of Scotland be heard in our vale ? 
 Shall the sound of her pipers be borne on the gale?
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 41 
 
 No — each one shall meet them where wild rushes 
 
 wave, 
 And, instead of rich plunder, will give them a grave. 
 
 We have Eshton, as firm as the rocks where he dwells, 
 Who has many brave youths on the edge of the fells ; 
 They will sound the war chorus till Hartlington know, 
 And the red plumes of Craven will wave on his brow. 
 The white rocks of Malham were never more strong 
 Than the lines of our knights, when once cheered with 
 
 a song ; 
 They need but a whisper, the}- all will awake. 
 And the rocks they ride o'er with their horses will shake. 
 
 Our children, our lasses, more blythe than the morn. 
 Should we yield, they would surely insult us with 
 
 scorn ; 
 ' >ur steers and our heifers, our oxen and sheep, 
 Would join in the mourning, and help them to weep. 
 Where Simon, the warrior, looked down on the vale. 
 
 en Craven shall wave to the gale; 
 [fonce drawn our swords, the sun may go down, 
 lint they shall not return till the day is our own. 
 
 B) Surrey's order, o'er the mountains came 
 The gleam of many a beacon's pointed flame. 
 Then every knight, and every northern squire 
 >n knew the cause of each portentous fue.
 
 42 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The blazing pitch on Penighent fell down, 
 
 And old grey Pendle bore a fiery crown ; 
 
 Next Hober blazed, and its once dark brown head 
 
 Shone bright with fire, till Wharf's broad vale was 
 
 red: 
 While Ingleborough, king o'er all the rest, 
 Upreared to heaven his mighty burning crest. 
 Then heralds mounted, and rode swift away — 
 Through the thick wood the beacons showed the way; 
 While those they left behind took little rest, 
 For other thoughts filled every warrior's breast. 
 " Our arms must be prepared," brave Clifford cries, 
 " And now's the time for every knight to rise ! " 
 The silver helms the noble ladies took, 
 And made them glitter as a crystal brook, 
 When springing from a mountain rock it runs, 
 And seems to glitter with a thousand suns ; 
 Then on the whirling stone the swords were laid, 
 The metal brightened of each tempered blade ; 
 And as they tried each edge with mighty stroke, 
 Down fell the boughs from many a stubborn oak. 
 As when the woodman, on the mountain top, 
 Makes the green honours of the forest drop, 
 His tempered axe grows brighter every stroke, 
 So stood each sword, and not a blade e'er broke. 
 
 Where Bolton Abbey rears its ancient head, 
 The field, ere noon, was quickly changed to red ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 43 
 
 Brave dauntless Lister brought his hundreds there, 
 Who well could wield the sword or sharpened spear. 
 Pudsay and Hammerton, and Heber brought 
 Strong lusty warriors, who as bravely fought ; 
 While Parker led his followers o'er the moor, 
 Shouting to see their comrades were before. 
 Though not adorned with lace of shining gold, 
 They each could fight as Britons fought of old ; 
 Fearless of death, each bore a dauntless mind, 
 Which priests had blessed, but learning not refined. 
 The best old ale the Abbey could afford 
 Was brought in plenty to the warrior's board ; 
 Wives, daughters, mothers, deep in grief were sunk, 
 But Craven youths grew cheerful as they drunk ; 
 Told wives and lovers never more to mourn — 
 All crowned with fame, with Clifford would return. 
 The word was given, and as they marched along, 
 Huzzah'd, and left old Bolton with a song: 
 
 We all will bravely stand, my lord, 
 Or where's our homes and lasses, 
 
 It' Scotti h Jamie with his sword 
 But once through Craven passes? 
 
 Let US meet them o'er the Tweed, 
 Ami fight f* >r fame and glory ; 
 
 And if our men arc doomed to Meed. 
 Pet Scotland's plains be gory.
 
 44 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 At every village we march through, 
 
 Our numbers are increasing ; 
 And England, if we beat the foe, 
 
 Will give us all her blessing. 
 
 If, leagued with France, they would come down, 
 To rob our halls and burn 'em ; 
 
 Like mountain sheep, when once we meet, 
 We'll kill, or take, or turn 'em. 
 
 Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth, 
 Crossed o'er the Borders, and laid waste the north ; 
 But dauntless Bulmer, with his little band, 
 Retook their spoils, and drove them from the land. 
 Eight times his numbers Bulmer met in fight, 
 And Scots' great Hume just saved himself by flight ; 
 But, as some drops oft fall before the shower, 
 So this but warning gave of Scotland's power : 
 Her army, then a hundred thousand strong, 
 Shaded the mountains as they marched along ; 
 Led by their king, their bosoms were on flame 
 For England's downfall, plunder, and for fame. 
 
 'Twas this great Clifford from Earl Surrey heard, 
 Then marched to meet them, nor their numbers 
 
 feared. 
 The trumpets sound, the cheerful hautboys play, 
 As o'er the mountains Clifford leads the way ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 15 
 
 The tale goes round in mirth, while others sing. 
 And when they halt, their bed's the purple ling ; 
 And there they slept, though not on softest down. 
 Yet more at peace than he that wore the crown. 
 Six days they marched o'er mountains, rivers, rills, 
 Ere they met Percy on old L'ranston Hills. 
 Percy and Howard much rejoiced to see 
 Clifford lead up his horse and infantry; 
 Dacres and Stanley welcomed every knight. 
 Whose loyal men had come so far to fight. 
 Then Surrey gave to Percy, and the lords, 
 And those they led, these energetic words : 
 " Howard and Dacres, Percy, Clifford, Scroop, 
 In you is placed your country's firmest hope ; 
 Let Yorkshire knights their ancient valour show, 
 And Durham's sons stand firm, though these be 
 
 few ! 
 Sons of old Cumbria, your brave valour show. 
 And, Westmoreland, lay many a Scotsman low ! 
 Clifford ! all Craven youths I leave to thee — 
 Fight like your fathers, yours is victory ! " 
 The eagles from Helvellyn's craggy height, 
 Spread their broad wings, and hastened to the 
 
 fight ; 
 And from the rocks which overhung Lowdore 
 (Where in all tAnns the bursting « it'racts roar), 
 Croaked the dark ravens, as they flew away, 
 To feast at Flodden, on that bloody day.
 
 46 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The pibrochs sound, and every kilted clan 
 Grasped their broad claymores ere the fight began ; 
 A thousand flashes from their blades arise, 
 Thick as the stars, when frost has cleared the skies. 
 In shining mail, and with a steed of fire, 
 From Barden went the noble-hearted Swire. 
 With horse and harness rode the sons of Carr, 
 Stout, brave, and fierce, as ever went to war. 
 From Langcliffe rode the fiery-hearted Browne, 
 Whose well-aimed shafts twice forty Scots struck down. 
 Fearful at first the meeting armies close, 
 But fear soon fled, and fierce confusion rose. 
 Brookden and Hammond, and determined Chew, 
 Through ranks of Scots like fiery meteors flew. 
 Garforth and Eastburn, Currer, Shaw, and Wood, 
 Fought till their horses' hoofs were wet with blood. 
 All those who would describe that bloody day, 
 Must from a task so mournful turn away. 
 Describe till death, no living mortal can 
 Give a true picture of each varied clan. 
 'Twas such a day as ne'er can be forgot 
 While live the lines of great Sir Walter Scott. 
 But I, an humble bard, had Flodden left, 
 Had not great Clifford many a helmet cleft ; 
 And led a thousand warriors to the field, 
 Stout sons of Craven, who would never yield. 
 But Homer has such mighty battles sung, 
 Virgil and Lucan their grand harps have strung
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 47 
 
 To sing of Dido and Pharsalia's plain, 
 
 That few new thoughts for humbler bards remain. 
 
 To greater fancies humbly will I leave 
 
 The fight where many bosoms ceased to heave. 
 
 "1 was fierce as rage could blow revengeful fire — 
 
 'Twas deadly as the grave could e'er desire ; 
 
 The field so gory, that the birds of prey 
 
 A moment stopped, then, sated, flew away. 
 
 There many a mother wandered near the field, 
 
 For fear the sons of Scotia should yield. 
 
 The mourning virgins see the battle's shock, 
 
 Their eyes just raised o'er some adjacent rock — 
 
 Trembling, when sounds of battle reach their ear, 
 
 Lest some dear father should lie slaughtered there. 
 
 Not like a battle where the warriors are 
 
 Wounded or slain in hostile lands afar, 
 
 Stretched bloody, cold, and pale, in deadly sleep, 
 
 With none to close their eyes — with none to weep. 
 
 Then lied the Scottish chiefs, and all was still, 
 
 Save dying -roans on Hodden's gory hill. 
 
 Frantic anion- the slain the ladies ran. 
 
 To seek the wounded of each varied clan. 
 
 ■■ ( )i bin tro : " in 1 [ighland broke. 
 
 When youth, were found, whi< h never more awoke ; 
 
 And many a Highland maid, in snowy \ 
 
 Stained it with purple on a bleeding breast, 
 
 While banners of the victors waved on high, 
 
 And trumpets sounded o'er the victory.
 
 48 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The sons of Craven, anxious, marched away, 
 To tell at home the glory of the day ; 
 Marton rejoiced, and Langcliffe youths were glad, 
 But Halton's warriors marched but slow and sad ; 
 Few were their numbers — they had left the best 
 Cold on the field— Smith, Burley, Shyres, and 
 
 West. 
 Garforths had fought till all their horses fell, 
 But at their side were Tempest, Scott, and Stell, 
 Or these four brothers had at once been slain, 
 Nor hunted in the vale of Aire again. 
 
 Hundreds of names with care great Clifford kept 
 Of those who centuries in the dust have slept, 
 Who fought at Flodden, by their chieftain led, 
 Nor sheathed their swords till every foe had fled. 
 Marton sent forth bold Arnold in his mail, 
 Four noble Tennants fought from Longstrodale ; 
 Hawkswick and Flasby, and old Hellifield, 
 Sent Listers, who were never known to yield. 
 Arncliffe and Sutton of the triumph shared, 
 For these had sons who dangers never feared ; 
 Old Giggleswick, beneath her craggy scar, 
 Had fifty sons, who bravely fought in war. 
 Stackhouse and Preston, with the bow and bill, 
 Fought, with the Brayshaws, on old Flodden hill ; 
 The Summerscales, from Settle, cut their way 
 Through files of Scots on that eventful day ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 49 
 
 And Keighley's warriors, led by Smith and Hall, 
 Unparted fought, and made the Northerns fall. 
 When these brave youths with Clifford marched away 
 O'er misty mountains, till the closing day, 
 They slept near fires of rushes, turf, and peat, 
 One side quite cold, the other scorched with heat ; 
 Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork, 
 To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork : 
 And who would scorn to have the supper there, 
 With triumph, health, an appetite, and beer? 
 
 When rose the sun, and crimson was the morn, 
 While light and shade the western hills adorn. 
 The clouds of mist slow through the valleys rolled, 
 Tinged with the morning, like a sea of gold. 
 \ i in the cast the beams of light advance, 
 Like burnished gold shines every polished lance; 
 All faces then a joyful aspect wear, 
 When native hills and native vales appear. 
 
 Tiie heralds soon arrived at Barden tower. 
 And told the downfall of proud Scotland's power; 
 '11k- virgins dance, the aged butler sings, 
 And Wharfs tine vale with shouts of triumph rir 
 All Craven knows, as swift as sounds can fly — 
 Shout answers shout, that there's a victory .' 
 Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough, 
 The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe ;
 
 50 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The churn is stopped, while listening stands the maid- 
 
 The aged ditcher rests upon his spade ; 
 
 While jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play, 
 
 Shout o'er the fields — to Barden haste away ; 
 
 The frugal dame, who spins, some wealth to save, 
 
 Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave. 
 
 Then on the hill which overhangs the vale, 
 
 First glitters Clifford's bright and shining mail ; 
 
 While on each head the plumes of Craven dance, 
 
 A thousand flashes varying from each lance. 
 
 The victors' shout is answered in the woods, 
 
 And echo bears the triumph down the floods ; 
 
 Sweetly the mellow bells of Bolton rung, 
 
 Woods, hills, and dales, in joyful concert sung. 
 
 Panting, the nymphs and swains the hill ascend, 
 
 To meet a lover, brother, or a friend, 
 
 And many an armed head is turned aside 
 
 In loving glance to his intended bride. 
 
 Among the number, beautiful and fair, 
 
 Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire ; 
 
 The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast, 
 
 And went to see her youth among the rest. 
 
 The Skipton troop rode past — he was not there, 
 
 The hardy sons of Wharfdale next appear ; 
 
 She views each helmet, and is sore afraid, 
 
 But can't discern her lover's fine cockade, 
 
 Formed of the ribands which once decked her head, 
 
 But stained at Flodden, where her warrior bled.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 51 
 
 She asked his fate, while heaved her snowy breast — 
 
 Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed : 
 
 " Anna, the worst prepare thyself to hear, 
 
 Nor ever hope to see thy Henry near. 
 
 We left him bleeding, and too near his heart 
 
 Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart ; 
 
 Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes, 
 
 Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise. 
 
 Thus was he left upon the Northern hill, 
 
 His features pale — his pulse, his heart, were still." 
 
 Poets may sing of woe, and painters try 
 
 To place the tear of sorrow on the eye ; 
 
 Poets and orators, and painters too, 
 
 Would fail, though greatest — hers was Nature's 
 
 woe; 
 Such as we feel when all on earth is done, 
 Our hopes all blasted, and all pleasures gone. 
 Poor Anna ! yet methinks I see her stand, 
 The ring he bought her shining in her hand, 
 And his last letter blotted o'er with tears, 
 While on her cheeks the hectic flush appears : 
 But 'twas not long the virgin had to mourn, 
 I I c soul soon met him over death's cold bourne ; 
 Soon diil she (.\<\c, and never smiled again, 
 Put sung these verses over 1 1> or) slain : 
 
 Thou purple heather, on the rocky fells, 
 
 Wither and droop, and hang thy head like me !
 
 52 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Bloom not, ye cowslips, with your honeyed bells, 
 But fade and weep o'er Anna's misery ! 
 
 Ye opening daisies, every eyelid close ! 
 
 Ye skylarks, chaunt, but in the minor key ! 
 Ye thrushes, mourn, as if ye felt my woes — 
 
 Sing, all ye birds, of Anna's misery ! 
 
 Thou thorn, where last we met, no blossoms bear ! 
 
 Thou garden, if fine flowers should bloom in thee, 
 May pinks and roses bend with many a tear, 
 
 And lilies weep o'er Anna's misery ! 
 
 This earth has nothing now this heart to cheer — 
 
 No bliss with him but in eternity, 
 When Henry comes, my mourning soul to cheer, 
 
 And take me with him from this misery. 
 
 O Henry ! if thou canst on Anna wait, 
 Or canst petition Heaven to set me free, 
 
 Let my tired spirit soon regain its mate, 
 And bid farewell to earth and misery. 
 
 Oh, cruel warrior of the furious North ! 
 
 What had my youthful Henry done to thee, 
 That thou shouldst send the fatal arrow forth, 
 
 When on its point was Anna's misery ?
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 53 
 
 Could I but tell where cold in earth he lies ; 
 
 My youth, who helped to gain the victory ! 
 There would I weep till death had closed these eyes, 
 
 And this sad heart forgot its misery. 
 
 Time, spread thy wings! — I know not where he lies; 
 
 Haste with my spirit to the bridal day ! 
 Come, lovely death, and close these weeping eyes ! 
 
 Come, Henry, bear thy Anna's soul away ! 
 
 Thus did she mourn and wander in the vale, 
 Till echo learnt her melancholy tale ; 
 But few her days that mournfully she sung, 
 Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung. 
 
 The Hall of Barden now shines rich in state, 
 Her warriors march in triumph through her gate ; 
 The ancient bard upon the rampart stands. 
 The willing strings obey their master's hands ; 
 With ryes of rapture, loud their deeds he sin 
 As if his soul was living in the strin. 
 All joined the chorus, till the neighbouring wood 
 Echoed their song to Wharfs fine rolling flood. 
 
 The song was ended and brave Clifford sprung 
 From Ids black charger, and his armour rung ; 
 The arms of Tempest answered to the sound, 
 And spears and scabbards clashed upon the ground.
 
 54 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Each brave foot-soldier then his arms uprears, 
 Till in the court they form a pile of spears. 
 The warriors enter, each a welcome guest — 
 The brave are ever worthy of a feast ; 
 The strength of England, beef in Craven fed, 
 The spacious horns, with foam upon each head ; 
 Ale such as slew grief, anguish, care, and woe — 
 Such as they brewed three hundred years ago. 
 
 Bereft of sons, the mothers came to mourn, 
 For many went who never could return ; 
 The sorrowing fathers left the scene of mirth, 
 To seek the dead, ere they were lain in earth. 
 The harper's lyre, the victor's patriot song, 
 The widow's grief more poignant made and strong ; 
 Music brought sorrow — triumph brought a tear — 
 Despair still whispering, " Oh ! my son's not here ! " 
 And, pale the widow stood, with grief opprest, 
 The child, unconscious, smiling at her breast. 
 Such are the mournful scenes the warriors see, 
 Though triumph crowns their arms with victory ; 
 Such feasts in days gone by have often been, 
 With bursts of joy, and mournful thoughts between — 
 Joy for the conquest, then the solemn strain 
 Swelled on the lyre, as dirges o'er the slain. 
 
 What names extinct, and families no more, 
 Since Craven youths the vales and hills marched o'er!
 
 w 
 
 ca 
 
 car 
 
 O 
 
 H
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 55 
 
 Some names, who then to nothing could aspire, 
 Are titled now with baron, knight, or squire ; 
 While those who noblest courage there displayed, 
 Are hid in Time's impenetrable shade — 
 Those who from Barden cheerful marched away, 
 To reach their homes the next approaching day, 
 When, through respect, the ladies carried far, 
 For those they loved, the weapons used in war. 
 One youth a quiver takes, and proudly walks, 
 While of the battle his brave brother talks ; 
 Another in a helmet takes delight, 
 And sore regrets he was not at the fight. 
 Thus to their hamlet each one hastes away, 
 To tell their kindred of the bloody day ; 
 Mothers, expectant, saw their sons return, 
 Wept tears of joy, and there forgot to mourn. 
 Peace and soft rural charms the warriors greet, 
 And Scotland never more durst Craven meet. 
 When Sabbath comes, to Bolton each repairs, 
 And praise is followed by the fervent prayers ; 
 Warrior and yeoman, peasant, join the throng, 
 And help to make the Jubilate .strong ; 
 And hundreds went on Clifford's form to gaze, 
 Who for the triumph gave i 1 i- God the praise. 
 
 O Bolton, what a change I but still thou art 
 Noble in ruin, great in every part !
 
 56 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 When we behold thee, signs of grandeur, gone, 
 
 Live on thy walls, and shine on every stone ; 
 
 Thy shades are lovely through each varied day, 
 
 Thy rocks, thy woods, thy streams, where beauties play ; 
 
 Lovely, when, rosy in the east, the sun 
 
 Shows the high hills the cheerful day's begun. 
 
 Throughout the day, in all the hours which shine, 
 
 Peace, beauty, and rich scenery are thine ; 
 
 But, when the evening shades, like curtains, are 
 
 Thrown o'er the wheels of day's resplendent car ; 
 
 When the broad moon, as though she rose to see 
 
 The hoary columns of antiquity ; 
 
 Then, solemn grandeur greets the changing queen, 
 
 And Wharf's reflection helps to light the scene. 
 
 At every well-selected point of view, 
 
 Fresh scenes appear, as beautiful as new ; 
 
 There the broad river shining with the sun, 
 
 And there the streams in eddying circles run : 
 
 Deep roars the Strid in snow-white robe of spray, 
 
 At rest below the wearied waters stay. 
 
 Thus have I seen the rock-verged deep at rest, 
 
 The foam, like marble, varying on its breast ; 
 
 The ivy bower, secure from summer's heat, 
 
 For contemplation, what a blest retreat ! 
 
 Where the grey ruin, and each varied hill, 
 
 Exceed in beauty fine descriptive skill. 
 
 There may the rural poet sit and write, 
 
 The learned astronomer survey the night ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 57 
 
 The love-sick lover here may sit and dream, 
 Lulled to his slumber by the murmuring stream : 
 But streams and woods, and waterfalls and flowers, 
 Lovers' retreats, rich lawns, and shady bowers, 
 Have all been sung in lovers' verse so fine, 
 No room is left to hold another line. 
 
 Muse of the sylvan shades, if yet thou dwell 
 Amid those scenes which make my bosom swell, 
 Descend, and to my pensive mind impart 
 Such thoughts as thrill the breast and warm the 
 
 heart ; 
 To sweetest measure tune my humble lyre, 
 Since Bolton's groves demand the purest fire ! 
 The brave, the good, the noble warrior, now 
 Sleeps with his fathers in the tomb below ; 
 The noble Clifford now no more can be 
 True to his king in honest loyalty ; 
 The earl has left his helmet, sword, and shield, 
 And riilcs no more, undaunted, to the field, 
 To combat treason in its darkest form, 
 And meet, unmoved, the Northerns' fiercest storm. 
 Peace to the dust of those who bravely fight 
 In honour's cause, and for their < ountry's right ; 
 In praise of such the hud should ever sin,-. 
 Whose duty tells them to defend their king ; 
 And worthy is the baron, knight, or lord, 
 Who in his country's cause unsheathes his sword !
 
 58 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Such lovely scenes has Wharfdale to enjoy, 
 
 When war is changed to peace and rural joy ; 
 
 Here can the aged spend a peaceful day, 
 
 Beguile sad grief, and to their Maker pray ; 
 
 The widow, weeping o'er departed love, 
 
 Is helped to mourn by many a mourning dove ; 
 
 And hidden here from any mortal's ken, 
 
 May weep in silence o'er the best of men, 
 
 Whose cares, and joys, and sorrows, hopes, and fears, 
 
 Had bound them closer through successive years. 
 
 Here might the poet, Nature's "helpless child," 
 
 Whose soul is boundless, and whose thoughts are wild, 
 
 Imagine things beyond the torrid zone, 
 
 And how the ancient Grecian temples shone ; 
 
 How earth, and every orb, was formed on high, 
 
 Till his full soul burst out in ecstasy : 
 
 " Ye trees, ye leaves, and every varied flower, 
 
 Were nothing else, ye show Eternal Power ! 
 
 The verdant grass on every hill that grows, 
 
 The goodness of the great Creator shows ! 
 
 Insects and birds, that dwell amid the grove, 
 
 The creeping worm, and those that soar above ; 
 
 All beasts, however varied their abode, 
 
 Proclaim the power, the majesty of God ! 
 
 The shining orbs, that deck the arch of night, 
 
 Orb above orb, till distance dims their light ; 
 
 Planets by circling motions show His skill, 
 
 While others burn through ages and are still."
 
 THE L YRE OF EBOR. 59 
 
 Grand are the heav'ns unto the feeble eye ; 
 
 Bat when the poet can the tube apply, 
 
 New wonders open, and new worlds appear, 
 
 Which tell the mind Infinity is there ! 
 
 Lost in the thought, his ardent fancy burns, 
 
 He thinks — and to himself with reverence turns ; 
 
 His soul is filled with solemn hopes and fears, 
 
 To think he's co-existent with the spheres ! 
 
 E'en when no more one ray of light they give, 
 
 His bosom holds what must for ever live, 
 
 When sun, and moon, and stars, and skies are lost, 
 
 And Nature's self is to old Chaos tost ! 
 
 • Now as the Wharf to Olicano moves, 
 And leaves the rocky Strid and Bolton's groves, 
 < fid Castleberg, the torrent-wasted scar, 
 Uprears his head, where Romans met in war. 
 When on its topmost point the watch-tower stood, 
 And deep below, beheld the rolling flood. 
 Britons and Saxons have contended there. 
 And on the ramparts mixed spear with spear; 
 The warriors, tumbling headlong down the steep. 
 Pressed with their armour, plunged into the deep : 
 But Tune, who leaves behind all earthly thi] 
 A.nd overtakes fresh objects with his win , 
 Has left so far behind swift-pinioned Fame, 
 Siie could not reach us with a warrior's name.
 
 60 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Through shades of oak which have for centuries 
 grown, 
 Wharf winds her way to Ilkley's ancient town ; 
 No altars now unto her streams are raised, 
 As when the Roman sacrifices blazed ; 
 Yet she rolls on, when Romans are no more, 
 Unworshipped, hastes to mix with ocean's roar. 
 More worthy is the mighty King of all, 
 Who raises kingdoms, speaks — and empires fall ; 
 Who made all systems, and who formed the sun, 
 Who spoke, and bade yon crystal fountain run, 
 Praise to receive, and glory, power, and might, 
 Through Time, and in the blissful realms of light ! 
 
 Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, wells, and air, 
 Can cure the nervous, trembling in despair 1 
 Upon thy crags, to climb the granite rocks, 
 And see the sportive youths pursue the fox, 
 Would make the trembling limbs be firm again, 
 And banish Melancholy and her train. 
 To thee, how many on their crutches come, 
 Soon dance without them, and run smiling home : 
 Then to their friends in highest raptures tell 
 How strength improved at Ilkley and its well. 
 Here they can walk amid the valley fine, 
 The angler into crystal throw his line, 
 And watch the trout, though in the water deep — 
 Behold his eyes, which ne'er are closed in sleep ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 61 
 
 Peace, Love, and Solitude near Ilkley dwell, 
 And Health sits smiling at her mountain well : 
 Thus did she sit, and made this vale her home, 
 Before invading Caesar marched from Rome. 
 
 Denton, thou rural village, little known, 
 Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne ! 
 When Fairfax, with a patriot feeling strong, 
 Was led by false designing Cromwell wrong, 
 A race courageous from thy shades arose, 
 Who feared nor foreign nor domestic foes. 
 In civil war, the numerous fields were red 
 Where Fairfax fought, and where his brothers bled ; 
 But now 'tis peace, no warriors from thy hall 
 Ride forth in armour at the trumpet's call. 
 How blest the land, when martial days are o'er, 
 Like those of Towton or of Marston Moor ; 
 When regal power, when law was laid aside, 
 And Britons by the swords of Britons died ! 
 
 From Marston to old Tockwith spread the line 
 ( M" those who fought against the royal si 
 The stout right wing Sir Thomas Fairfax led, 
 And seemed another Hector at its head ; 
 Lord Fairfax led the centre to the G 
 The left, proud Cromwell's stern commands obey. 
 Down in the plain the royal army stood, 
 Who for their monarch soon must shed their blood ;
 
 62 THE LYRE OF EROR. 
 
 True loyalty was spread from wing to wing, 
 
 And each forgave the follies of his king. 
 
 Dreadful the sight, when thus two armies meet, 
 
 All friendly feelings sunk beneath their feet, 
 
 And those who hung upon the self-same breast, 
 
 Taught by one father, by one mother blest, 
 
 Waiting the signal for the deadly fray, 
 
 Where brothers take their kindred's lives away ! 
 
 But so 'twas here, when young Prince Rupert led 
 
 The right wing, brave as e'er a banner spread. 
 
 While General Goring led the centre on, 
 
 To meet the Scots, as oft their sires had done, 
 
 Lucas and Porter often rode to cheer 
 
 The wings, the centre, vanguard, and the rear; 
 
 While those who marched at great Newcastle's word, 
 
 Were brave as any that unsheathed the sword. 
 
 Now ready stood each fierce embattled host, 
 
 When all distinction in their dress was lost, 
 
 When handkerchiefs, and slips of red or white, 
 
 Were all that showed the king's-men whom to fight. 
 
 The trumpet sounded, and the march began, 
 
 Fairfax and Cromwell leading forth the van ; 
 
 Th' usurper cried — " For battle all prepare ! " 
 
 Then the arch-hypocrite breathed forth a prayer ; 
 
 As if Omnipotence could smile to see 
 
 Britons from Britons gain a victory. 
 
 While Cromwell's files marched rapid down the hill, 
 
 Firm in their lines the Royalists were still ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 63 
 
 With no impetuous haste Lord Goring led — 
 The foes appeared, but not a king's-man fled. 
 
 Now front to front the hostile armies are, 
 Each bosom feels the dread of civil war ; 
 Awful the silence — not a sound is heard 
 Of drum, or trumpet, or commander's word, 
 But just a solemn hum before they fire, 
 For brothers wished from brothers to retire ; 
 And, truly, but for Cromwell's haughty pride, 
 All had been friends, and not a warrior died. 
 What anxious breasts were left in every hall. 
 Lest the loved lord should in the conflict fall ! 
 The lady, often, with her children prays 
 For Heav'n's protection in the battle's blaze. 
 
 As when a thunderstorm the valley fills, 
 The rapid rivers tumble from the hills, 
 Falling impetuous from eai h rocky height, 
 So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight 
 The Royalists, though few, like ramparts stood ; 
 ( >r. as the s rock defies the flood, 
 
 From their close-serried files no warriors tied — 
 Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread : 
 Ili-> legions shout, then swift the ramparts scale, 
 And meet the Royalists with shot like hail ; 
 But when the brave young Rupert spurred his hoi 
 The royal army burst with such a force,
 
 64 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Their foes gave way — but Fairfax quick as thought, 
 Wheeled round his steed, and man with man they 
 
 fought. 
 As when young lions some fierce tigers meet, 
 With fiery eye-balls, and with gory feet, 
 Which strive at once the royal beast to slay, 
 And, unmolested, plunder for their prey, 
 So came the Scots ; — but Rupert, like a flood, 
 O'erwhelmed the bold, and stained their flags with 
 
 blood. 
 As when on seas two rolling channels fight, 
 And furious waves are turned to foaming white, 
 Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears, 
 Till Major Fairfax in the slain appears ; 
 Till not a weapon but with gore was red — 
 So fought both wings, till great Sir Thomas fled. 
 When Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain, 
 In such a space were fewer warriors slain. 
 The noble Prince, whose loyalty was warm, 
 O'erwhelmed the sons of Scotland like a storm ! 
 But see Lord Goring the firm centre lead, 
 While firm they follow his dark prancing steed ; 
 Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn, 
 And Cromwell's musketry they meet with scorn ; 
 Close are their ranks, so thick the warriors stand, 
 And hard the spears are grasped in ev'ry hand, 
 Rushing like fire, or, as the lightning red, 
 They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled !
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. G5 
 
 Again the brave Sir Thomas Fairfax turns, 
 Meets Rupert's columns, and the battle burns. 
 The lines are broken — muskets useless lie, 
 Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly — 
 Rage, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood 
 Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood ! 
 With more determined rage no armies met, 
 Nor earth with nobler gore was ever wet. 
 At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again, 
 Wounded himself, and his brave brother slain : 
 Thus Rupert fought, though loth to take the field, 
 Yet, when once warmed, his heart would never yield. 
 Now victory seemed the Royalists to crown — 
 The banners of their foes were trampled down ; 
 The noble files whom valiant Porter led, 
 ( >'erwhelmed all force, and every general fled. 
 But as the thunderstorm, when once 'tis past, 
 Turns with a ten-fold fury on the blast, 
 While quiv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze, 
 And make the boldest that they dare not gaze, 
 So came proud Cromwell, leading on the hoi 
 Dark as the storm what could withstand his force? 
 The Trojan warriors never better stood, 
 The Grecian phalanx never was as good, 
 \ • those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled, 
 And conquered oft, when great New* astle led ! 
 The heaviest charges oi their foes they met, 
 And each succeeding charge their foes were beat ;
 
 66 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Nor would they fly, nor would a warrior yield, 
 
 Till half their numbers fell upon the field. 
 
 Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast — 
 
 He need not glory that his foes had lost ; 
 
 For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled 
 
 Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled. 
 
 Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease, 
 
 Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these : 
 
 " Oh ! why should war, why should the sword and spear, 
 
 And hostile armies in the field appear ? 
 
 Why should the haughty pride of man destroy 
 
 Youth, strength, and beauty, and a parent's joy? 
 
 Has not disease itself a rapid way 
 
 To turn the greatest mortals into clay, 
 
 But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire, 
 
 Against the race of mortals must conspire ? 
 
 The soldier at the front of battle smiles, 
 
 Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files ; 
 
 His fame, his honour, then his chiefest care, 
 
 And little leisure has he left for prayer : 
 
 A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies 
 
 Swift to his heart — the warrior falls and dies. 
 
 When shall the lovely days of peace appear, 
 
 That sheathes the falchion, and that breaks the spear ? 
 
 I praise Thee ! " and much more the usurper said, 
 
 Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head ; 
 
 For God delights not in His creatures' pain, 
 
 Nor will He hear His praise sung o'er the slain.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. G7 
 
 With luckless fate, and in an evil hour, 
 The haughty conquered, not by skill or power, 
 But by superior numbers gained the day, 
 While braver youths were driven far away ; 
 Youths, who their triple number often met, 
 And fought till all their swords with gore were wet. 
 Dacres and Lambton fell upon that day, 
 And Slingsly's noble soul was sent away ; 
 Fenwick was lost, and Luddon was no more, 
 And Gledhill's corpse was scarcely known for gore. 
 Meetham, the brave, the loyal volunteer, 
 Heaved his last breath for his loved monarch there ; 
 Then with near thirty wounds brave Graham bled, 
 Who never in the fiercest contest fled ; 
 To Norton Hall his warriors bear him slow — 
 Then what a scene of undescribed woe ! 
 I hear his lady's sighs — she cannot weep — 
 Hope, love, despair, sink in her bosom deep ; 
 The bleeding stops — she hopes her lord will live, 
 And for his life would every blessing give. 
 Now a bright beam is Lighted in his eyes, 
 Then pale, the brave, the dauntless Graham sighs! 
 The statues of the ancients ne'er could show 
 Such silent grief, such eloquence of woe, 
 
 \-> in his lady's features were exprest, 
 When the last struggle shook her warrior's breast ; 
 When the last kiss inhaled the parting breath, 
 
 And all she loved on earth was still in death !
 
 68 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Slowly and sad the weeping servants come, 
 With noiseless feet, and look into the room, 
 To hear their master's voice, or once behold 
 The features of the loyal, brave, the bold ; 
 But these no more behold his piercing eyes— 
 The only sounds are broken-hearted sighs 
 Of his sad widow, in wild agony, 
 In fervent prayer, that death would set her free. 
 Boast not, usurping Cromwell, o'er the dead — 
 With half his wounds thy bravest knights had fled. 
 
 Prince Rupert, then, whose valour ne'er would 
 yield, 
 Again returns, in hopes to gain the field ; 
 The firmest of his troops resolved to lie 
 Cold on the field, or gain the victory ; 
 But not a friend they met — these all are fled, 
 Except the wounded, dying, and the dead ; 
 While foes in thousands, stretched upon the plain, 
 Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain. 
 He had a heart, and such had all his men, 
 They'd not have shrunk to meet them one to ten ; 
 But when five hundred must engage a host, 
 E'en Cromwell's self must own the day was lost. 
 When in the west the sun in grief had sunk, 
 That Marston Moor such noble blood had drunk, 
 The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh, 
 For Yorkshire then was friend to royalty.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 69 
 
 Through every line the haughty conqueror rode, 
 
 Exhorting all to give the praise to God ! 
 
 Thanking the men who had the victory gained, 
 
 When far from balls and swords the Earl * remained. 
 
 He seemed to mourn the day so far was gone, 
 
 That nothing for the wounded could be done ; 
 
 But, if they waited till the break of day, 
 
 All shattered limbs should then be cut away ; 
 
 Balls be extracted, every wound be drest — 
 
 Both friends and foes with surgeons should be 
 
 blest ! 
 Then well to sup he galloped off the ground, 
 Felt not the pain, for he received no wound : 
 And so it is in battles, nine for ten, 
 Leaders get praise, and victory's gained by men. 
 The scene was awful, when the light began 
 To shine on features gory, pale, and wan ; 
 Some, who had plundered in the shades of night, 
 Slunk swift away, as though to shun the light 
 When morning, with a crimson colour, spread 
 Her beams upon six thousand warriors dead, 
 What would the feelings be of those who sought 
 A son or husband, who had bravely fought? 
 What shrieks were heard among the ghastly Acm], 
 Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head, 
 O'erwhelmed with woe — of every hope bereft. 
 And nothing but her starving children left I 
 • Earl of Manchester.
 
 70 
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 These were the scenes on Marston's gory plain, 
 And such would be in Anarchy's proud reign. 
 Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore, 
 When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore, 
 Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt, 
 Upbraided her with all the blood she spilt ; 
 When the red bolts through Italy were hurled, 
 And half destroyed the garden of the world ; 
 And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field, 
 Ere Russia to the pride of France would yield, 
 When Nature's self was armed with frost and snow, 
 And slew what Russians never could lay low. 
 
 When war the sword had borne through every 
 land, 
 No hostile feet durst ever press the sand 
 Where rolling tides had washed old Albion's coast, 
 Nor durst they on the seas with Nelson boast, 
 Where Albion's waves upon the shores are broke, 
 And her deep thunder sleeps in heart of oak ! 
 Oh ! could that thunder rise into the cloud, 
 And deepest darkness hide it like a shroud, 
 That these might pass unnoticed through the air, 
 And save a noble people from despair ! 
 Oh ! that each mortar, and each heavy piece, 
 Might send its thunder in defence of Greece ! 
 And Britons unto Corinth lend her aid, 
 While Athens sees Saint George's flags displayed ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 71 
 
 Great Homer's spirit see the tyrants slain. 
 And wish to sing of Grecian wars again ; 
 Clinton his Hector, his artillery 
 The gods of Greece, deep thund'ring from the sky ! 
 The Turks would fly when British shot was rained, 
 And Greeks behold what ancient Homer feigned. 
 Oh ! could we save old Grecia from her woes, 
 For slav'ry give her triumph o'er her foes ! 
 She worships at the self-same sacred shrine, 
 Believes that Saviour, Britain, that is thine. 
 Where now her sculptured columns? where that tongue, 
 In which her warriors spoke, her poets sung ? 
 All gone ! — and youth gain wisdom from the land, 
 But let it sink beneath the spoiler's hand ! 
 Europe ! ye kings ! could you but hear her cry, 
 Would you withhold from Greece her liberty? 
 Thousands of Ihitons feel their bosoms burn 
 To take the dust of Athens from her urn, 
 Throw it toward heav'n, till all her warriors see 
 Old Corinth triumph — ev'ry Grecian free. 
 Were great Demosthenes to speak one hour, 
 The very slaves would scorn the Turkish power j 
 And were the troops of old Britannia there, 
 ( Irescenl s would fall, and Moslems disappear. 
 
 () that the daj WOUld dawn thai brings to thee, 
 Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty I 
 Then would thy bold improving language tell 
 How Britons fought, how Turkish tyrants fell.
 
 72 
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Return, wild fancy, what is Greece to thee ? 
 Thine be the task to paint antiquity ; 
 Let Harewood's mutilated towers be sung, 
 Grey with old Time, with sober ivy hung — 
 Home of brave hunters, warriors, and the fair, 
 When mirth and song, and merry dance were there. 
 Here, in the ruins, sat the rustic bard, 
 Whose way through life was sorrowful and hard, 
 Still were the winds, and beautiful the night, 
 While in a large half circle spread the light, 
 The herald to the moon, night's modest queen, 
 Whose waning orb soon in the east was seen. 
 The shadows of the towers and rising wood 
 Stretched through the vale and trembled on the flood ; 
 But as she rose, the trembling shades withdrew, 
 And showed the silv'ry Wharf broad in the view; 
 With wand'ring weary, tired with study deep, 
 The poet's eyes were soon seal'd fast in sleep. 
 He dreamt of airy praise, of empty fame, 
 And to his fancy ancient Hist'ry came ; 
 A mural crown was placed upon her head, 
 A link-mail cuirass o'er her breast was spread, 
 A belt of silver'd silk around her waist, 
 From end to end with Saxon verses graced ; 
 Saxo-Monastic words were on her vest — 
 The cross was ruby that adorned her breast ; 
 A scroll of ancient parchment there she spread, 
 While to the poet's fancy thus she said :
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 73 
 
 "Take courage, youth, and I will give to thee 
 
 These dark-writ pages of antiquity ; 
 
 Here are the records of these ancient towers — 
 
 No mortals fear, but try thy utmost powers. 
 
 Each passage read, nor o'er thy weakness mourn, 
 
 Strike thy wild harp, and soon will I return : 
 
 Let bold heroic measures be thy strain, 
 
 Sing on, nor think thy song will be in vain. 
 
 Take up thy harp— why is it thus unstrung? 
 
 'Tis thou must sing of deeds which ne'er were sung ! " 
 
 The bard arose, as sweet she tuned his strings, 
 
 Then swiftly spread abroad her airy wings ; 
 
 The moonbeams glitter'd on her robes of light, 
 
 But quick as lightning was the transient sight. 
 
 When he beheld the Saxon language there, 
 
 To him 'twas sealed — he sighed, and dropped a tear. 
 
 Awhile next day he in his grot reposed, 
 
 Then in despair the ancient records closed ; 
 
 Anon, these words, borne on the wings of air, 
 
 Came softly whispering — "Never yet despair; 
 
 Why do these records fill thy breast with pain : 
 
 The latter will the former part explain. 
 
 There's not a bard that here his h.irp has strung, 
 
 But every verse LS there, that e'er he sin 
 
 There's not a tale oflove, or lady lair, 
 
 But all their sorrows are in verses there : — 
 
 Nature attends, thy bosom to inspire, 
 
 And in thy bosom is a spark of lire,
 
 74 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 That spite of coldest ice or frozen show 
 They heap upon it, brighter yet will glow." 
 
 He heard no more, but many a leaf he turned, 
 When soon his lightened heart with rapture burned. 
 The poet's muse had led him to the foam 
 Which is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb ; 
 Where rolling thunder forms the sable cloud, 
 Which wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud, 
 Mocks the dread roaring of the raging deep, 
 When wild despair forbids the sailors weep. 
 There did he sing, as though he saw the storm, 
 Its varying terrors rage in every form. 
 He saw great ^Etna to the clouds aspire, 
 Which seemed to set the arch of night on fire ; 
 While on each hand the boiling waves appear 
 Red with the light, as if the flames were there. 
 Scylla below, the thunders from above, 
 Volcanoes bellowing till the mountains move ; 
 As if great Jove had called his mighty choir, 
 And touched the strings with his tremendous 
 
 fire. 
 He reads the verse the ancient scroll contains, 
 These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains, 
 When the fine arch is spread for miles each way, 
 And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May : 
 So soft the ancient bard his harp had played, 
 That to his verses listened many a maid ;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 75 
 
 He sung the dream of Mary on the hill, 
 Which showed the secrets of a lady's will. 
 
 " How soft, how cheerful, sound yon bells 
 Within my native vale ; 
 And every tone sweet echo tells, 
 That flies along the dale ! 
 
 And thus, my Henry, shall they sound 
 
 When we together join, 
 And Hymen has our wishes crowned, 
 
 And thou art ever mine. 
 
 Contentment, hov'ring on his wings, 
 
 Shall at the wedding be ; 
 And viols, with their tuneful strings, 
 
 Shall trill sweet harmony. 
 
 The hautboy and the shepherd's flute, 
 
 Shall breathe a joyful air ; 
 The dull imer and mellow lul 
 Shall swell the octaves there. 
 
 The Qymphs, ami all the cheerful Nine. 
 
 Unseen shall each inspire ; 
 While Bacchus brings the choicest wine, 
 
 And Vesta lights the fire.
 
 76 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 The virgins, with their tresses bound 
 
 By many a wreath of flowers, 
 Shall wish their youths, like mine, were found, 
 
 And all their bliss like ours. 
 
 The world that day may roll away; 
 
 But all, so blest with love, 
 Shall scarcely know the eve from day, 
 
 Nor think the moments move." 
 
 Thus thought the maid — 'twas truth she spoke, 
 
 As she in raptures slept ; 
 But, disappointed, when she woke, 
 
 That all was air — she wept. 
 
 Far weightier strains next tremble on the lyre, 
 Strains which the coldest bosoms would inspire ! 
 'Twas on the evening of a hunting day, 
 The bard rehearsed the deeds of an affray, 
 Of which the warriors to their children spoke — 
 What lords were slain, what ladies' hearts were 
 
 broke, 
 When two great hosts marched forth with sword and 
 
 shield, 
 And met in conflict on old Towton's field. 
 
 The Earl of March, Plantagenet's true heir, 
 From Pont'fract came, and all his host was there;
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 77 
 
 At Ferrybridge the great Fitzwalter stood, 
 
 The pass to guard o'er Aire's fine rolling flood. 
 
 Northumberland and Clifford knew the plan, 
 
 And Somerset, the brave, the loyal man, 
 
 Led on his files — but fierce and short the fray — 
 
 Fitzwalter fell before the break of day : 
 
 High as the battlements were heaped the slain, 
 
 And few could meet at Pontefract again. 
 
 To Edward's camp the noble Warwick rode, 
 
 Then drew his sword, long, shining, sharp and broad, 
 
 Vowed from his monarch he would never part, 
 
 Then plunged the weapon to his charger's heart ; 
 
 Which showed that for his monarch and his right, 
 
 On foot great Warwick never feared to fight. 
 
 Fdward proclaimed, "Does any soldier fear? 
 
 Let such return, nor spread infection here ; 
 
 March forth, ye brave, whose souls with valour 
 
 burn, 
 Cowards, fall back, and you that fear return ! 
 All you who fight, and me, your king, regard, 
 Shall each one find a bountiful reward : 
 But should a coward, when we meet in fight, 
 Turn from the (oc, to save himself by flight, 
 Whoever shall such trembling dastard sli y, 
 Shall be promoted when we gain the day." 
 
 When morn first broke, dark, stormy, and unclear. 
 To Towton's plain all Edward's host are near;
 
 78 THE LYEE OF EBOE. 
 
 Wild, gloomy, red, the awful morning came, 
 As though the east was painted o'er with flame : 
 Upon the western hills, in ev'ry form, 
 Hung the dark clouds, and hail was in the storm. 
 It was the Sabbath broke upon the plain, 
 Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain ; 
 Not in warm tents, but on the damp cold ground — 
 Thousands of warriors sleeping there were found ; 
 While others watched to feed with wood the fires, 
 And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires 
 Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azure smoke- 
 Such was the scene when first the morning broke. 
 The chiefs, each mounting on his prancing steed, 
 Rode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed. 
 A finer band of warriors never lay 
 Upon the plain, for war to sweep away ; 
 Nor truer youths than Edward's ever found, 
 To guard, in war, the monarch these had crowned. 
 The trumpeters were ordered then to blow, 
 And every warrior that was sleeping low, 
 Stretched his strong limbs, half stiffened by the frost, 
 And many a soldier had all feelings lost, 
 And there had died, had not some good old wine 
 Warmed their cold bosoms ere they formed the line. 
 They rose — but not to dress, for that was done — 
 No hasty buckling of their armour on ; 
 No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear — 
 All this was done before the host marched there.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 79 
 
 Grand was the martial sight on Towton's plain ! 
 A sight which England ne'er may see again. 
 Stars on a thousand breasts, gems on their swords — 
 In Henry's cause had armed a thousand lords ; 
 His was no common cause — the king was crowned- 
 Thousands of youths for him lay on the ground. 
 Arrows were useless in the dreadful fray — 
 'Twas sword to sword on that eventful day. 
 The river, soon retarded by the slain, 
 Stood like a lake, and deluged half the plain. 
 How little thought the pious peasants near, 
 That York and Lancaster contended there I 
 At Saxton church the rustic peasants met, 
 When these returned, the willows all were wet 
 With noble blood — astonished there they stand- 
 Thousands are bleeding there on either hand. 
 
 Now with the fire of battle, 
 
 Swords, and shields, and helmets ring ; 
 i >i idful was the deadly rattle — 
 
 Hither host fought for a king ! 
 
 Red witli blood the warriors' feet, 
 Shattered many a brazen shield ; 
 
 .n they turn ' tin they meet ! 
 
 Death Stamps his nunc upon the field
 
 80 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Northumberland, with burning breast, 
 Leading his warriors at their head ; 
 
 Each line, each squadron thus address'd 
 " See, nearly half our foes are dead ! 
 
 Forward, ye brave ! the day is ours ; 
 
 Forward, and fiercely fight the foe ! " 
 But darts and arrows came in showers, 
 
 And laid the mighty leader low. 
 
 Now the charge — now the flame 
 Burning in each warrior's heart ; 
 
 Each forgot, or life, or fame, 
 
 Scorned the sword, the spear, the dart. 
 
 Wave the red rose and the white, 
 Ranks are broken, rage is king ; 
 
 Mingled, man with man they fight — 
 Lost the centre, and each wing. 
 
 Beaumont falls — a thousand more 
 Fight around the corse of Grey ; 
 
 Ev'ry face is red with gore — 
 Death is sated with his prey. 
 
 Raging comes the furious storm, 
 
 Either host is lost in snow ; 
 Rage so fierce — no line can form — ■ 
 
 In the drifts are thousands low !
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 81 
 
 White the storm falls from the sky; 
 
 When upon the plain 'tis spread, 
 Soon 'tis changed with gory dye, 
 
 Swords, and snow, and fields are red. 
 
 Now the centre meets the wing ; 
 
 Clash the swords, and break the spears ; 
 Now the targe — the helmets ring, 
 
 Death in every form appears ; 
 
 Limbs are lost, and heads are cleft, 
 
 Thousands fall to rise no more : 
 Oh ! what widows then were left, 
 
 With their helpless orphans poor ! 
 
 Now they fly, and now they turn, 
 
 By the battle's fury driv'n ; 
 All their breasts with anger burn — 
 
 Death with every blow is giv'n ! 
 
 Now the last effort of King Henry's host 
 
 Was such as warlike Britons never met, 
 Upon the plain they twenty thousand lost, 
 
 And those that lied, before were never beat 
 The red rose fell before Prince Edward's fori 
 
 And when the storm was o'er, and clear the sky, 
 ( >t Henry's host was neither foot nor horse — 
 
 Terror, confusion, panic, made them fly.
 
 82 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Now evening came, and sorrow's darkest shade 
 Shrouded the lovely features of the fair ; 
 
 Cold in their gore near forty thousand laid, 
 And many a brave young warrior was there. 
 Then ladies' cheeks were wet with many a tear, 
 
 And for their souls' release the Friars prayed ; 
 
 All England mourned — e'en those that gained the 
 fight, 
 
 Sighed o'er the slain, so awful was the sight ! 
 
 Thousands of helmets, lances, swords, and spears, 
 
 Arrows, and breast-plates, and unnumbered shields, 
 Each stained with gore among the slain appears, 
 
 And richest gems are spread upon the fields. 
 
 At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields, 
 And eyes that seldom weep are wet with tears ; 
 Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched 
 
 plain 
 Groaned with the mighty burden of the slain ! 
 The widows wept — but women soon forget 
 
 Their former husbands, when in dust they're 
 lain ; 
 Their cheeks with tears a month or two are wet, 
 
 But love within their bosoms lights again : 
 They reason thus — " We live not by the slain ; 
 These ne'er return, though widows we remain : " 
 This did the bard observe through wasting years, 
 And placed but little faith in woman's tears.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 83 
 
 Sad was the morning of the mournful day, 
 
 When relatives the dead and dying found ; 
 Some from the field were lifeless borne away, 
 
 The rest promiscuous hurried to the ground. 
 And many — far from their loved place of birth, 
 By hands of foes were tumbled into earth. 
 To lighter strains the bard his harp now strung, 
 For he too much of bloody scenes had sung. 
 
 Regret not, dear ladies, the fate of the brave, 
 
 Who fight for the king and the fair ; 
 A halo of glory encircles their grave, 
 
 And fame wets each corse with a tear ! 
 
 They feared not the trumpet, the bugle, or drum, 
 
 The banners or swords of their foes ; 
 But their watchword was, " Let all our enemies come, 
 
 We soon will each phalanx enclose ! " 
 
 Their armour was bright when they rode fortli at morn ; 
 
 Their spirits were never dismayed ; 
 The spears on the shoulders of warriors were borne, 
 
 And high were the banners displayed. 
 
 The strains of the trumpets were, "Edward, our king!" 
 The song was, " Long life to the brave ! " 
 
 And next I could hear the young warriors sing, 
 •• lor vict'ry, or death and the -rave !
 
 84 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Then weep not, dear ladies, your lords are asleep, 
 All peaceful they know not your cares ; 
 
 Drive anguish away, 'tis too late now to weep, 
 For their spirits departed in pray'rs. 
 
 To Harewood Castle gallant Lisle returns — 
 No more with anxious grief his lady mourns ; 
 His noble friends in brilliant armour shine, 
 And drown the terrors of the day in wine. 
 While York's strong gates were opened to their king, 
 And sounds of conquest swelled from ev'ry string, 
 High blazed the torches on the lofty towers, 
 And swiftly flew the glad triumphant hours ; 
 And many a day, in festive mirth and glee, 
 Spent the brave knights o'er Edward's victory. 
 At length the dance, and love's soft joys gave place 
 To nobler sport — the pleasures of the chase. 
 From Harewood Castle, at the break of day, 
 With horse and hounds the knights rode swift away. 
 
 The top of Almus cliff was red 
 
 With cheerful beams of morn ; 
 The sun upraised his golden head, 
 
 When echo heard the horn. 
 
 The hounds into the valley ran ; 
 
 The fox his cover broke ; 
 The sounds cheer'd every sportive man — 
 
 The hills — the valleys spoke.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 85 
 
 Across the plain he took his way, 
 
 The hounds in music sung ; 
 There ne'er was such a hunting day 
 
 Since Rugimont was young. 
 
 At Arthington the stream he took — 
 
 The hounds, the horses near, 
 Crossed the broad river like a brook — 
 
 They all were hunters there. 
 
 To Kirkby Hill they see him fly 
 
 As rapid as the wind ; 
 The hounds pursue in tuneful cry, 
 
 With horsemen close behind. 
 
 The nuns of Arthington beheld 
 
 The glories of the chase, 
 And almost wished to quit the veil. 
 
 Though modest was each face. 
 
 As swift the fox runs o'er the hills. 
 
 And close behind the hounds, 
 Borne on the winds the echo swells 
 
 The ever-varying sounds. 
 
 From Rugimont the sportive Lisle 
 
 Rode on the fleetest horse; 
 No hedge nor river, gate nor stile, 
 Could stop his hunter's course.
 
 86 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Dreadnought and Ranger led the pack, 
 And Hector ran the third ; 
 
 Next Skilful sung, and deep-mouthed Jack- 
 Such sounds were never heard. 
 
 To Riffas Wood sly Reynard hies, 
 
 The best of hounds pursue ; 
 The notes into a chorus rise — 
 
 All have him in the view ! 
 
 In vain he runs — he turns in vain 
 From hunters, hounds, and steeds ; 
 
 He struggles hard the rock to gain, 
 But at its foot he bleeds. 
 
 The dying fox seized many a hound, 
 While struggling hard for breath ; 
 
 The gallant Lisle arrived the first, 
 And shouted at the death. 
 
 The hunters wished that he had gained 
 
 His hold amid the rocks, 
 For Wharfdale never yet contained 
 
 For sport a better fox. 
 
 Then lord and baron, knight and banneret, 
 In honest true old English friendship met, 
 Returned to Harewood, talking of the chase, 
 And pleasure shone on every noble face :
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 87 
 
 For nothing drives old wrath so far away 
 As such a chase as these had seen that day. 
 No city's pomp, no pampered courtier's pride 
 Yields satisfaction like the sportive ride, 
 When the whole mind in hunting takes delight, 
 And Pleasure greets returning Health at night. 
 Songs of the chase that evening were not sung, — 
 To strains like these the minstrel's harp was strung : 
 
 The fields have been red where the battle was burning, 
 The horse, man, and leader have fallen so fast, 
 
 That the joys of the fair have been changed into mourn- 
 ing, 
 But such a dread carnage is surely the last. 
 
 To the floor of the hall let the ladies bring flowers — 
 At rest is the battle-axe, bow, and the quiver; 
 
 The enemy's fled, and the victory's ours, 
 
 And peace shall reside in our valley for ever. 
 
 This night we rejoice not that thousands are wounded ; 
 
 No music shall sound o'er the myriads that fell, 
 Ere Edward's shrill trumpet the victory sound 
 
 And soldiers did a< tions no language can tell. 
 
 They may sing "i" famed Cressy, where warriors did 
 wonders. 
 
 When the clang of their arms to the skies did ascend. 
 But war sends not forth its most terrible thunders, 
 
 Till, raging, lien e Britons with Britons contend.
 
 88 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Then bursts in wild fury the lightning of battle ; 
 
 The clash of the sword, of the lance, and the targe, 
 Are borne on the wind, and the horrible rattle 
 
 Swells louder and louder, as quicker they charge ! 
 
 Let time throw a veil o'er the dark scene of terrors 
 Depicted in gore on the breast of the plain, 
 
 And wine drown the sad recollection of horrors 
 That stalked in all forms on the field of the. slain. 
 
 Then rose the bard, his harp aside was lain, 
 
 And gravely spoke in this prophetic strain : 
 
 " These towers shall fall, and bury deep in earth 
 
 The floors where once was seen the dance of mirth ; 
 
 But there shall rise a mansion richer far, 
 
 When England rests secure from civil war, 
 
 Whose lords shall be respected by their kings ; 
 
 And here shall other minstrels touch the strings. 
 
 Below shall patriotic troops appear, 
 
 Led by commanders to the monarch dear ; 
 
 True British valour firmly shall unite 
 
 The throne to guard, and every Briton's right. 
 
 A finer dance, a richer sight shall be, 
 
 Than all thy ancient masks and revelry ; 
 
 A better chase, when these the fox pursue, 
 
 And fleeter hounds than ever Redman knew 
 
 Shall cross the hills, and in the valleys sing, 
 
 Till woods and vales with cheerful echo ring.
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 89 
 
 But what are all the trifling things of earth, 
 The highest pleasures, or the greatest mirth, 
 The fairest scenes, where ev'ry beauty is, 
 And all that can compose terrestrial bliss, 
 The love of sport, the finest dance or song ? 
 All quickly fade, and cannot please us long. 
 The short-lived pleasures which this earth affords, 
 To poorest paupers or the greatest lords, 
 Are all but shadows, or like passing showers, 
 Transient their sweetness as night-blowing flowers ; 
 While Virtue is more lasting than the sun, 
 And pleasure yields when earthly joys are gone." 

 
 THE POACHER 
 
 A TALE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 " The receiver is as bad as the thief." — Old Proverb. 
 
 This subject wants no Muse the breast t' inspire, 
 Deep learning, — nor the Apollonian lyre ; 
 Fine tropes and figures here can nought avail, 
 'Tis but a plain and simple rustic tale, — 
 A tale of poachers, partridge, grouse, and hares, 
 Gamekeepers' acts, their dangers and their fears ; 
 And who the persons that are most to blame, 
 Or those who buy, or those who steal the game. 
 But in description little is my pow'r, — 
 I never took a hare at midnight hour ; 
 Experience cannot teach me how to sing, — 
 My shot ne'er broke the pheasant's glossy wing : 
 No partridge in my hands, resigned its breath, 
 Nor moor-cock closed its beauteous eyes in death ;
 
 THE POACHER. 91 
 
 For when I found them young upon the bent, 
 Far from their nests in sympathy I went. 
 
 Though low the theme, yet lords it has engaged, 
 And famous knights have oft at poachers raged. 
 They act such deeds as make e'en barons swear, 
 Break down their fine park walls and take the deer ; 
 In every hedge suspend the murd'ring snares, 
 And from their best preserves fetch bags of hares. 
 Nor is it strange — a child may know the cause 
 Why daring poachers break the nation's law ; 
 When for one night they gain far more reward 
 Than for a week of honest labour hard. 
 Game laws, they think, are made by greedy elves, 
 Who want the free-created game themselves ; 
 The partridge, snipe, and grouse, for aught they know, 
 Belong to them just equal with the crow. 
 
 The youthful poacher first a terrier keeps, 
 And where the conies haunt oft slily creeps. 
 Till one is caught, — and then the foolish boy 
 Is elevated with a ruinous joy. 
 His parents chide not, nor his actions blame. 
 But praise his skill, and gladly take the game. 
 Growing in vice, such implements he g< 
 A.S powder, shot, a fowling-piece, and m I 
 His parents then too late their follies see. 
 Pass days of grief, and nights of misery !
 
 92 THE POACHER. 
 
 Absent from home — he ranges far and wide, 
 His comrades are his ruin and his pride ; 
 Daily they spend the money they obtain ; 
 Half drunk at night they sally forth again : 
 Dangers on ev'ry side they heedless scorn, 
 If they with hares and pheasants can return !■ 
 
 Ignotus was a man who work could get, 
 Had he not more than working loved his net ; 
 On the brown fallow he the grain could throw, 
 Could use a flail, a sickle, scythe, or hoe ; 
 To rustic youths he had no cause to yield, 
 A better workman seldom took the field ; 
 Had not his failing been the death of hares, 
 Keeping a clog, and making nets and snares. 
 An old experienced poacher, nearly done, 
 Who scarce could walk, yet gloried in the fun, 
 Learnt him to call, and how to temper wire, 
 With rushes, straw, or shavings set on fire ; 
 Told him what money on a night he made, 
 When he was young, and fewer of the trade ; 
 An evening long he lengthened out his tale, 
 Spoke of his feasts on spirits, beef, and ale, 
 Then praised the persons who had bought his 
 
 hares, — 
 Forgot his wants, his mis'ries, and his cares ! 
 Though old, infirm, and racked with many a pain, 
 He almost wished to pass such nights again !
 
 THE POACHER. 93 
 
 When sportsmen some notorious poachers fine, 
 On game at taverns they should never dine, 
 For fear it was their own the week before, 
 Hung in their parks, or shot upon the moor ! 
 But here we scarce can tavern-keepers blame — 
 They wish to have a wide extended fame ; 
 And but for poachers, what could such men do, 
 When for a feast they want a hare or two ? 
 If there be supper, or a private ball, 
 Be there no game, it does not please at all ; 
 The beaux and belles go home dissatisfied 
 With ev'ry dainty, roasted, baked, or fried. 
 The ladies blame the master of the house, 
 If in the feast there be nor snipes nor grouse ; 
 For that is ever held the choicest dish, 
 That comes in secret, be it game or fish ! 
 The ladies then in ecstasy declare 
 What part they took of partridge, grouse, or hare ; 
 Describe the dainties when they each get home, 
 But ne'er consider how those dainties come : 
 For whether poachers steal from 'squires or kings, 
 This is the cause whence most of poaching 
 
 springs. 
 The epicures of ev'ry trading town. 
 Who get a hare or pheasant for a crown. 
 Have done more harm than all the murd'rine 
 
 wire 
 That e'er was tempered in the poacher's lire.
 
 94 THE POACHER. 
 
 The bards of genius sing the orphan's woe, 
 The rise of nations, or their overthrow ; 
 Others describe the shipwrecked sailor's fate, 
 The terrors of th' ensanguined field relate. — 
 Mine be the task to paint unto the life, 
 The deep distress of a poor poacher's wife, 
 Who in the worst of huts is forced to live 
 Where winter snow comes through it like a sieve ; 
 The furniture, were it put up for sale, 
 Would scarcely make a crown to buy him ale ; 
 His children to the utmost famine driv'n, 
 Quite destitute of clothes but what were giv'n 
 By one whose heart could at misfortunes melt, 
 Who knew their wants, and for their suff'rings felt. 
 He sees them shiv'ring oft without a fire, 
 And what should buy them coals is spent in wire ; 
 Two-thirds laid out in powder, shot, and nets, 
 The other part the well-fed landlord gets, — 
 And when the night of danger's passed away, 
 While others work, he sleeps throughout the day : 
 But oft his sleep is broke by sudden fears, 
 He starts, — and thinks some bailiff's voice he hears,- 
 He lifts his head, — 'tis famine all and dearth, 
 His famished children clinging round the hearth ; 
 Disease destroying all his partner's charms, 
 And tears fall on the infant in her arms. 
 His conscience wakes, though nearly hard as stone- 
 He turns him o'er, and heaves a heavy groan ;
 
 THE POACHER. 95 
 
 Vows like an honest man's his days shall be — 
 
 At last convinc'd his deeds bring misery. 
 
 His weeping wife hears the repentant sighs. 
 
 In amruish t'ward him turns her tear-drenched 
 
 eyes, 
 Thus speaks, with looks that would the marble 
 
 move, 
 While weeping o'er the pledges of their love : 
 "Thou once dear youth, for whom I all forsook, 
 " To me and mine, O give one thoughtful look ! 
 " Where shall we fly? — our credit all is o'er, 
 " Thy evil deeds have made and keep us poor. 
 " My mother, wearied out, no more can do, 
 •• My father's bosom wasting with his woe ! 
 " Thou, while at enmity with ev'ry friend, 
 " Dost only to the worst advice attend. 
 " Bring thou but constant wages, I could rest, 
 •• And with a certain pittance should be blest. 
 " While others sit in plenty and at peace, 
 '• As years roll on their nuptial joys increase. 
 •• I I ere is our eldest and our only son, 
 •■ Who blessed us first ere sorrow had begun, 
 
 '• Without a shoe to travel in the snow, 
 
 '• By rags defended when the cold winds blow ; 
 
 " Who knows not yet an alphabet or pravY, 
 
 " Nor ever yet engro d a lather's care. 
 
 " Such things as these sink in my bosom deep, 
 
 ■• And hours unseen I sorrowing sit and weep,
 
 96 THE POACHER. 
 
 " And see those little innocents beside, 
 
 " More than half naked, while clothes are washed and 
 
 dried. 
 " While other children are with raiment blessed, 
 " And twice upon a Sabbath day are dressed, 
 " Ours stand aloof, upon the holy day, 
 " Or weep, upbraided with their rags at play. 
 '• Debts undischarged, while thou enjoy'st thy cheer, 
 " Forgetful of the wants and sorrows here. 
 " How well could we be clothed, — how well be fed, 
 " If like an honest man's thy life was led ; 
 " O that the purchasers of game could know 
 " My children's wants — the burden of my woe ! " 
 
 While thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came, 
 Extensive orders he had got for game, 
 From a rich man in whom they could confide, 
 Theander, whom the poachers long had tried. 
 To those who bought his goods he presents made 
 Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betrayed 
 The youths who brought them from the distant wood, 
 And risked their lives to bear them o'er the flood ! 
 Then to the distant parks with steps of haste, 
 They cheerful crossed the wide-extended waste. 
 The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high, 
 Though hid were half the diamonds of the sky ; 
 While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air, 
 Shrouded the heav'ns, excepting here and there
 
 THE POACHER. 97 
 
 The moonbeams darted through a misty veil, 
 
 And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale. 
 
 Two dogs attended them across the moor, — 
 
 A double-barrelled gun each poacher bore : 
 
 The hares were feeding on the turnips green, 
 
 But Wharf's broad stream rolled rapidly between, — 
 
 So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed, 
 
 They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost. 
 
 But soon they found the horse they oft had tried, 
 
 Which ne'er refused to cross the torrent wide; 
 
 Without a bridle to adorn his head, 
 
 The peaceful creature by his mane was led. 
 
 A while they on the brink consulting stood, 
 
 Then mounted both, and ventured at the flood. 
 
 The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong, — 
 
 Yet in the midst, they hummed the poacher's song, 
 
 To kill their fears ; for who could help but fear? 
 
 Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near. 
 
 The aged horse, his oft-tried strength now lost, 
 
 \ ml on the rapid stream they both were tossed ! 
 
 Their homes the poachers ne'er had reached again, 
 
 1 lad not Ignotus grappled fast the mane ; 
 
 1 Usparo seized his friend- -'twas all he could. 
 
 And thus, half drowned, they ferried o'er the flood. 
 
 Upon the bank they search the ball and string. 
 
 And in the oil case wrapped, they quickly bring 
 
 Across the stream their implements of sport, 
 
 \nd with them to the farmer's house resort. 
 
 G
 
 98 THE POACHER. 
 
 The frugal, aged dame is filled with fear, 
 
 Lest some should say they harboured poachers there. 
 
 Her son — a sporting youth, then goes and draws 
 
 A jug of ale — regardless of the laws : 
 
 Then vows, — nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop, 
 
 Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop ! 
 
 He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat, 
 
 And soon the poachers' clothes smoke with the heat. 
 
 The aged farmer, grieved, with locks turned grey, 
 
 Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away ; 
 
 Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out, 
 
 To listen if the keepers are about ; 
 
 While down his furrowed cheeks the tears run fast, 
 
 Afraid with him that year will be the last. 
 
 His landlord angry, — now no hope appears ; 
 
 But his good farm, possessed for forty years, 
 
 He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone, 
 
 Through the bad actions of a wicked son. 
 
 With eyes suffused with tears, the poor old man 
 
 To reason with his son then thus began : 
 
 " O that I could persuade thee to give o'er 
 
 " This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor ! 
 
 " Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live, 
 
 " My little all to thee I'd freely give : 
 
 " But now each field, untitled, neglected lies ; 
 
 " Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies. 
 
 " While thou art ranging with thy nets and gun, 
 
 " Our cattle and our farm to ruin run ;
 
 THE POACHER. 90 
 
 " Among thy comrades all that little spent 
 
 " Which should have paid my long arrears of rent. 
 
 " Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot ; 
 
 " I would have lived at this my native spot, 
 
 •• Where I so many years of labour passed, 
 
 " And where I first drew breath, have breathed my last ! 
 
 " But now, the workhouse" — here his anguish strong, 
 
 O'ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue ! 
 
 The hardened poachers could not help but think ; 
 But soon they took the quart, and swore "Let's 
 
 drink!" 
 Ignotus vowed that was no time for fears, 
 The 'squire must have his score of living hares. 
 The rich Theander, grown by commerce great, 
 Had purchased with his wealth a wide estate ; 
 Then down came ev'ry hedge, and ev'ry wall, 
 And ev'ry humble cot was doomed to fall. 
 Upon the rising hill each plan was drawn, 
 Of villa, gardens, grove, and sweeping lawn ; 
 And planted were the trees of ev'ry line. 
 The oak, the ash, the sycamore, and yew : 
 The fir, the larch, and plants not native here. 
 The poplar, with its waving leavi there. 
 
 The rills collected, formed a lake for trout. 
 And who that has a park would be without? 
 With the high fence the whole was circled round, 
 But in the modern park no hares were found :
 
 100 THE POACHER. 
 
 No pheasants in the new plantation bred, 
 Nor partridge chirruped its young brood to bed. 
 But what's the villa, garden, or park wall, 
 Except the hares are frisking round them all ? 
 What pleasure in the grove and cooling breeze, 
 Except the pheasants glitter in the trees ? 
 The partridge whirring from beneath our feet, 
 In our own grounds, is surely pleasure sweet ! 
 So thought Theander, — who from poachers bought 
 With cheerful heart, all living game they brought. 
 But stop, my pen — O let it not be said 
 That great Theander would have bought them 
 dead ! 
 
 The poachers, with their nets, their dogs, and 
 
 gun, 
 Directed truly by the farmer's son, 
 
 Then left the house, and hastened to the wood ; 
 
 In silence there a while they list'ning stood, 
 
 Just when the hammer of the village bell 
 
 Twelve times heaved back, the midnight hour to 
 
 tell. 
 Then Nature such an awful silence kept — 
 The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept ; 
 The withered rushes on the heathy hill 
 Were scarcely moved — the tallest pines were still. 
 The waning moon a bloody vesture wore, 
 The only sounds the distant cataract's roar,
 
 THE POACHER. 101 
 
 And deep-mouthed mastiffs, struggling in the chain, 
 
 Fierce barking to their echoed noise again. 
 
 This solemn scene no deep impression made 
 
 On hearts of flint, so hardened with the trade. 
 
 Then through the thick-grown briers they wandered 
 
 slow, 
 Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough. 
 Ignotus swore they would not fire that night, 
 Till they beheld between them and the light 
 Ten glistening birds within the trees at rest; 
 For oft before they numbered many a nest, 
 And when the powder flashed, and shot had flown. 
 Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled 
 
 down. 
 The number in the wood was quickly found ; 
 They left them there, and ranged the open ground. 
 That night the poachers did their utmost strive 
 To catch the rich Theander hares alive. 
 Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went. 
 Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent : 
 And when the flying hare was just before, 
 Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more. 
 But fatal for poor Stunner was the night, 
 Two lusty 1- saw him in the flight, 
 
 Levelled their pieces at the vit il part, 
 And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart ; 
 While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursue!. 
 And left her partner struggling in his blood.
 
 102 THE POACHER. 
 
 The echoing woods conveyed the swift report, — 
 The poachers guessed the end of that night's sport. 
 Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries, — 
 Rage filled each breast, and blazed within their 
 
 eyes ; 
 Ignotus swore, "This luckless night I'll die, 
 " Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie ; 
 "And should a legion of gamekeepers come, 
 " The shot of both my barrels shall fly home ! " 
 Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew, 
 As to the fatal place the poachers flew ; 
 And, when arrived, Ignotus raised his head, 
 Then heaved a sigh, and deeply swore, " He's dead ! 
 " O friend, Desparo ! such a dog ne'er went 
 " Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent. 
 " Poor Stormer ! look, Desparo, where he bled ! — 
 " How oft to us he has the hares conveyed ! 
 " How oft have I, with exultation great, 
 " Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet ; 
 " But now his turnings of the hares are o'er, 
 " And he must pant close at their heels no more ! " 
 
 No sooner had these words escaped his tongue, 
 Than four armed keepers, lusty, stout, and strong, 
 Leaped from the bushes with the full design 
 To make these bold marauders pay the fine. 
 O'er Stormer's death their bosoms were enraged ; 
 In desperation, one with two engaged.
 
 THE POACHER. 103 
 
 Around the poachers many a pellet flew, 
 Before in war they either trigger drew ; 
 Then all at once their double barrels went ; 
 The shot whizzed past, — its force in air was spent ; 
 No time to load again, — they met in blows, 
 The poachers struggling with superior foes. 
 His piece Ignotus by the barrel took, 
 One adversary's arm in splinters broke ; 
 He groaned and fled, his piteous case to tell ; 
 Another stroke, — and strong Ignotus fell ! 
 While bold Desparo, with his strong butt-end, 
 Made his antagonist to earth descend. 
 Now two disabled, furious was the fray, 
 Both sides were stupid, neither would give way, 
 The barrels broken from their carved stocks, 
 And on the field were strewed the torn-off locks. 
 Knraged, Ignotus rose, and drew his knife, 
 And cried, " Desparo's freedom or your life !" 
 The keepers, dreading much the fatal blow, 
 Took to their heels, and let the poachers go, 
 And where the 'squire who can such keepers blame? 
 They fought, 'tis true, -but who would die for 
 game ? 
 
 Next night, of game Desparo made a feast, 
 And every well known brother was a must. 
 Not to the ale-house did the group retire, 
 
 but drank and smoked around the poacher's fire :
 
 104 
 
 THE POACHER. 
 
 Pheasants and grouse, and Stormer's last-caught 
 
 hare, — 
 Domestic fowls, unbought, were roasted there. 
 Their liqour, home-brewed ale, and smuggled rum ; 
 And each was armed had the excisemen come ; 
 But these as soon durst fierce banditti meet, 
 As force their way into the lone retreat ! 
 
 The supper ended, what a jovial crew ! 
 Each showed his nets, of those they had not few. 
 From friend to friend the cheering bumpers ran, 
 The viol tuned, the merry dance began. 
 O that some greater bard had present been, 
 And touched with verse burlesque the festive scene ! 
 Their tattered clothes were such as might have graced 
 Some farmer's scarecrow in a wheat field placed : 
 Thus doth misconduct bring the richest down, 
 And clothe with rags the poacher and the clown. 
 
 Ducando was a man of careful heart, 
 He seldom paid a sixpence for his quart ; 
 To sip the smuggled drops was his delight, — 
 With such a group he spent the jovial night. 
 The keeper of the neighbouring 'squire was there, 
 Enjoyed the sport, and drowned all his care. 
 
 Inspired by drink, who can be silent long ? 
 The poachers could not, but began their song
 
 THE POACHER. 105 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come all ye. brethren of the night, 
 
 Who range the mountain, wood, and vale. 
 And in the moonshine chase delight, 
 May our true friendship never fail ! 
 Then drink around, 
 Your cares confound, 
 Ye champions of the wire : 
 The field — the moor, 
 Will we range o'er, 
 Nor care for lord nor 'squire. 
 
 The parliament such youths as we 
 
 With laws may strive to bind ; 
 But they as soon in cords might tie 
 The lightnings or the wind ! 
 By Cynthia's beams, 
 We cross the streams, 
 To fetch the game away ; 
 Then here we re^t, 
 With bumpers blessed, 
 And banish fears away. 
 
 So long as planets rise and set. 
 
 ( >r tim'rous hates ran run, 
 The poacher true will hang his net. 
 
 And level sure his gun ;
 
 106 THE POACHER. 
 
 The high park wall, 
 Spring guns and all, 
 
 And keepers strong with beer, 
 We value not, 
 Nor shun the spot, 
 
 If hares are frisking there. 
 
 The lord upon the hunting day 
 
 Such pleasures never knew, 
 When echo bore the sounds away, — 
 The hounds — the fox in view ; 
 As when the hares 
 Are caught in pairs, 
 Upon the glitt'ring frost ! 
 Should we be fined, - 
 What need we mind, 
 Since others pay the cost ? 
 
 What stop we at the rivers deep, 
 
 The frost or winter's snow ; 
 The lazy keepers soundly sleep, 
 When tempests wildly blow. 
 Of rain and hail, 
 Let Jove's great pail 
 Be emptied from on high ; 
 The darker night, 
 The more delight, 
 And greater numbers die !
 
 THE POACHER. 107 
 
 The song was ended ; — and Ignotus drew 
 The plan of ev'ry distant park he knew ; 
 Described each gateway where he hung the net, 
 And ev'ry hedge, where oft his wire he set ; 
 Marked out the fish-ponds, and the river's flood, 
 The pheasants' haunts, and where the villa stood. 
 " Upon this spot," said he, "one stormy night, 
 " When darkest clouds obscured the moon's pale light, 
 " I stood alone, while Stormer ranged the plain, 
 " And five strong hares within my net were slain ! 
 '• And here the place where I my tackling hide 
 " When lusty keepers press on ev'ry side ; 
 " And here, within the wood, the lonely dell, 
 '■ Where oft I fired, and sleeping pheasants fell. 
 " Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied, 
 "And there my game across the river ride ; 
 " Then I the bridge securely travel o'er, 
 " And none take oath that murdered game 1 bore." 
 rhe junior poachers silent sit and gaze, 
 And give with joy the senior poacher praise. 
 
 'I" increase their sport, upon this festive night, 
 These bungling verses did a rhymer write : 
 
 "The poachers on the heath, the fields, the wood, 
 Or where the shining fishes i leave the Hood, 
 Against the laws will yet pursue their sport, 
 And to the parks of distant l( ort,
 
 108 THE POACHER. 
 
 Though half their incomes were to keepers paid, 
 Though traps were set, and ev'ry scheme were laid, — 
 The poachers, heedless of the fine or shame, 
 In spite of all would sometimes steal the game. 
 Then those that would such things in safety keep, 
 Must catch, and couple them like straying sheep : 
 And lords who would make property of game, 
 Cut short their wings — like poultry keep them tame. 
 For 'tis a truth, and let it once be known, 
 A poacher's shot's oft surer than your own." 
 
 They laughed— they shouted — when the rhymer 
 ceased, 
 (For fools, half drunk, with feeblest verse are pleased). 
 Then four strong keepers burst the shattered door, 
 And stood well armed upon the dirty floor. 
 Desparo and Ignotus forced their way ; 
 The rest, o'erpowered, were captives forced to stay. 
 Game, newly killed, was in the cellar found, 
 Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread 
 
 around : 
 The poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport, 
 To meet the dreadful audit of a court. 
 Desparo and Ignotus knew their cares, 
 Supplied their wants, and killed the 'squire his hares ; 
 Death and destruction through his grounds were 
 
 spread, 
 Till scarce a leveret on the clover fed.
 
 THE POACHER. 109 
 
 With sorrows worn, and ebbing fast her life, 
 Unhelped, unheeded, lay the poacher's wife ! 
 He spent his days in revelry and mirth ; 
 While she, too weak to give her infant birth, 
 O'ercome with grief, and of her sufFring tired, 
 Neglected, starved, and pitiless, expired ! 
 No husband there, her fading eyes to close, — 
 Confess his guilt, though author of her woes. 
 When he was told the period of her pain, 
 He smiled, and had the tankard filled again ! 
 Untouched with sorrow, anguish, or remorse, 
 One tear he never dropped upon her corse. 
 He left his home the two succeeding nights, 
 To make expenses for the fun'ral rites. 
 His starving children o'er their mother mourned, — 
 A neighbouring peasant o'er the infant yearned, 
 In pity took and nursed it as her own. — 
 And sure such deeds are worthy of renown. 
 Loosed from his wife, with whom he jarring lived, 
 His children bread through charity received. 
 One night he spent where lies famed Robin Hood, 
 The next where Harewood's ancient castle stood; 
 The beauteous vale of Wharf lie wandered o'er, — 
 
 Expecting wealth, but still was always poor. 
 
 What he m dangers ^<{ at taverns went. 
 Or in rich treats was on his comrades spent. 
 Read this, ye rich, — who stolen game receive, 
 And think how wret< liedly the poachers live :
 
 110 THE POACHER. 
 
 Far from your feasts prohibit lawless game, 
 
 Caught in disgrace, — and purchas'd too with shame ! 
 
 Ye rustic plunderers, who sport by night, 
 And fearlessly invade another's right, 
 Cold winds and storms your frame will soon impair, 
 Your robust limbs will soon in sickness wear ; 
 Though firm your sinews as the hardest steel, 
 Your constitution must your follies feel : 
 The sport, the bowl, the glass, the cheering quart, 
 Soon, soon will fail to animate the heart. 
 Ye who purloin by night the harmless game, 
 Ere youth is past, old age shall rack your frame. 
 No days well spent can you look back to view, 
 At last convinced this axiom is true, — 
 " If injured lords no punishment prepared, 
 " Drinking and poaching bring their own reward." 
 
 On lost Ignotus' fate a moment gaze, 
 Who in his cups oft gained the drunkard's praise ; 
 He swiftly hasted with his pilfered load 
 The bridge to shun and oft-frequented road. 
 Beneath a sheet of ice the river slept, 
 Half o'er its course the thoughtless poacher stepped, 
 Around his feet the yielding crystal bends, 
 And dreadful in a spreading circle rends ! 
 He heard — he trembled, — but it was too late, 
 The ice gave way, and locked him up with fate.
 
 THE POACHER. Ill 
 
 Till morning came his faithful lurcher stopped, — 
 Howled near the chasm through which his master 
 
 dropped. 
 His frantic children viewed the fatal cleft, 
 Though injured, — their affection still was left ; 
 Their grief, — their woe, — can never be expressed,— 
 Imagination must depict the rest. 
 I lis corse, though sought, was never brought to land, 
 But somewhere lies deep shrouded in the sand ! 
 His neighbours wept not, though he ne'er returned. 
 And for his loss his children only mourned. 
 
 No distant parks but ev'ry shade he knew, 
 From whence at morn the waking pheasants flew ; 
 The lonely streams where speckled fishes played, 
 And where the hares upon the mountains fed. 
 The dark brown heath, upon the trackless moor, 
 With dog and gun he often travell'd o'er; 
 In winter's frost, upon some rocky spot, 
 lie < illed the list'ning grouse within his shot, 
 Then on his upraised knee he levelled true. 
 The trigger pulled, the moor-cock never flew : 
 But now — the hares may teed, the fishes play, 
 
 The pheasants sleep upon the lofty spra) ; 
 The i ure, may in the rushes rest. 
 
 The speckled pairs of partridge form their nest . 
 The keepers now their watchings may give o'er, 
 Ignotus, prince of poachers, is no more !
 
 ELWOOD AND ELVINA. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 When York and Lancaster, enraged, 
 t Contended for the crown, 
 And brothers furiously engaged 
 To cut their kindred down ; 
 
 The flags with roses white and red, 
 Waved wildly on the gale, 
 
 And many a noble warrior laid 
 Deep wounded, cold, and pale. 
 
 Then devastation, fierce and dread, 
 
 Ran frantic in the field, 
 And rage uplifted ev'ry arm, 
 
 As all refused to yield. 
 
 Then did young Elwood first appear, 
 
 A valiant noble knight, 
 With cuirass, helmet, shield, and spear. 
 
 Well armed for the fight.
 
 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 1 1 3 
 
 Upon his sable foaming steed 
 
 He gallantly could ride, 
 And with his sword, at swiftest speed, 
 
 The leaden ball divide. 
 
 The fierce black troop of Craven horse, 
 
 Was Elwood's to command, 
 And they were dauntless youths as took 
 
 The sword or spear in hand. 
 
 Each warrior, in a coat of mail, 
 
 Like mighty Hector stood, 
 The lion couchant on each helm. 
 
 With feet deep dyed in blood. 
 
 Upon their shields the eagle spread 
 
 Its wings extended far, 
 And underneath its talons laid 
 
 The implements of war. 
 
 Caparisoned in links of wire, 
 
 The sable chargers pranced : 
 Their nostrils smoked, their eyes were fire, 
 
 As they impatient danced 
 
 To the shrill trumpet's piercing sound ; 
 
 And from the silvered rein, 
 
 i sed in the air the foam around, 
 
 While prancing o'er the plain. 
 n
 
 114 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 
 
 Firm as their native rocks the line, — 
 
 The terror of their foes ; 
 And on their breastplates bright did shine, 
 
 In polished steel, the rose. 
 
 Such was the troop young Elwood led, 
 From his old castle strong, 
 
 Where the fair partner of his bed 
 Was praised in ev'ry song. 
 
 Sprung from an ancient line was she, 
 Young, handsome, chaste, and fair ; 
 
 The richest glow of modesty 
 In all her blushes were. 
 
 Whene'er he led his warriors o'er 
 The hills, to watch the foe, 
 
 She numbered ev'ry lengthened hour, 
 And thought the moments slow. 
 
 '&' 
 
 Upon the tow'r she often stood, 
 
 His horse's hoofs to hear ; 
 And often thought the field of blood, 
 
 With all its terrors, near ; 
 
 Or thought she heard the trumpet shrill 
 
 Re-echo down the streams, 
 Or saw their armour on the hill 
 
 Reflect the lurid beams.
 
 EL WOOD AND EL VLNA. I 1 5 
 
 Each foot she heard approach the hall, 
 
 Struck terror to her breast ; 
 She thought the news of Elwood's fall 
 
 Was in the sounds expressed. 
 
 Thus she, in tears, with many a sigh, 
 
 Upon the tow'r would wait, 
 And when she heard her warrior nigh, 
 
 Run swiftly to the gate. 
 
 (Had beat her heart when she beheld, 
 
 By torches burning bright, 
 The shining eagle on his shield 
 
 Reflect the varying light. 
 
 She crossed her breast, her hands she raised, 
 
 Too happy then to mourn ; 
 With joyful heart the Virgin praised, 
 
 For Elwood's sale return. 
 
 Young Reginald, a noble knight, 
 
 Rode mi his charger there ; 
 And on a steed of purest white. 
 
 Sat Agatha the fair. 
 
 Great Reginald's loved sister she. 
 
 From famed Romilli sprung ; 
 \nd oft in rural minstrel 
 
 Was this ehaste beauty sung.
 
 116- EL WO OB AND EL VINA. 
 
 Behind, in brilliant armour dressed, 
 The noble troop advanced, 
 
 The moonbeams glittered on each crest, 
 And on their armour danced. 
 
 Elvina's friends, a lovely train, 
 Stood waiting for the brave ; 
 
 Welcomed their kindred back again, 
 Nor found one left a slave. 
 
 In some wild ancient warlike air, 
 The instruments combined ; 
 
 The sounds re-echoing all around, 
 In imitation joined. 
 
 The warriors from their horses sprung, 
 To join the evening's sport, 
 
 Their heavy, clanging armour rung 
 Around the spacious court. 
 
 The neighing steeds pranced loftily, 
 
 To martial music sweet, 
 And sparks of fire like lightning flew, 
 
 Beneath the chargers' feet. 
 
 And soon the feast the heroes graced, 
 Renowned in deed and word : 
 
 No foreign dainties then were placed 
 Upon a warrior's board.
 
 EL WO OD AND ELVINA. 117 
 
 Around the room the arms were hung, 
 
 Of ancient warriors bold : 
 The native bards their battles sung, 
 
 And all their actions told. 
 
 There was the armour Percy bore, 
 
 On the contested field ; 
 His sword hung there, all rusted o'er, 
 
 And there his mighty shield. 
 
 There helms and breastplates, black with age, 
 
 Where many a shaft had broke, 
 And there an ancient coat of mail, 
 
 Deep marked with many a stroke. 
 
 Old banners, which the Scottish chiefs 
 
 Had in the battles borne, 
 By sword, by battle-axe, and spears, 
 
 Were into tatters torn. 
 
 No wainscot then adorned the hall, 
 
 Nor various coloured paint, 
 But on the cornice, rudely carved, 
 
 The head of many a saint. 
 
 1 3 and holy reliques rare, 
 
 Above the arms did shine. 
 Which ans ient knights had brought with I 
 
 From distant Palestine.
 
 118 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 
 
 The table was of marble white, 
 No fine-wrought cloth was there ; 
 
 And sappling cans, all polished bright, 
 Contained the sparkling beer. 
 
 Next came the wine and festive joys, 
 As Elwood led the dance, 
 
 And thoughtless of his piercing eyes, 
 To Agatha did glance. 
 
 Elvina saw, — and deeply felt 
 Passions unknown before ; 
 
 And from that night her peace, her joy, 
 And nuptial bliss were o'er. 
 
 The dancing ceased, the song began, 
 As bards swept o'er the lyre ; 
 
 And nectar from each sappling can, 
 Did ev'ry breast inspire. 
 
 Soft sounded first the sweetest chords, 
 And love was in the song : 
 
 The music, suited to the words, 
 Ran smooth and soft along. 
 
 '&■ 
 
 As when upon the yEolian strings 
 The summer zephyrs play, 
 
 And sylvan echoes, on their wings, 
 The cadence bear away.
 
 EL WOOD AND EL VLNA. 1 1 9 
 
 But when to bolder music turned, 
 
 Then glowed the martial fire ; 
 And every breast with valour burned, 
 
 As glory swept the lyre ! 
 
 They sung their noble fathers' words, 
 
 Spoke with their dying breath ; 
 The warriors vowed, and drew their swords, 
 
 They would avenge their death. 
 
 The bards beheld their frantic rage, 
 
 The song half finish'd stopp'd ; 
 The swords uplifted to engage, 
 
 Were in an instant dropp'd. 
 
 Such pow'r had ancient bards to raise 
 
 The passions in the breast, 
 ( )r with the magic of their lays, 
 
 To soothe them into rest. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 But when appeared the rosy morn, 
 It showed their haughty fo( 
 
 They knew them by their horses 
 And by the crimson rose.
 
 120 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 
 
 " To horse ! — to horse ! " brave Elwood cried, 
 
 His warriors heard the words ; 
 " To horse ! " the neighbouring woods replied, 
 
 As they buckled on their swords. 
 
 The ladies wept, and wild despair 
 
 Marked with a deadly white, 
 The face of ev'ry beauteous fair, 
 
 That loved a noble knight. 
 
 But, nor despair, nor sighs, nor tears, 
 
 Could make the warriors stay ; 
 The trumpet sounds — the foe appears, — 
 
 And glory leads the way ! 
 
 Then Elwood, with his little band, 
 
 Undaunted, brave, and bold, 
 Met in the battle, hand to hand, 
 
 His numbers three times told. 
 
 In the first charge, like brazen walls, 
 
 The hostile warriors stood : 
 Though swords are broke, no warrior falls, 
 
 Nor stains the earth with blood. 
 
 But when again the warriors met, 
 
 So furious was the fray, — 
 The field of death with gore was wet, 
 
 Where foes and kindred lay !
 
 EL WO D AND EL VINA. 1 2 1 
 
 The plumes from El wood's helmet fell, 
 
 With one gigantic stroke ; 
 But at his foe he aimed so well, 
 
 His sable helmet broke. 
 
 Lifeless he fell — the Yorkists saw 
 The blood stream through his crest , 
 
 Then death succeeded ev'ry blow, 
 And vict'ry fired each breast ! 
 
 Nor less enraged the adverse side. 
 
 For, as the earth they pressed, 
 They gave a death-blow ere they died 
 
 Through many a charger"s breast. 
 
 Though thrice surrounded by their foes, 
 
 Yet thrice they cut their way, 
 And thrice they charged o'er the place, 
 
 Where horse and rider lay. 
 
 The red rose dropped — away they lied !- 
 
 \o sons of York pursued ; 
 For when they saw such numbers dead, 
 
 Their fury was subdued. 
 
 I Me.idful to hear the piercing <n 
 
 ( M youth who linn had stood, 
 heath making dim their sparkling eyes, 
 And drinking last their blood !
 
 122 ELWOOD AND ELVINA. 
 
 Each, when the helmets were removed, 
 
 Beheld relations near, 
 And old acquaintance whom they loved, 
 
 Or brother wounded there. 
 
 Brave Reginald gave this command, 
 
 When ev'ry foe had fled : 
 " The wounded to my castle bear, 
 
 " And lay in earth the dead." 
 
 Her absent lord Elvina mourned ; 
 
 Her breast was filled with fear ; 
 Her love to deepest torture turned, — 
 
 Suspense and wild despair. 
 
 She thought she saw Agatha smile, 
 And then she heard her sigh ; 
 
 Then thought her gallant warrior false, 
 Yet had no reason why. 
 
 She called for food, but could not taste, 
 Nor had she pow'r to drink ; 
 
 But often to the rock-edged flood 
 She wandered wild to think. 
 
 Her shadow in the deep below, 
 
 Presented to her sight 
 Features deep marked with grief and woe, 
 
 And changed to deadly white.
 
 EL WO On A AW EL VINA. 123 
 
 But night approached, — a night of storms,— 
 
 Elvina's bosom beat ; 
 Love conjured up a thousand forms, 
 
 And showed the lovers met. 
 
 She thought she heard her Elwood say,— 
 
 " Oh ! were Elvina cold, 
 " Agatha should appear more gay. 
 
 " In brilliant gems and gold ! " 
 
 Her cloak she took, and wrapped it round 
 
 A breast surcharged with pain, 
 Regardless of the thunder's sound, 
 
 The lightnings, wind, and rain. 
 
 The boughs upon the lofty oaks 
 
 Creaked with the tempest blast ; 
 And white with foam the rapid burn. 
 
 O'er which Elvina passed. 
 
 Ashamed to tell her grief and pain, — 
 
 The anguish which she felt; 
 But firm resolved the towVs to gain, 
 
 Where her fair rival dwelt. 
 
 She hasted on the slipp'ry way, 
 
 1 In warrior lord to meet. 
 Resolving at the gates to stay 
 
 To hear the charger's feet.
 
 124 EL WO OB AND EL VINA. 
 
 And if she saw him turn aside 
 
 At the suspected gate, 
 Death from her dagger's point should leap, 
 
 And on her rival wait. 
 
 The thunder deep, still louder grew, 
 
 Within a darker cloud, 
 The storm across the zenith threw, 
 
 As though 'twas Nature's shroud. 
 
 And for a torch amid the gloom, 
 To make the scene more dread, 
 
 The lightnings burst in ev'ry form 
 Around Elvina's head. 
 
 The tempest was too fierce to last, 
 And soon the winds were still ; 
 
 But the red lightning often flashed 
 High o'er the eastern hill ; 
 
 Which showed the castle's tow'rs in view, 
 And the ancient abbey near, 
 
 The statues, tombs, and sable yew, — 
 The residence of fear. 
 
 But not a fear Elvina felt, 
 
 Even in the darkest shade, 
 For from the tyrant, Jealousy, 
 
 All softer passions fled,
 
 EL WO 0D AND EL VINA. 125 
 
 When first she trod the Roman way, 
 
 She met a solemn train, 
 And pale upon the litters lay 
 
 The corses of the slain. 
 
 A small dim torch a mourner bore, 
 
 To light them to the grave. 
 And faint the light it just shed o'er 
 
 The features of the brave. 
 
 Elvina stood, and trembling shook, 
 From her eyes gushed forth the tear. 
 
 As she to the last warrior spoke, 
 And asked—" Is Khvood here ? " 
 
 He turn'd around with looks of ire. 
 
 And not a word expressed/ 
 Nor told her if the bloody bier 
 
 Her noble Khvood pressed. 
 
 The rattling of the chargers' feet, 
 Advancing, next she hears ; 
 
 Hope, joy, and grief together meet. 
 Contending for her tears. 
 
 Weeping, the i te she gained, 
 
 With yew trees shaded round ; 
 Bl ! there she stood not long concealed. 
 
 Ere she heard the trumpet's sound.
 
 126 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 
 
 As down the deep and rocky vale 
 
 The piercing echoes fly, 
 She hears they are the joyful sounds 
 
 Of Ehvood's victory. 
 
 The ladies from the castle came, 
 
 And Agatha was there ; 
 But, innocent, she felt no shame, 
 
 Nor thought Elvina near. 
 
 The warriors were with trophies hung, 
 
 And many a silver shield 
 Against the brazen scabbards rung, 
 
 Brought from the gory field. 
 
 A day of sports it should have been ; 
 
 But when their foes they met, 
 To war was changed the sportive scene, — 
 
 The field with gore was wet. 
 
 Brave Reginald received a wound, 
 
 And, in the rear, asleep, 
 They bear him, weak — his warriors round, 
 
 Walk slowly on, and weep. 
 
 When Agatha young Elwood saw, 
 " Where's Reginald ? " she cried, 
 
 " Doth he lie bleeding on the field ? — 
 « Oh !— tell me how he died ! "
 
 EL WO OD AND EL VINA. 1 27 
 
 " Your brother lives — all may be well : " 
 
 He spoke it with a sigh ; 
 \ml, swooning, to the earth she fell, 
 As they bore her brother by. 
 
 Though victory crowned the hard-fought day, 
 
 Yet dear that victory cost ; 
 For, in the well-contested fight, 
 
 They many a warrior lost. 
 
 I kit Reginald revives again, — 
 
 His hand to El wood gives ; 
 And each reviving heart is glad 
 
 That the wounded warrior lives. 
 
 Spontaneous bursts the loud huzza ' 
 
 The castle walls resound ; 
 Though Reginald could scarcely join. 
 
 He waved his helmet round. 
 
 ■ farewell ! M he then to Hlwood said. 
 
 " I know you cannot staj . 
 •■ You must inform Elvina fair, 
 
 •• ( >f this eventful <\.\\." 
 
 Then Elwood, turning from his friend. 
 Wished him a peai eful night, 
 
 And soon was hid in the dark shade, 
 I-'ai from the ton lies' light
 
 128 EL WO 0D AND EL VINA. 
 
 Elvina takes a nearer way, 
 Ashamed of jealous care, 
 
 She hopes to gain the castle tow'r, 
 Before her lord be there. 
 
 But as she walked the dubious way, 
 
 Along the rocky height, 
 A misty cloud enwraps her round, 
 
 And makes a two-fold night. 
 
 A light appears — at which she aims, 
 
 But fatal was its glow ; 
 From the high precipice she drops, 
 
 Among the rocks below ! 
 
 No weeping virgins round her stood, 
 No faithful husband near, — 
 
 No hand to stop the streaming blood, 
 Nor priest to hear her pray'r. 
 
 Until the peasant passing by, 
 Who bore the fatal light, 
 
 Beholds her in the cliff below 
 By her jewels glitt'ring bright. 
 
 For help he heard her faintly cry, 
 In plaintive tones of woe, 
 
 But scarce could hear her feeble voice, 
 For the rapid brook below.
 
 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 129 
 
 Then down the rocks he swiftly passed, 
 
 To give his utmost aid ; 
 He found her wounds were streaming fast, 
 
 While fervently she prayed. 
 
 Then he unto the castle hastes, 
 
 The fatal news to bear ; 
 But words could never yet express 
 
 The grief and anguish there. 
 
 They mourn the lady good and fair, 
 
 The best of womankind, — 
 One single fault alone she had, 
 
 And that a jealous mind. 
 
 Oh ! what a piteous sight it was, 
 
 When Elwood saw her dead ! 
 Distraction seized his noble mind, 
 
 And hope and reason fled. 
 
 They laid her in the ancient tomb ; 
 
 The priests were filled with fear. 
 Lest she had shortened much her d. 
 
 They scarce would read a pray'r. 
 
 Brave Elwood there no more could stay, 
 
 But took his sword and shield; 
 And with his warriors rode away, 
 
 To seek th' embattled field. 
 
 I
 
 130 EL WOOD AND EL VINA. 
 
 He in the dreadful conflict fought, 
 On Hexham's bloody plain ; 
 
 And when for him his warriors sought, 
 They found him 'mongst the slain. 
 
 <}@5*>
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Death and Disease my solemn muses be; 
 Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canopy; 
 Let Sorrow dictate every mournful line, 
 And, true Repentance, let the strains be thine ! 
 Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain, 
 O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain. 
 
 Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were, 
 Before their infant eyes could drop a tear ; 
 And when they felt the first of earthly joys, 
 When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys, 
 Plucked in each other's gardens flowers they chose, 
 And smiled together, when they knew not woes. 
 How oft their parents talked of future time . 
 And prayed that they might e'er be clear from crimes, 
 Pleased to behold them in a garment new. 
 And loved them better as they older grew ! 
 young Philo joined them — then the happy three 
 In pleasure lived, and knew not misery.
 
 132 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Far on the hills, amid the purple bloom 
 Of honeyed heath, they talked of bliss to come ; 
 Then bathed amid the mountain's crystal spring, 
 Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing. 
 A thousand sports were there to make them blest, 
 The happiest moments when the heath they pressed ; 
 When the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew, 
 Screaming around their heads in circles flew, 
 And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath, 
 To save their little broods from instant death ; 
 But when the cruel youths once came too nigh, 
 They spread their wings, and showed they yet could 
 
 fly: 
 An emblem these of joys seen just before, 
 We grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more. 
 
 Oft in mischievous sport these took delight, 
 And made the sable evening clouds be bright 
 With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry. 
 The heath soon blazed, and seemed to light the sky ; 
 As if some great volcano there had been, 
 And blushed the clouds as they beheld the scene. 
 Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame, 
 When blazed the woods, and liquid iron came ; 
 Compare it then to ^Etna in his mirth, 
 And spoke of Herculaneum swept from earth ; 
 Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze, 
 And wished that he could on its terrors gaze.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 133 
 
 The furious flames now to a circle spread 
 
 A mile around, and tinged the smoke with red : 
 
 Then came the besom-makers with a shout, 
 
 And with their besoms strove to dash it out ; 
 
 Singed with the flames, they could not heat abide, 
 
 For they with brooms as soon had stopped the 
 
 tide. 
 The ling was deep, and old and strong the bed, 
 Dry was the night — the flames in fury spread 
 To such extent, that nought could stop their force, 
 Till not a branch of heath was in their course. 
 Where fust the fire began the youths were lain, 
 Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again. 
 Their other fires some acres swept away, 
 This blackened many hundreds ere 'twas day: 
 An emblem this of drink — we take a quart, 
 Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part, 
 And then another glass, perhaps the same, 
 Till folly spreads into a foolish flame. 
 
 My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys,— 
 They spent their lives in play, like other boys. 
 Young Philo was to learning most inclined, 
 But Amphorus to music turned his mind. 
 Paros, a lovely youth, within his breast 
 Of mortal feeling surely had the best. 
 He never mis'ry saw, but shed a tear. 
 lie had no friends, but loved them far too dear ;
 
 134 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Believed all flatterers were such as he, 
 
 So honest, man's deceit he could not see. 
 
 The evening sun of summer seldom set, 
 
 But these three youths in purest friendship met, 
 
 Talked till the light was faded in the sky, 
 
 Or listened Amphorus' wild melody. 
 
 Sometimes young Philo struggling with his theme, 
 
 An evening from his comrades would redeem ; 
 
 His mind expanded as his knowledge grew, 
 
 And learning's every step more pleasant grew. 
 
 He saw the hidden stores of Grecian lore — 
 
 Each draught he took but made him thirst for more. 
 
 Amphorus said, "For nought on earth I'll live 
 
 " But those sweet pleasures harmony can give ; 
 
 " Whate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent 
 
 " On music, and the noble instrument 
 
 " Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone 
 
 " Which shakes foundations of the firmest stone. 
 
 " The viol's varied tones I yet will know, 
 
 " The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow ; 
 
 " Each varied part my bosom shall inspire, 
 
 " Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir ; 
 
 " And marches for the army I'll compose, 
 
 " Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes. 
 
 " The music of the ancient school I'll learn, 
 
 " And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn ; 
 
 " Mozart, Von Weber, in each varied flight 
 
 " I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight."
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 135 
 
 Young Paros, smiling, looked on Nature's face, 
 And with his eye her outlines he could trace ; 
 In youth he begged for colours to be bought, 
 To place upon the canvas what he thought. 
 With practice now he can in shades portray 
 The varied tints of soft departing day, 
 Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade, 
 That many thought the pencilled objects played. 
 The youths and virgins, in the bowers of love, 
 Were so like nature, that they seemed to move. 
 Whene'er the landscape was by Paros shown, 
 The varied trees and every shrub were known. 
 Send Paros where you would, in every place 
 His lively eyes were fixed on Nature's face ; 
 But such his application for a name, 
 Deep study shook at last his tender frame, 
 And for his health, and for the art he loved, 
 From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he removed. 
 Pleased with the paintings where the masters shone, 
 He gazed upon them as a chiselled stone 
 formed to a statue ; so engaged his mind, 
 He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind ; 
 But when (he time arrived that he must part, 
 The thoughts ofGrasmere rushed upon his heart. 
 No scenes in Paris gave him su< h delight 
 \, In- had found upon Helvellyn's height, 
 Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high. 
 And round its rocks the croaking ravens fly.
 
 136 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Grandeur may be at Paris in fine forms, 
 
 But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms. 
 
 Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er, 
 
 What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore, 
 
 Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high, 
 
 The cataract seems as rushing from the sky ? 
 
 These Paros saw — retiring in despair, 
 
 He durst not try such grandeur as was there. 
 
 Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake 
 
 Slow curling to the hills in many a flake, 
 
 And as the morning sun sent forth his rays, 
 
 The scene was far above the greatest praise ; 
 
 Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows, 
 
 When the pure lake upon its surface shows 
 
 Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high — 
 
 Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy. 
 
 Oft Paros viewed the yellow orb of night, 
 
 When rising on the lake with golden light, 
 
 Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame, 
 
 And with the scene soft Meditation came. 
 
 Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore, 
 
 Oft Paros sat, and heard its torrent roar, 
 
 Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell 
 
 Hummed through the valley with a solemn swell. 
 
 The hills returned the sound with weakened power, 
 
 And told the artist 'twas the midnight hour. 
 
 He thought upon the peace he left behind — 
 
 The thoughts of Ellen pressed upon his mind ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 137 
 
 Ellen, that ever was to Paros true, 
 
 At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew. 
 
 Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height, 
 
 Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white 
 
 As is the snow where British eagles yell, 
 
 Upon the mighty rocks where Goothe fell. 
 
 When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars, 
 He thought of Fiance and all her bloody wars, 
 With all the arts, — to Paros these gave pain, 
 While admiration mingled with disdain, 
 To think what noble works to France were brought, 
 The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought, 
 When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine 
 Such works were torn as, France, were never thine ; 
 While the great artists slept within the tomb, 
 By study hastened to an early home, 
 Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears, 
 With by-past actions of a thousand years, — 
 ■\il.im and Eve, the flaming sword behind, 
 So well portrayed, it seemed as if the wind 
 Bended the flames, or as Eve's flowing hair 
 Waved with the blast of vengeance that was there, — 
 The Saviour dead before the sheet was thrown 
 O'er Him that made all worlds, and wears the 
 
 i rown. 
 
 Great is the imitation ! — but I shrink 
 That greatest artists ever dared to think
 
 138 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 To paint the Saviour, giver of all bliss, — 
 Raphael ne'er could form a face like His, 
 * Could he have seen how fair in death He slept — 
 The hardest heart that viewed it would have wept. 
 These things are nothing to the present theme ; 
 Paros believed his Saviour would redeem 
 Poets and painters, though they wildly roved, 
 For genius sure in heaven must be beloved. 
 
 Through France and Switzerland the artist ranged, 
 Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed ; 
 Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight, 
 Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night. 
 As on the Alps the avalanches rise, 
 Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies. 
 He climbed their sides, with perseverance true, 
 Till kingdoms on each side were in his view. 
 Arrived at Rome, his young and eager mind 
 With works of ev'ry master was refined. 
 What there he saw, what artists can behold, 
 To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold : 
 But he returned again to Cumbria's fells, 
 To Derwentwater and to Grasmere's dells ; 
 Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear 
 How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw 
 
 there. 
 He said, De Urban's lively canvas spoke, 
 And Raphael's pencil ev'ry passion woke ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 139 
 
 Carracci's masterpiece would make you weep, — 
 He knew so well what would his paintings keep, 
 That on each face you'd think old Nature played, 
 And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade : 
 But would not any trav'ller seem a fool 
 To tell the masters of each varied school ? 
 Paros beheld their works, and thought them fine, 
 But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine : 
 For he who once was well content with beer, 
 Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer; 
 Then he could tell what he had seen away, 
 Live in high life, and ne'er have aught to pay. 
 Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast ? 
 Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest ? 
 Is there for mortals any earthly curse ? 
 There's nothing to a genius that is worse. 
 Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb, 
 And made for youth the grave an early home. 
 Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep. 
 Then children, widow, and relations weep. 
 So 'twas with Paros — he could paint the form 
 Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm 
 Sketch the wild anguish of a crew, 
 
 Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view 
 Paint well the billows, that they seemed to roll. 
 And with his pow'rful pencil freeze the soul. 
 \ iture was in his strokes, and every touch 
 Was neither yet too little nor too much ;
 
 140 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Secure in his imagination's might, 
 Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right. 
 Upraised to fame, his company was sought, 
 And likenesses he sketched as if they thought ; 
 So well he touched the portrait of the fair, 
 She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there, 
 The battle piece of Prestonpans he took, — 
 The scene the noble mind of Paros woke. 
 An ancient song, with fire in every line, 
 Gave the first sketches of the great design • 
 These were the words that fired his feeling heart, 
 And told how madly Stuart played his part : 
 
 " The flashing claymores gleam afar, 
 And small the files in distance are, 
 Each helmet glitters like a star, 
 
 As clansmen are advancing. 
 
 The trenches dug are broad and deep, 
 In which the loaded cannon sleep — 
 Silent their guns the terrors keep, 
 To wait the Scotch artillery. 
 
 Behind the hill the fight began, 
 Death came with ev'ry kilted clan, 
 And down fell many a Southern man, 
 The pipers sounding victory.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 1 4 1 
 
 They yet remembered Glencoe's vale, 
 And sent their bullets thick as hail, 
 And with the broadswords cut the mail, 
 And met the slaughter dreadfully. 
 
 Now rages discord — man and steed 
 Rush to the charge — they fall, they bleed- 
 Forgot is many a noble deed, 
 
 The battle burns so terribly. 
 
 Each cannonier, with charge in hand, 
 And others with the blazing brand, 
 Close to the heated cannon stand, 
 
 The smoke ascending rapidly. 
 
 The steeds, that left the foam behind, 
 The pennons, streaming in the wind. 
 And Scots, that scorned a coward's mind. 
 Rushed to the onset gallantly. 
 
 The English, loyal and more true, 
 The thistle scorned, and firmer grew, 
 V.S closer pressed the bonnets blue. 
 
 Inspired with Highland minstrelsy. 
 
 The smoke, the blaze, the charge, the lire. 
 The ranks that fall ere these retire, 
 And England's banner lifted higher, 
 Were grandeur and sublimit).
 
 142 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Then darkness comes — the blaze is seen 
 At distance, and long time between 
 Each flash, which through the day had been 
 From cannon quick as musketry. 
 
 What Scotland won soon Scotland lost ; 
 Culloden all the glory tost 
 To the cold shades, and there the frost 
 Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly. 
 
 Brave Gardner ! — in death he lay ; 
 A better never lost the day, 
 Nor nobler spirit fled away 
 
 To realms of blest eternity. 
 
 The banners now must wave no more, 
 The dreadful conflict now is o'er, 
 And Scotland shall be clear from gore, 
 For discord's lost in amity." 
 
 On the broad canvas Paros had portrayed 
 The varying glances of each shining blade, 
 Left all descriptive poetry behind, 
 And stamped at once the battle on the mind ; 
 But close beside him was the bottle hung — 
 He drank when faint, then painted as he sung; 
 But when the cheering draught had lost its head, 
 His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 143 
 
 When warmed with wine, his airy thoughts brought home 
 
 The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome ; 
 
 Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth, 
 
 Where Desolation frolicked in her mirth ; 
 
 All Nature rolled before his strong ideas — 
 
 The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas : 
 
 But soon his pulses in quick motions beat, 
 
 His ruined appetite enjoys no meat, 
 
 His frame decays, the mind is weaker made, 
 
 He starts in dreams — his bosom's sore afraid, 
 
 No pleasure can his weeping Anna give ; 
 
 To him 'tis now no happiness to live ; 
 
 He values not the bubble of a name, 
 
 Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame. 
 
 When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled, 
 
 Bound to the confines of a dying bed, 
 
 The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer ; 
 
 1 lis mind was weak, his dissolution near, 
 
 When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast, 
 
 And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed. 
 
 What wee] ting then ! — no language now can tell 
 
 How tears were rained when such a genius fell. 
 
 Then was destroyed a -cirrous noble mind, 
 
 While the destroyer lurked in shades behind. 
 
 Dreadful [ntemperance ! thy tempting snare 
 
 1 [olds while thou slayest, ( > father of Despair ! 
 
 There lay the artist, ready for the tomb, 
 
 His valued paintings hung around the room ;
 
 144 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Here the old ruin, and the shades below 
 Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow, 
 And there the copy of the ocean storm, 
 From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form. 
 Oh ! the sad sight — 'twas solemn there to tread, 
 To view his works, and see the artist dead. 
 How placid he appeared ! — he seemed asleep — 
 I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep. 
 It was the last farewell — he could not hear — 
 His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear 
 Wet his pale cheek — he panted not for breath, 
 But outshone life, as calm he lay in death. 
 
 His spirit's fled, his hand is still, 
 His pencils now are useless laid, 
 
 No more to sketch the vale or hill, 
 No more to touch the light and shade. 
 
 Let violets bloom where he is lain ! 
 
 Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb ! 
 He ne'er can paint your tints again — 
 
 True genius now has left its home. 
 
 Relations wept, and Anna deeply sighed, 
 For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride ; 
 But all their weeping was an empty show, 
 Compared to Philo's "eloquence of woe."
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 145 
 
 When Philo entered, not a word he spoke — 
 The feelings of the friend and poet woke ; 
 Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep, 
 When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep. 
 He thought upon the soul of genius fled, 
 Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said — 
 " Where is the spirit gone? Could such a mind 
 Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind ? 
 Could matter think ? could dust through systems 
 
 roll? 
 No — 'twas the spirit fled without control. 
 Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air — 
 Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there. 
 The mind that once was kept by genius bright, 
 I knew in innocence, when, day or night, 
 Joy plumed its wings : Oh, happiest days on earth ! 
 When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth, 
 From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep, 
 When health was good — we knew not how to weep. 
 1 lis mind for ever stretched in fancy strong, 
 He soared too high on earth to tarry Ion 
 Bui Ian I iils. while thus my bosom swells — 
 
 I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells ; 
 Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new. 
 ond the reach of mortals, hurst upon our view.'' 
 
 Through Nature Philo's lively fancy flew, 
 He something of ea< h varied science knew ;
 
 146 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 He read of Polar wonders with delight, 
 And searched each cause on which the learned write, 
 He learned to know how little mortals know 
 Of things above, or meanest things below, 
 That when the northern dancing streamers fly, 
 They cannot tell how these can light the sky ; 
 He learned to know that men of wit and thought, 
 With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought. 
 Philo the works of navigators read, 
 That round the globe the bending canvas spread ; 
 He knew by reading what each clime brought forth, 
 Between New Zealand and the cold Cape North. 
 Astronomy he loved — his soul flew far, 
 Through all the systems, to the Polar star, 
 Nor rested there — he struggled to explain 
 The cause of tides that roll upon the main. 
 Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew, 
 His mind through ^Eschylus with pleasure flew ; 
 He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong, 
 From great Euripides to Sappho's song ; 
 His mind was learning's self, for such as he, 
 That love to learn, grasp at infinity. 
 The microscopic beauties they behold, 
 Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold, 
 Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was, 
 In quick succession through their fancies pass, 
 And every language, vulgar or refined, 
 Are nothing to express the scholar's mind.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 147 
 
 Philo in study passed his years away, 
 Ere he was led to college far astray. 
 There, with all aids, the dissipated youth 
 Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth ; 
 The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse, 
 At every step the human heart grows worse, 
 Though these can have the globes, the map, the chart, 
 And every help of Nature and of Art, — 
 ( )ld vellum manuscripts of Runic lore, 
 And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er. 
 From Egypt curiosities are brought, 
 Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought, 
 Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome, 
 Where Learning had a palace for her home. 
 I .anguage is now at college which was spoke 
 When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke. 
 All that three thousand years can now supply, 
 Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye ; 
 However dark the works, they there can gain 
 ( Others that will the darkest parts explain. 
 But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide, 
 For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed. 
 Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase — 
 All chances there, but still he wanted pea< e, 
 And sighed for solitude beneath some hill. 
 Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill, 
 The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray, 
 Chanting their vespers to departing day,
 
 148 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Where bounding trouts within the brook arise, 
 When winds are still, and sporting are the flies. 
 Such rural pleasures Philo then could please, 
 And nought on earth can equal joys like these. 
 No pleasure half so near the joys above, 
 As he experienced when he met his love, 
 True as Leander, she as Hero true, 
 Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew. 
 Kings have not more, and riches cannot give 
 Such bliss as when in innocence we live. 
 
 Within the valley Philo had a friend, 
 With whom he many a happy hour could spend, 
 His greatest glory was to make him blest — 
 He lent the youth all volumes he possessed. 
 Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away, 
 Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray. 
 He read of battles, and the sons of Jove, 
 Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love. 
 In learning's happy hours the youth was blest, 
 Till love's strong passion raged within his breast ; 
 Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire 
 Was quenched amid the fervour of desire ; 
 Forgot the things below, the orbs above, 
 His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love. 
 She that had vowed to love him while away, 
 Bless him at eve, and think on him by day,
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 149 
 
 Like woman, to be rid of anxious pain, 
 Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain. 
 Then fell the genius — Philo's love was scorned, 
 In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned, 
 Cobwebs were seen among his modern books, 
 And Care had stamped her image on his looks. 
 What tuneful Virgil ? or what Homer then ? 
 What all the writings of the wisest men ? 
 What a!l the greatest literature of earth ? 
 What all his studies ? — all are nothing worth. 
 French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, 
 Served but the anguish of his soul to speak. 
 His loving heart beat fast with anguish wrung, 
 And thus, in tuneful Greek, the scholar sung : 
 
 " What is the consummation of desire, 
 The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire ? 
 What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow ? 
 Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe. 
 The peasants may admire the learned youth ; 
 But did the poor unlettered know the truth, 
 How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent. 
 They then would sing, enjoying true content. 
 The learn'd may search in ancient books for years, 
 And re. ul till not a novelty appears, 
 These cannot Nature from the bosom move. 
 No — more they know, the Stronger is their love ;
 
 150 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 And women, oh ! I write it with a tear, 
 Soon lose affection when you are not there. 
 Oh, angel forms ! Heaven's masterpiece on earth ! 
 Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth ! 
 Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe ! 
 But why be blamed, since Nature made you so ? 
 Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays, 
 But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze." 
 
 Now Philo's years amount to twenty-one, 
 And he a learned youth, a hopeful son ; 
 His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds, 
 And he sole master of three thousand pounds. 
 As when the rider, on the grassy plain, 
 The useless bridle thrown upon the mane, 
 The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw, 
 Resolved all passions of mankind to know. 
 A sable velvet coat he first had made, 
 And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed ; 
 With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged, 
 As fancy led, so his amusements changed ; 
 Each night at parties, at the course next day, 
 And thus the hours of Philo passed away: 
 Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase, 
 Philo was there, with pleasure on his face. 
 At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball, 
 With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all,
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 151 
 
 No thoughts of feeble age, or future days — 
 His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise. 
 His gay companions now with him would go, 
 And view the far-famed field of Waterloo ; 
 Provided well with gold, they bade farewell 
 Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell. 
 When in the strongest gale, upon the prow 
 Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below, 
 Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray, 
 And tossed the vessel as she ploughed her way ; 
 With heart undaunted he beheld the tide — 
 His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride, 
 Her head amid the waves, her stern on high, 
 And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky ; 
 One hand was firmly grasped around the line, 
 The other held a quart of purple wine. 
 Serene, he viewed the waves in every form, 
 And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm : 
 For firm lie stood, and saw the vessel plough 
 Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below. 
 The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest, 
 The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast. 
 On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared, 
 By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered. 
 The youth hid seen the well-built vessel roll. 
 The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul ; 
 The lightning's Hash, the thunder, and the se i 
 Had raised his mind to noblest erst
 
 152 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 The sails were full, and, leaning on her side, 
 Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide, 
 And soon the land is seen in distance blue — 
 The level shores of Belgium they view. 
 The music sounds, the wines like water run, 
 When mirth upon the vessel is begun, 
 The captain joins, and there the spirits shine, 
 The choicest brandy, and the best of wine, 
 And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew, — 
 The captain from the steerage quickly threw 
 A cask of Hollands — with the best 'twas stored — 
 The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board. 
 Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk — 
 Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk. 
 The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were 
 o'er, 
 
 They fell— but from that fall they rose no more, 
 Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land, 
 And left them nearly buried in the sand. 
 
 Arrived upon the hill where armies fought, 
 Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought ; 
 The place where thousands lay interred was seen, 
 And there the grass waved with a deeper green. 
 He thus reflected : " What a stillness here ! 
 Low the Hussar, and cold the Cuirassier ; 
 The meeting armies shout not on the field, 
 Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 153 
 
 The close-wedged squares of British troops are gone, 
 
 Now still the place where Europe's peace was won ; 
 
 Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls, 
 
 Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls, 
 
 And here the spade shall turn up many a scull, 
 
 And broken arms, of which the fields are full." 
 
 In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed, 
 
 And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed ; 
 
 He thought what thousands fell when that was fired, 
 
 Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired. 
 
 At Belle Alliance, at the close of day, 
 
 The blithe companions drove their cares away; 
 
 Inspired with brandy, l'hilo's muse awoke, 
 
 And in extempore verses thus he spoke : 
 
 " Low laid in yon mountain the hero, the brave, 
 The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot, 
 And the young British warrior's no more than a slave, 
 1 le now as a slave is forgot. 
 
 The pride of the battle to ashes are turned, 
 And dim their once war-beaming eyes; 
 
 The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle but; 
 I ell quickly, but never to rise. 
 
 And this is their glory they stand as a mark, 
 
 Firm, 1>m\ ing the bullets, for fan 
 They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark — 
 
 To them all the blaze Of a name."
 
 154 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 With thirst of knowledge Philo's bosom burns, 
 
 And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns ; 
 
 But the young muse had formed her thorny nest, 
 
 Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast. 
 
 Here he resolved to make remarks as true 
 
 As life itself, on every passing view. 
 
 His books he spurned, and open threw his mind 
 
 To read the spacious volumes of mankind ; 
 
 He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools, 
 
 Full of the modern jargon of the schools ; 
 
 But he resolved the varied scenes to see, 
 
 From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty. 
 
 First at Brussels he told his tale of woe, 
 
 As though his arm was lost at Waterloo ; 
 
 His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side — 
 
 In Anglo-French he told how comrades died. 
 
 At night, what varied scenes were in his view, 
 
 Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew ! 
 
 Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee, 
 
 And mendicants all joined in harmony. 
 
 When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin, 
 
 A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin. 
 
 All instruments were tuned that then were there, 
 
 And punch and music drowned all their care ; 
 
 Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see, 
 
 And good box organs grinded melody. 
 
 Philo without its mask deception saw, 
 
 Amid the motley group, that laughed at law.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 155 
 
 Escaped from prison, one, disguised, was there, 
 Another was a wounded privateer ; 
 And there was one her infant's blood had spilt, 
 That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt. 
 Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings- 
 Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings, 
 And flew away — such sportive glee and fun 
 As few behold, by gipsies were begun. 
 Then young and old could sit not on the bench, 
 But danced — Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French. 
 Upon the earthen floor the wooden peg 
 Kept as true time as many a better leg. 
 To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene, 
 Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen ; 
 One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile 
 The other danced, in true Italian style ; 
 Chords from the tambourine the third awoke — 
 Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke. 
 These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain. 
 With these he never wished to meet again ; 
 Then were Deception's masks all torn away — 
 In higher spheres he spent each future day. 
 
 When o'er Brussels dark Night had cast her 
 shade, 
 Hundreds were dressing fur the masquerade, 
 
 In all the varied CpStumes nations wear 
 
 In every clime throughout each hemisphere.
 
 156 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 As great Apollo Philo's head was crowned, 
 Who led the dance, with Muses circled round. 
 With grand, majestic step Apollo trod — 
 The sons of song paid homage to the god. 
 First Homer came, a venerable form, 
 Upon his breast portrayed the ocean storm, 
 Above, the gods, descending from the sky, 
 Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy ; 
 Across the poet's breast a robe was flung, 
 And there portrayed the battles that he sung. 
 Next ancient Hesiod, whose mighty strains 
 Were heard from earth to the celestial plains ; 
 Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear, 
 Horace and Pindar pay their homage there. 
 Then Shakespeare comes, with a majestic mien, 
 The trumpet's sounds the greatest bard proclaim ; 
 Apollo bows, and reaches forth his hand, 
 Around the Muses and the poets stand ; 
 Apollo crowns him with a wreath of light, 
 Whereon is written, "Nature, Depth, and Height." 
 Cupid is on his robe, the dying maid 
 Within the tomb of Capulets portrayed ; 
 The field of battle, and the ocean storm, 
 The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied form ; 
 The meeting armies, and the murdered kings, 
 E'en some short sketch of all created things. 
 Philo, to praise the mighty bard, displayed 
 The noblest scene of all the masquerade ;
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 157 
 
 His robes he changed, the merry dance he joined 
 
 With fair French belles, as lovely as refined. 
 
 Through every stage of life he strove to pass, 
 
 Resolved to see how varied Nature was : 
 
 But here the youth was foolish, learned, and vain, 
 
 His genius drowned in the bright champagne ; 
 
 Wisdom departed, riot took her place, 
 
 And led young Philo into deep disgrace. 
 
 The scene must drop, and hide him from our sight, 
 
 With all the follies of a drunkard's night. 
 
 Learning is not true wisdom. Youths may be 
 
 Refined and polished to a high degree ; 
 
 Genius may mark the scholar for her own, 
 
 Yet by her brightest sons is often shown 
 
 Minds that can soar in rapture to the skies, 
 
 On Learning's wings — feel noblest ecstasies, 
 
 Then sink to earth ; and mixing with the throng, 
 
 In Folly's path with drunkards roll along. 
 
 With best of resolutions Philo came, 
 
 And deeply sighed, through grief and inward shame. 
 
 Oppressed with sickness, his ideas fled, 
 
 His memory weakened, and an aching head ; 
 
 A ruined appetite, a trembling hand, 
 
 llis pen obeying not his mind's command. 
 
 To drive away the melancholy train 
 
 Of d. irk ideas, he flew to wine again ; 
 
 An ecstasy lie felt in getting drunk — 
 
 To what a depth his learned mind was sunk !
 
 158 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Then horror seized him, and his eyes rained tears, 
 
 That all the learning of his youthful years, 
 
 With which his father hoped to make him blessed, 
 
 Should only leave his bosom more oppressed. 
 
 Oft would his mind upon the muses' wings 
 
 Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things ; 
 
 Beyond mortality were Philo's strains 
 
 Tuned to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains. 
 
 He sung not love's soft passion, lovers' care, 
 
 His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and 
 
 air ; 
 In deepest bursts of passion he could shine, 
 And power and harmony filled every line. 
 With thoughts original, with words at will, 
 His verses made his readers' blood run chill, 
 But not with horror, — 'mid the stars he trod, 
 And sung th' omnipotence of Nature's God ; 
 On wings of fancy his unfettered soul 
 Flew far as comets soar or planets roll. 
 Where undescribed Infinity had birth, 
 He looked in vain for this small spot of earth, 
 Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide, 
 Then asked — " What am I ? what is human pride, 
 What our conceptions, learn whate'er we can, 
 What is the pomp, the dignity of man, 
 Compared with Him ? How mighty is the thought ! 
 He spoke — the worlds, the systems sprung from 
 
 nought ?
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 159 
 
 Rolling in darkness all the heavenly spheres, 
 He says, ' Let there be light ! ' and light appears ; 
 And when it shall be the Creator's will, 
 A word can make the rolling orbs be still. 
 At His command the orbs burst out in Hame, 
 Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came." 
 
 At intervals, the muse of Philo sung 
 In strains like these, then silent was her tongue. 
 The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes, 
 I mention's iled, the nervous feeling wakes; 
 His eyes have lost their fire, his faltering tongue 
 Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong, 
 His memory's fled, invention laid at rest — 
 His heart-strings quiver in his weakened breast; 
 But still the thoughts of other bards' despair, 
 The sons of misery and rankling care, 
 Prompted a last, though enervated lay, 
 And this the substance of his weak essay : 
 
 " Where merit lives, the greatest sorrow swells, 
 Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dwells; 
 ( )hscure in life the man of letters moun 
 While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns ; 
 ( )r if his re] on widely spread, 
 (ill hi, he Starved, and even wanted bread. 
 
 Perished in poverty, of little note. 
 While others profited by what he \vi
 
 160 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 " The poor blind Homer, noblest bard of all, 
 Or moved by want, or pressed by hunger's call, 
 Mourning in shame, he scarce durst raise his head, 
 But spoke immortal verse to gain his bread. 
 Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile, 
 A miller was — then sat, and wrote awhile ; 
 It was no shame that he, a poet born, 
 Should sometimes sing, whilst others ground the corn. 
 Xylander studied at eighteen for fame, 
 His hope, his glory, was a poet's name : 
 His notes on Dion Cassius, every line, 
 Were sold for want, that he once more could dine ; 
 Then his young vanity for ever fled, 
 He thought, he studied, how to write for bread. 
 Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head, 
 But soon they found the great Agrippa dead ; 
 Forced from his native valleys to depart, 
 Despair and poverty had broke his heart. 
 The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his lyre — 
 Dimmed was the poet's eye, and quenched his fire ; 
 He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet, 
 Perished from hunger in the public street; 
 Child of the muses ! he, a poet born, 
 Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn ! 
 Upon the bard the haughty, wealthy gaze, 
 And those who most neglected, gave him praise. 
 He heard it not, his noble soaring mind 
 Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 101 
 
 Tasso, in great distress, had nought to spend, 
 
 Till he a crown had borrowed from a friend ; 
 
 And when in study he sat up at night, 
 
 So poor, he oft was destitute of light ; 
 
 But soared above all want, he wrote — and praise 
 
 Has formed his chaplet in succeeding days. 
 
 Great Ariosto bitterly complains 
 
 Of poets' misery, of poets' gains, 
 
 Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot, 
 
 And built the bard a little rustic cot; 
 
 When these were done, the poet's soul was glad, 
 
 Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad ; 
 
 He found few riches flow from poets' strings, 
 
 And palaces and verse are different things. 
 
 See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen, 
 
 When Spenser was approaching, step between 
 
 Her and the bard whose fame through lands resounds. 
 
 Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds : 
 
 1 [e thought his clerks deserv'd far more than he— 
 
 The child of genius and of poverty. 
 
 But Burleigh's name detested shall be read, 
 
 Who caused the bard to die for want of bread. 
 
 ( ) poets ! hope not favour from the great, 
 
 These merit often I ast beneath their feet. 
 
 Savage, unfortunate, by want distressed, 
 
 When I ares and sorrows on his bosom pressed, 
 
 Th' eccentric ' Wand'rer ' he had Studied years. 
 
 Smiled on its lines, or wet them with his tears,
 
 162 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Starving through want, no silver he nor gold, 
 
 For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold ; 
 
 And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven, 
 
 For his great work, had just the same sum given. 
 
 Otway and Butler suffered here in time, 
 
 One starved, and one imprisoned for his rhyme ; 
 
 But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth, 
 
 Whose genius soared in hyperbole or truth, 
 
 Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings, 
 
 As o'er the clouds he touched his powerful strings, 
 
 Oppressed with misery, o'ercome with care, 
 
 Fell, early victim to a dark despair ! 
 
 A luxury he thought a single tart, 
 
 And study and long starving broke his heart. 
 
 He who to water got sometimes no bread, 
 
 We see applauded, when the youth is dead. 
 
 Poor Boyce, who wrote ' Creation,' see him stand, 
 
 White as the paper, while Death shook his hand ! 
 
 Cold in the garret, destitute of fire, 
 
 This son of song the world left to expire. 
 
 No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread 
 
 Found in his garret, when the bard was dead ! 
 
 Here had he died in penury alone, 
 
 O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown, 
 
 A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast, 
 
 And in his hand was found his pen at last ! 
 
 The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride, 
 
 In his youth's bloom full prematurely died,
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 103 
 
 Too independent was his mind to bend 
 
 To ask a favour even from a friend ; 
 
 He struggled hard against his adverse fate, 
 
 And when assistance came, it came too late : 
 
 Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceased its 
 
 sounds, 
 They heaped upon his dust seven thousand pounds ! 
 I speak the truth, what every man must feel — 
 This would have bought and stocked for him Mossgiel ; 
 But poets seldom rise while here they live, 
 The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they 
 
 give." 
 
 Philo, irresolute, is still led on, 
 Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone. 
 The rosy cheek is pale, the manly face, 
 Where Health had stamped her own strong mase'line 
 
 grace, 
 Fast shrinks away, and difficult the breath — 
 He feels the woeful harbingers of death. 
 Fain would he turn to his once healthful food. 
 But nought he sees can do the smallest good. 
 Life would die out, as tapers do expire. 
 Did not strong spirits keep alive the fire. 
 His old companions, true to him when youi 
 Come to inquire, but when he hi ue, 
 
 ( )h. how he weeps ! — he knows what is the cause 
 Of his strong system making such a pau
 
 164 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Wishes that all the spirits e'er he drunk, 
 Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk. 
 I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind, 
 When he must leave his dearest love behind. 
 The cares of earth with him will soon be o'er, 
 But what a boundless ocean lies before. 
 
 Amph'rus beheld his early grave, but grief 
 Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief. 
 The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead, 
 Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom 
 
 bled. 
 The days of youth, but newly left behind, 
 With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind. 
 Young Philo's sister he before had loved — 
 From her his constant bosom never moved ; 
 But long had absence torn their hearts in twain, 
 And deep the grief when these can meet again. 
 With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke, 
 And all the sister in her bosom woke : 
 " Philo is now no more — oh ! Amph'rus, hear 
 This last request — I make it with a tear. 
 Philo, my brother, is untimely gone, 
 And Paros' sand of genius too is run — 
 Oh ! drink no more — stop, ere the hour come soon. 
 Which makes your morning sun go down at noon ! " 
 He heard and wept — he trembled for his fate — 
 He would return, but feared it was too late.
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 1G5 
 
 His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost, 
 His mind from music to despair was tost. 
 Just like a youth when running down a hill, 
 And shows his action and his youthful skill, 
 Who sees, at length, a gulf where he must drop, 
 But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop; 
 He takes a spring, to live or rise no more — 
 He's saved — his effort brings him safely o'er. 
 Amph'rus beheld before the gulf of death, 
 The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath, 
 Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer, 
 He lives — and yet his noble notes I hear. 
 When in the minster all the octaves swell, 
 'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the octaves well ; 
 'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute, 
 'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute. 
 In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines, 
 And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines, 
 lint, oh ! what morals do the writers make ! — 
 'Tis better far to give advice than take. 
 
 Oh ! could I write that I myself could save 
 From this one curse, this sure untimely grave, 
 This endless want, that soon must stop my breath, 
 These tinning draughts, which bring disease and 
 
 death, 
 Then should my Must- upon her wings advance, 
 And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance.
 
 166 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 I know there's mirth, and oft a flash of joy, 
 
 When friends with friends a social hour employ, 
 
 When the full bowl is circled all around, 
 
 And not a single jarring string is found ; 
 
 But truest wisdom of a young man's heart, 
 
 Is well to know the moment to depart. 
 
 Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin 
 
 To mix with friends in this bewitching sin, 
 
 Soon lose their resolution, and what then? 
 
 Their privilege is gone to other men, 
 
 Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where 
 
 They seemed so happy with his social cheer, 
 
 When all is spent, and all resources o'er, 
 
 Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door. 
 
 I could employ my pen for weeks, for years, 
 
 Write on this subject, wet it with my tears ; 
 
 For spacious as the ocean is the scope, 
 
 For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope, 
 
 Lays best of characters below the dust, 
 
 And fills connections with a deep distrust. 
 
 But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told — 
 
 Eternity alone can these unfold. 
 
 That I may know these ills, and stop in time, 
 
 Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme.
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Where is the ink so sable in its hue, 
 That can portray the picture dark and true ; 
 The horrid state which language fails to tell, 
 The dark confusion, and the earthly hell ! 
 In such sad state how often have I thought — 
 
 ! that I could sink backward into nought ! 
 Reason o'erthrown and anguish in its place, 
 
 1 thought myself below the reach of grace. 
 Despair o'erwhelm'd my soul, and keen remorse: 
 i o know I lived, became my bitt'rest curse ; 
 
 My sorrowing friends appear'd my greatest foes, 
 
 And cheerful songs but added to my woes. 
 
 The phantom trumpets, the imagin'd band, 
 
 Methought 1 heard, which summon'd me to stand 
 
 1 1: ;h in the pillory -to meet disgra< 
 
 My trembling heart shrunk back from every fa< e. 
 
 Thus swiftly did imagination rove. 
 
 And o'er the prostrate throne of reason drove.
 
 168 THE DRUNKARD'S RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Afraid of poison from a mother kind, 
 
 I durst not drink, — suspicion fill'd my mind. 
 
 Each trembling leaf, if shaken by the blast, 
 
 Struck me with terror as I hurried past. 
 
 I deemed myself the cause of all the guilt 
 
 That fills the earth— of all the blood e'er spilt, 
 
 And that kind Heaven would deign on earth to dwell, 
 
 Were I but hurried to the deepest hell.
 
 THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 I'ias spoke Israel's God, — "Earth's inhabitants tell, 
 Great Babylon's fallen, confounded is Bel ! 
 Merodach is broken ! let Israel wave 
 Its flag o'er the idols which never could save ! " 
 
 I ler gates were of brass, and her ramparts were strong, 
 And there were the feasting, the dance, and the song; 
 Her horsemen were brave, and her archers were sure, 
 And her streets were perfumed till the zephyrs were 
 pure. 
 
 Her great heathen temples were grand to behold, 
 Their pillars were marble, their capitals gold ; 
 Since Adam first dwelt in fair Eden alone. 
 Such glory and pomp on this earth never shone. 
 
 Poor [srael, imprisoned, oppressed with the rod, 
 Sat cheerless, but still they remembered their God ; 
 No armour had they but the fast fallinj 
 1'or the best arms of Israel were always a prayer.
 
 170 THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 From the holes of the prison to Zion they turned 
 Their sorrowful features, and inwardly mourned ; 
 They cried — " Let us once our Jerusalem see, 
 And, Lord, all our praise shall be given to Thee ! " 
 
 The Lord saw their tears, and an army came forth — 
 The terrible nations in arms from the north ; 
 The beasts of the forest were never more strong, 
 And the very hills shook as the host marched along. 
 
 All drunk in the city, none saw them advance ; 
 The music was there, and the timbrel and dance ; 
 The feast and the pleasures beneath night's dark pall, 
 They thought not how soon the great city must fall, 
 
 As the army drew nearer, no trumpet was heard, 
 No flashing of spears or of helmets appeared ; 
 But their armour was such as but giants could wield, 
 And their spears were as num'rous as corn in the field. 
 
 The horsemen were spread in the front of the line — 
 Chaldea ! such horsemen were never yet thine ; 
 On the high northern hills, many furlongs afar, 
 Stretched miles either way, was the rear of the war. 
 
 As, guided by Heaven, the strong rampart they found, 
 And hundreds of soldiers soon cut up the ground, 
 Euphrates, released, ran swift from its bed, 
 As the sign that great Babylon's glory was fled.
 
 THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 171 
 
 Then thousands and thousands effected a pass, 
 And found all unbolted the strong gates of brass ; 
 In silence they marched, till the palace they found, 
 Then the trump of the host was commanded to sound. 
 
 The brave sought their armour, the cowardly fled, 
 And terror through every palace was spread : 
 Such terror, such paleness the city spread o'er, 
 As no trumpets can cause till old time is no more. 
 
 Belshazzar's strong army awoke from their rest, 
 And buckled a breastplate on every breast ; 
 But the armour was rusted, and blunt was the spear. 
 No sharp-whetted swords, though the foe was so near. 
 
 The torches were lighted, and blazed on each tower, 
 The scene which they showed quite unnerved every 
 
 power ; 
 For the arms of the foes were all polished so bright, 
 That each seemed a torch by reflecting the light 
 
 The Medians, drunk in the monarch's proud court. 
 Tiie vessels destroyed, and made grandeur their spi 
 But those which belonged to the house of the Lord, 
 Were all by the warriors, though barb'rous, restored. 
 
 When drunken with wine, the wine ran a Hood, 
 Then they fought through the streets in a torrent of 
 blood ;
 
 172 THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 Their swords were as red as the wine they had drunk, 
 And little they fought ere ten thousand had sunk. 
 
 The garments of princesses hung on their spears, 
 And the crown of a prince on the pavement appears ; 
 The mighty Belshazzar is dragged from his seat, 
 And the gems of his throne are as dust in the street. 
 
 The breasts of the num'rous white chargers were red 
 With the blood which had flowed from the dying and 
 
 dead ; 
 The bright helms of steel, which the Medians wore, 
 Were spotted all over with Babylon's gore. 
 
 When morning arose, what dread terrors appeared ! 
 The streets of the city, which nothing had feared, 
 Were strewed o'er with slain, and nor music nor mirth 
 Shall ever sound more — for 'tis sunk to the earth. 
 
 The shouts of the captives now joyful arise, 
 And the praises of Israel ascend to the skies. 
 The princes of earth, and the tyrants of all, 
 If God be against them, how certain their fall ! 
 
 Awake, all ye captives ! ye dead, from the grave ! 
 Shout — " The idols are broken which never could 
 
 save ! " 
 And bear it, ye winds ! — earth's inhabitants, tell 
 Great Babylon's fallen, confounded is Bel !
 
 
 Jsrtjrieiil aiib p c s r r i n t i u c ^ocms. 
 
 AIREDALE'S BEAUTIES. 
 
 Poets in varied verse may sing 
 
 The rivers, vales, and hills, 
 The dimpled lake, the crystal spring, 
 
 The groves and rippling rills ; 
 
 The ancient domes, the lofty tow'rs. 
 
 The moss-robed ruins grey, 
 The sylvan shades, the rosy bow'ix 
 
 Where native beauties play. 
 
 To those and twice ten thousand more, 
 
 The lyre has often rung : 
 
 but since the ancient bards gave o'er. 
 Was ever Airedale sung?
 
 1 74 AIREDALES BE A [/TIES. 
 
 Why, O, ye youths — ye virgins fair, 
 Have you so long been mute ? 
 
 Nor touched it with some lovely air 
 To tremble on the lute ? 
 
 Are there no beauties glowing round, 
 
 No Heliconian springs, 
 No echoes, answering ev'ry sound, 
 
 To animate your strings ? 
 
 No scenes where mountains' lofty heads 
 Like famed Parnassus rise ? 
 
 No crystal streams, on pebbly beds, 
 Reflecting half the skies ? 
 
 No rocks soft cushioned o'er with moss, 
 
 As sofas for the fair? 
 No daisy-spangled meads to cross, 
 
 Within the vale of Aire ? 
 
 Yes ! here are bow'rs where eglantines 
 
 The fragrant roses bear; 
 And here the honeysuckle twines, 
 
 Perfuming sweet the air. 
 
 The lilacs and laburnums wave 
 Each beauteous flow'ry plume ; 
 
 And evergreens, that winter brave, 
 The healthful breeze perfume.
 
 AIREDALES BEAUTIES. 175 
 
 Here are green woods, and springs, and bow'rs, 
 
 And purple-vestured hills, 
 And fields, in yellow robes of flow'rs, 
 
 Made, bright with glitt'ring rills. 
 
 The crimson-crested grouse are there, 
 
 The whirring partridge grey, 
 The pheasants haunt the fountains clear, 
 
 And frisking leverets play. 
 
 The treble sings the lark on high, 
 
 In tenor joins the thrush ; 
 The bass the mellow blackbirds try 
 
 Upon the blossomed bush. 
 
 How sweet the scent the zephyrs bring 
 
 From fields of clover white ! 
 Not gardens of an Eastern king 
 
 Can yield him such delight. 
 
 But not the heather's crimson bloom 
 
 Can with the cheeks compare, 
 ( )f those sweet maids, who nought assume, — 
 
 The nymphs of Yorkshire Aire ! 
 
 Great Nature's hand lias decked the scene 
 With suVry rich i 
 
 But what had all these beauties been. 
 Without the lovely maids?
 
 1 76 BINGLETS BE A [/TIES. 
 
 The cowslip meads, the daisied fields, 
 The fragrant rosy bovv'rs, 
 
 And all the sweets the valley yields, 
 When spring descends in show'rs, 
 
 Are all outshone with lovely maids, 
 That bloom when these grow pale, 
 
 Whose virtues live when beauty fades, 
 The glory of the vale. 
 
 BING LEY'S BEAUTIES. 
 
 Thy beauties, Bingley ! never have been sung 
 
 By stranger-bard, or native poet's tongue ; 
 
 Then may my humble muse with thee prevail 
 
 To pardon my presumption, if I fail 
 
 In this attempt thy beauties to rehearse 
 
 In rustic strains of my untutor'd verse. 
 
 Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent 
 
 To distant seas, or some far continent, 
 
 Though these on thee have thought in other climes, 
 
 All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes. 
 
 When on thy lovely vale I stand to gaze, 
 
 I feel thou need'st from me no meed of praise :
 
 B INGLE VS BE A UTIES. 1 7 7 
 
 Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bowers, 
 
 Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flowers, 
 
 Thy bold grey rocks, thy heathy purple fells, 
 
 Where silent solitude with beauty dwells ; 
 
 Thy homes where honest worth stills finds a seat, 
 
 And love and virtue a serene retreat — 
 
 Such scenes as these should plume the poet's wing, 
 
 And swell his heart while he attempts to sing. 
 
 O may Religion, life's best hope and stay, 
 
 The maids of Bingley teach the better way ! 
 
 Their minds instruct, their innocence protect, 
 
 Their manners soften, and their paths direct ; 
 
 May they be like the turtles of the wood, 
 
 That dip their bills in Aire's meandering flood ; 
 
 Then, at the last, faith's sunshine on each breast, 
 
 Soar to the mansions of eternal rest ! 
 
 Their inborn principles of truth and love, 
 
 Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove, 
 
 Sweet as the flowers when bending to the sun, 
 
 Are Bingley's daughters when they love but one. 
 
 We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring; 
 
 The woods where every British bird doth sing : 
 
 Wild plants and flowers, wild birds, and scenes as wild, 
 
 Or soft as any on whu li Nature smili 
 
 Blooming and lovely, as the moon is fair. 
 
 And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire. 
 
 The weeping birch, the great majestic oak, 
 
 Where dark green ivy forms a winter's cloak j 
 
 M
 
 178 FAIRY SONG. 
 
 The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow ; 
 
 The sylvan vales, with timid hares below, 
 
 The brooding pheasant, beauty of the wood, 
 
 And spotted trouts that cleave the amber flood. 
 
 For finer walks, for more sequestered bowers, 
 
 For cooler grottos, and for richer flowers, 
 
 For streams that wind more beautiful along, 
 
 For birds with louder chorus to their song, 
 
 For all that gen'rous Nature can bestow, 
 
 All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley Vale must bow. 
 
 FAIRY SONG. 
 
 Let us trip in airy dances, 
 
 While the weary mortals sleep ; 
 
 See the waning orb advances, 
 Lighting those that vigils keep. 
 
 In the nectar drown all trouble, 
 Sweetened by the honey'd bee ; 
 
 Make a punch-bowl of a bubble, 
 Underneath our fav'rite tree. 
 
 We have not the cares of mortals, 
 Nature's self our tailor is ; 
 
 Sorrow enters not our portals, — 
 All our fairy-nights are bliss.
 
 JANUARY. 1Y9 
 
 Some fine peacock's lovely feather, 
 
 Brightest that was ever seen, 
 With its edge adorned with heather, 
 
 Forms a carpet for our queen. 
 
 Stop the dance — a beetle's coming, 
 
 We must take his sable wing ; 
 Stop his flight and mournful humming, 
 
 He must arm the fairy king. 
 
 Now a moment's mirth and dancing, — 
 We of songs have got no more ; 
 
 When the moon, so high advancing, 
 Shows the fairy dance is o'er. 
 
 Wings of insects on the river, 
 We can borrow when we please ; 
 
 Then we fly away for ever, 
 
 To the shades of joy and peace. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 Now bleak winter on the mountains 
 Whirls on heaps the powder'd snow. 
 
 Seals with ice the sandy fountains, 
 While the streams can scarcely flow.
 
 180 JANUARY. 
 
 Starving grouse forsake the rushes, 
 
 Covered is their winter store, 
 Seek for shelter in the bushes, 
 
 While the heath is drifted o'er. 
 
 Trees beneath their loads are bending ; 
 
 Firs like ostrich plumes appear ; 
 Partridge tame the barn attending, 
 
 Pick the grain with stealthy fear. 
 
 Hares the snow-drifts wander over. 
 Forced the hawthorn buds to eat ; 
 
 Lost in snow the sprigs of clover, 
 Covered are the blades of wheat. 
 
 Now the thrasher, old and weary, 
 Stops the northern door with straw ; 
 
 But the tempest, wild and dreary, 
 Finds a way through ev'ry flaw. 
 
 Notes of bass the cattle humming, 
 
 Patient for their fodder call, 
 Waiting long to see it coming, 
 
 White with snow within the stall. 
 
 Starved from woods, the beauteous pheasant 
 Leaves the icy boughs and mourns, 
 
 Haunts the cottage of the peasant, — 
 Snows may melt, it ne'er returns.
 
 EVENING IN APRIL. 181 
 
 Thus the maids, their parents leaving, 
 
 Wanton to the city fly, 
 Soon with woes their breasts are heaving, — 
 
 Virtue, honour, beauty, die ! 
 
 EVENING IN APRIL. 
 (on first hearing a bee, 1824.) 
 
 Welcome with thy monotone, 
 
 Black and yellow lab'rer sweet ! 
 Thou this night hast nearly done 
 
 Dancing with thy little feet 
 On the willow's honeyed flower, 
 
 On the daisy's crimson side, 
 On the crocus near the bower, 
 
 Which thy velvet coat has dyed. 
 Thou thy little sable bill 
 
 lit m April blossoms dipped ; 
 From the cups upon the hill, 
 
 Luscious drops of honey sipped : 
 Thou hast slept the winter long, 
 
 But thy merit is not lost ; 
 Thou hast yet the vernal song, 
 
 Spite of winter's chilling frost.
 
 182 MAY-DAY. 
 
 Thus the poet, as he sings, 
 
 While the storm of sorrow low'rs, 
 
 Finds that friendship gladness brings 
 Sweet as dew on honeyed fiow'rs. 
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 See the nymphs in May-day dresses, 
 Dancing on the daisied green ! 
 
 Sloe-thorn blossoms grace their tresses, 
 Brightest blue-bells deck their queen. 
 
 While of thyme and unblown roses, 
 Twined among the leaves of bay, 
 
 Each a fragrant wreath composes, 
 On the joyful holiday. 
 
 Lyra tunes the rural measure, 
 While the cowslips at her feet 
 
 Dance, as if they felt the pleasure 
 Of her trills and cadence sweet. 
 
 See ! — the lark her song suspending, 
 Drops and listens to the air, 
 
 While the snow-white lambs, attending, 
 Strive to imitate the fair.
 
 MORNING IN MAY. 183 
 
 Blithe and gay each nymph appearing, 
 
 See, how innocent they smile ! 
 Each a branch of myrtle bearing 
 
 On a breast that knows no guile. 
 
 Where's the youth that could deceive them, 
 
 Smiling on their morn of May, 
 Gain their love, then scorning leave them, 
 
 Like their garlands, to decay ? 
 
 MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is uprearing 
 Its while curling head from the valley below, 
 
 The bright glitt'ring dew-drops, like em'ralds appear- 
 ing, 
 All waken at once with Aurora to glow ! 
 
 The dirk low'ring tempests of winter are over. 
 
 Ami sweet is the breath of the high mount. tin gale ; 
 The hare leaves her favourite fields of white clover, 
 
 Ami starts as she treads the dry leaves in the vale.
 
 1 84 MORNING IN MA Y. 
 
 The rooks and the ring-doves are flown to the fallow ; 
 
 From their dew-sprinkled pillows the daisies awake ; 
 From the thatch of the cottage skims forth the swift 
 swallow, 
 
 And strikes into circles the smooth polished lake. 
 
 Near the stream the winds move not the weak-waving 
 willow ; 
 The cattle are laid on the bright dewy hill ; 
 On the clear rippled stream hushed to rest ev'ry bil- 
 low, — 
 The day-busy sons of the hamlet are still. 
 
 Hark! the birds are all chanting their song of the 
 morning, 
 
 Ye virgins, inviting to fields decked with dew ! 
 The fresh op'ning flowers will greet your returning, 
 
 And bow their sweet heads in pure homage to you. 
 
 Blithe Health on the mountain sits smiling thus early, 
 With young Vernal Sweetness, her sister, in green, 
 
 While Virtue, their mother, who loves them so dearly, 
 Points out to her daughters the beautiful scene. 
 
 They call on the youths and the innocent lasses 
 To see the rich beauties of nature half dressed, 
 
 Forget all their joy-killing grief as it passes, 
 
 Live happy and love, for such moments are blessed.
 
 MAR Y OF MARLE Y 185 
 
 They sit on the hill where the bullfinch is bending, 
 In beautiful plumage, the weak birchen bough; 
 
 With gay feathered songsters their mellow notes blend- 
 in^ 
 In sweet rural chords, where the sloe-blossoms grow, 
 
 But to sing of the rich varied landscape before us, 
 With all the fine beauties that Nature displays, 
 
 Requires all the muses to join in the chorus, 
 
 And sweet smiling cherubs to chant in its praise ! 
 
 MARY OF MARLEY. 
 
 At Marley stood the rural cot, 
 In Bingley's sweet sequestered dale, 
 
 The spreading oaks enclosed the spot 
 Where dwelt the beauty of the vale. 
 
 blessed with a small, but fruitful farm, 
 beneath the high majestic hill, 
 
 Where Nature Spread her every charm 
 That can the mind with pleasure till.
 
 186 MARY OF MARLEY. 
 
 Here bloomed the maid nor vain nor proud, 
 But like an unapproached flower, 
 
 Hid from the flattery of the crowd, 
 Unconcious of her beauty's power. 
 
 Her ebon locks were richer far 
 Than is the raven's glossy plume ; 
 
 Her eyes outshone the ev'ning star ; 
 Her lovely cheeks the rose's bloom. 
 
 The mountain snow, that falls by night, 
 By which the bending heath is pressed, 
 
 Did never shine in purer white 
 Than was upon her virgin breast. 
 
 The blushes of her innocence 
 
 Great Nature's hand had pencilled o'er ; 
 
 And Modesty the veil had wrought 
 Which Mary, lovely virgin, wore. 
 
 At early morn each fav'rite cow 
 The tuneful voice of Mary knew ; 
 
 Their answers hummed, — then wand'ring slow, 
 From daisies dashed the pearly dew. 
 
 When lovely on the green she stood, 
 And to her poultry threw the grain, 
 
 Ring-doves and pheasants from the wood 
 Flew forth, and glittered in her train.
 
 MAR Y OF MARLE Y 1 87 
 
 The thrush upon the rosy bow'r 
 
 Would sit and sing while Mary stayed ; 
 
 Her lambs their pasture gamboll'd o'er, 
 And on the new-sprung clover fed. 
 
 She milked beneath the beech-tree's shade, 
 And there the turf was worn away, 
 
 Where cattle had for cent'ries laid, 
 To shun the summer's sultry ray. 
 
 Lysander, from the neighbouring vale, 
 Where Wharf's deceitful currents move, 
 
 To Mary told a fervent tale, 
 
 And Mary could not help but love. 
 
 The richest might have come and sighed ; 
 
 Lysander had her favour won, — 
 Her breast was constant as the tide, 
 
 And true as light is to the sun. 
 
 '&■ 
 
 When winter, wrapped in gloomy storm. 
 
 Each dubious path had drifted o'er, 
 And whirled the snow in ev'ry form, 
 
 To Mary oft he crossed the moor. 
 
 When western winds and pelting rain 
 Did mountain snows to rivers turn. 
 
 These swelled, and roared, and foamed in vain. 
 Affection helped him o'er the bourne.
 
 188 THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 
 
 Until the last, the fatal night, 
 
 His footsteps slipped — the cruel tide 
 
 Danced and exulted with its freight, 
 Then lifeless cast him on its side ! 
 
 How changed is lovely Mary now ! 
 
 How pale and frantic she appears ! 
 Description fails to paint her woe, 
 
 And numbers to recount her tears. 
 
 THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 
 
 The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary, 
 The winds roared aloud near the hoarse raven's nest, 
 
 The strongest with reaching its top would be weary, 
 And like the young lover, be wishful to rest, — 
 
 The lover that wandered, his breast with love burning, 
 For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore, 
 
 Who watched the clouds as she wished his returning, 
 But night came too soon — he returned no more.
 
 THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 189 
 
 Beneath him the dark mist rolled rapid in motion ; 
 
 Above was the evening star seen through the cloud ; 
 Hut the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean, 
 
 When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten 
 shroud. 
 
 A wand'rer he roamed, where the curlew was scream- 
 ing. 
 Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain 
 
 flood; 
 Of danger approaching he little was dreaming, 
 Though on the high verge of dire terror he stood. 
 
 He thought on his Anna, with earnest endeavour 
 Tried to reach the blest spot his soul did adore ; 
 
 He steps — shrieks, and falls ! — but the shepherd can 
 never 
 Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore. 
 
 His Anna now nightly sits list'ning with wonder, 
 To hear in the tempest the high cataract's roar; 
 
 And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder, 
 Her shepherd call " Anna, the Maid of Lowdore ! "
 
 190 LINES ON AN OLD OAK TREE. 
 
 LINES ON AN OLD OAK TREE, 
 
 lately standing in spink well wood, 
 near bradford. 
 
 (written in 1819.) 
 
 Behold the place, ye youths and virgins, see 
 Where stood your ancient oak, your fav'rite tree ! 
 How changed is now the place from whence it sprung, 
 And, like yourselves, grew vig'rous, stout, and strong ! 
 Unmoved it stood each storm and wint'ry blast, 
 While o'er its head revolving cent'ries passed, — 
 Perhaps two hundred years it still improved, 
 Two hundred more by wasting time unmoved ; 
 But recently, as greatest mortals die, 
 It met its fate — see where its fragments lie ! 
 What veneration once the tree received, — 
 Respected by the rich and poor it lived : 
 Beneath its shade the pious breathed their pray'rs ; 
 Beneath its shade the wretched shed their tears ; 
 Beneath its shade have parting lovers stood, 
 While from the fair one's eyes escaped the flood. 
 Beneath the shelter of the fav'rite oak, 
 What vows were made, by faithless lovers broke ! 
 But now, alas ! ye antiquarians, mourn, 
 Your tree is gone, and never can return.
 
 LINES ON AN OLD OAK TREE. 101 
 
 No more can you its ancient arms behold, 
 
 Withered by time, and crumbling into mould. 
 
 Its infancy, its youth, and manhood past, 
 
 Though British oak, 'tis forced to yield at last. 
 
 But, had it lived in Studley's peaceful shades, 
 
 Nor delvers' mattocks, hammers, nor their spades 
 
 Had e'er been raised by the unfeeling clown, 
 
 To strike this only ancient vestige down. 
 
 Had it been mine, it should not yet have dropped, 
 
 But, where 'twas weak, I had its weakness propped, 
 
 Told o'er its story to the feeling breast, 
 
 And kept the tree while Bradford keeps its crest. 
 
 But why lament ? since Nature says that all 
 
 That springs from earth, to earth again must fall. 
 
 So must the stately tow'rs of polished stone 
 
 Crumble to earth, and wear a mossy crown, 
 
 "While nettles form their canopies of state, 
 
 And rankest weeds but mock their change of fate. 
 
 The sculptured marble monuments decay, 
 
 And crowns, and thrones, and statues fade away. 
 
 The mighty monarch, and the warrior brave, 
 
 The greatest sultan and the meanest slave, 
 
 The wretched miser and most beauteous fair, 
 
 The rich possessor and succeeding heir, 
 
 Princes and courtiers, chiefs of ev'ry state. 
 
 Both high and low, must all submit to fate. 
 
 So, rest in peace, famed oak, though doomed to fall, 
 
 for such a mighty change awaits us all !
 
 192 ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. 
 
 ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. 
 
 Allowed to walk into the sad retreat 
 
 Where tott'ring age and foolish fair ones meet, 
 
 I heard deep sighs from those bent down with years, 
 
 Whose cheeks were deeply furrowed o'er with cares. 
 
 To see their locks, by ruthless Time turned grey, 
 
 Melted my heart, and took my pride away : 
 
 For who was seated in the corner chair, 
 
 But one who in my youth I held most dear. 
 
 Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy, 
 
 Handled the knife and made me many a toy ; 
 
 For me he caught the sparrows on the snow, 
 
 And made my youthful heart with raptures glow ! 
 
 Oft had I danced around him with delight, 
 
 While he had balanced well my little kite : 
 
 But now, my aged friend, when he should eat, 
 
 His palsied hands can scarcely bear his meat, — 
 
 His pleasures lost, to life he's but a slave, 
 
 And only waits his passport to the grave. 
 
 Here I beheld how mortals waste away, 
 
 Shoot up to manhood, blossom, and decay! 
 
 In woolsey gown, close seated by his side, 
 His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride, 
 Beauteous and fair, — upon her bridal day 
 The wealthy countess scarce appeared more gay ;
 
 ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. 193 
 
 But the fine brow that bore the glossy hair, 
 
 Which once she dressed with such assiduous care, 
 
 Was furrowed o'er by Time's all-changing plough, 
 
 And her few locks were nearly white as snow. 
 
 When I had stood a while, and dried the tear, 
 
 1 spoke, but John my words could scarcely hear ; 
 
 At length he cried, in exclamation strong, 
 
 •■ Ay ! is that thee? " for still he knew my tongue. 
 
 His age-dimmed eyes then brightened with a ray, 
 
 Which like a wasted taper died away. 
 
 Dotage had seized upon his feeble brain, 
 
 As he revolved to infancy again. 
 
 A while he spoke of heav'n and things divine, 
 
 Then laughed — and stopped a moment to repine ; 
 
 Wished for the grave, — next talked of things to come, 
 
 Then wept — and thought of his once happy home, 
 
 But his poor heart was most of all subdued 
 
 With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude. 
 
 " Alas !" said he, " that those who owe me all, 
 
 " Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call 
 
 " To spend one hour, to mitigate my grief, 
 
 '' To bring one cordial, or afford relief. 
 
 '• Though they neglect a father, old and poor, 
 
 " They yet may have to enter at this door; 
 
 •■ Yet oh, avert it. Heav'n ! Messed may they live ; 
 
 " Oil teach an injured father to forgive ! " 
 
 Touched with the scene, I turned aside to weep. 
 
 And like a child he Calmly fell asle<
 
 1 9 4 THE MA L T-KILN FIRE. 
 
 THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 
 
 When friends who loved from infant years, 
 Whose friendship ne'er went wrong, 
 
 Are met to tell their joys and cares, 
 Or join the cheerful song, 
 
 What bard but to the utmost height 
 
 Would string the rustic lyre, 
 When friends with home-brewed drink are met 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire ? 
 
 Sometimes we're faring low at home, 
 
 Then feasting with a squire ; 
 But we've as much as we can wish 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 From this warm, happy, cheerful place, 
 
 Old sorrow must retire, 
 And nought but joy dare show her face 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 We talk of friends we long have known, 
 Some fall'n, and some ris'n higher ; 
 
 Happy as monarchs on the throne, 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire.
 
 THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 195 
 
 What means our food ? we pass away — 
 
 Of life begin to tire ; 
 But never was a mournful day 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 With snuff, tobacco, and a'pipe, 
 
 And all we can desire, 
 Old Care's forgot, and pleasure shines 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 i\o wife to scold, none to intrude, 
 
 We laugh until we tire ; 
 With good strong drink as e'er was brewed, 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 Let blackguards swear, and rage, and fight, 
 
 And scuffle in the mire ; 
 No angry word, for all is right, 
 
 Around the Malt-kiln fire. 
 
 Had we but spent more evenings there, 
 
 Our spirits had been higher, 
 And drunk less brandy, and more beer 
 
 Around the Malt kiln lire.
 
 1 9 6 THE SNO WDR OP. 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 Pretty little modest gem, 
 First in Nature's diadem ; 
 Pressed with snow, the first to rise, 
 Pure as stars that deck the skies. 
 
 With thy crown of spotless white, 
 Like a fairy of the night, 
 Bending down thy modest head, — 
 Frost thy pillow, snow thy bed. 
 
 'Mid the hail, the sleet, the frost, 
 In the snow-storm sometimes lost ; 
 But thy beauteous head appears 
 Lovelier with its icy tears. 
 
 So thou gentle, modest fair, 
 Brav'st the storm with truth and care ; 
 Though not like the roses drest, 
 Virtue blossoms in thy breast, 
 
 Brighter than the brightest star, 
 Seen to glitter from afar : 
 Guilt can never hang on thee ; 
 Truth lives through eternity.
 
 GqJD I T ^pT C K vV AT ERFALL .
 
 RURAL RETIREMENT. 19' 
 
 He that made the snowdrop knows 
 When the storm of sorrow blows : 
 And with all His mighty care, 
 Will protect the virtuous fair. 
 
 A PLACE OF RURAL RETIREMENT. 
 
 Hail, thou sequestered rural seat, 
 Which ever beauteous dost appear, 
 
 Where the sweet songsters oft repeat 
 Their varied concerts, wild and clear ! 
 
 Upon thy crystal-bosomed lake 
 
 Th' inverted rocks and trees are seen, 
 
 Adorned with many a snowy flake, 
 Or in their leafy robes of green. 
 
 Oh could a rural rhymer sing 
 
 The beauteous scene so richly dressed, 
 
 Where piety may plume her wing, 
 And sweet seclusion form her n 
 
 Here may the contemplative mind 
 
 Trace Nature and her beauties o'er, 
 And meditation rest reclined, 
 
 To hear the neighbouring cat'ract roar.
 
 198 RURAL RETIREMENT. 
 
 Here, tired of the gay scenes of life, 
 The sire may see his children play, 
 
 While Heav'n has blessed him with a wife, 
 Who smiles his happy hours away. 
 
 If ever fairies tripped along, 
 
 Or danced around in airy mirth, 
 
 They surely to this place would throng, — 
 Or else they never danced on earth. 
 
 The loves and graces here might stay ; 
 
 Th' enamoured pair, with bosoms true, 
 Unseen appoint the nuptial day, 
 
 Among those scenes for ever new. 
 
 The poet tune his rustic lyre, 
 
 If genius trembled on the strings ; 
 
 And merit modestly aspire, 
 
 Where friendship dwells to plume his wings. 
 
 Oh that I could this tribute pay 
 As 'tis upon my heart impressed ! 
 
 My song of friendship here would stay, 
 When waves the grass above my breast.
 
 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 199 
 
 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 
 
 " The heavens appear to love this vale." — Wilson. 
 
 Why does not some great bard, whose potent mind 
 
 No earthly passions in its sphere can bind, 
 
 Take the tun'd lyre, which wakes at genius' spells, 
 
 And sing in praise of llkley and its wells? 
 
 Had 1 a Shakespeare's pen, a Byron's powers, 
 
 Nor mountains, woods, nor valleys, trees, nor flowers, 
 
 Nor all that poets have for ages sung, 
 
 Since Homer's harp or Sappho's lyre was strung, 
 
 Should tempt my muse, on ocean or on shore, 
 
 Till I had sung the charms of Rom'lies' Moor;* 
 
 Where sits Retirement — Silence at her side — 
 
 Upon the rocks, which frown at human pride, 
 
 Grey with old Time and with the northern blast, 
 
 Ami firm remain'd while changing empires pass'd ; 
 
 Before the massive pyramids they stood, 
 
 Old as clear Wharf, and ancient as the Flood. 
 
 I hou who giv'st light, and life, and nature's spril 
 Who art adoi'd while all creation sings, 
 
 * What is commonly distinguished by the name of Rom 
 M • *■ >r, I have called Romili M ■ >r, as I believe the appellation 
 to have been derived from the Romili '■ irmao pa
 
 200 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 
 
 Lend me Thine aid, Eternal Father ! be 
 
 My muse, my helper, while I sing of Thee ! 
 
 But how I sink beneath Thy wond'rous pow'r, 
 
 A poor, weak, mortal insect of an hour ! 
 
 Though all Thy works are glorious, as sublime, 
 
 Too great to celebrate in feeble rhyme, 
 
 Yet of Thy lesser beauties will I sing, 
 
 The mountain's sweetness, the unchanging spring, 
 
 Healthful as pure, and plentiful as free, 
 
 As one great gift in wide infinity. 
 
 Such is thy Well, thou place of health and 
 peace ! 
 And so it must be till all motion cease ; 
 Till time and tides, obedient to His will, 
 Shall pause, and all the universe stand still ! 
 Thus speaks the rushing fountain in its pride : 
 " Mortals, let nature ever be your guide ! 
 Rise with the sun on spring's delightful morn, 
 When nature's concerts on the winds are borne ! 
 See the broad river shining with His rays, 
 And glitt'ring dew-drops trembling to His praise ! 
 Millions of flowers, in all their varied dyes, 
 Offer their sweets in one great sacrifice ! " 
 Pure as the henna is the mountain thyme, 
 And all too rich for poor descriptive rhyme. 
 Upon these hills the botanist may range 
 Amongst the various mosses as they change ;
 
 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 201 
 
 The alpine plants, unknown in valleys green, 
 Creeping among the purple heath are seen ; 
 And, Rom'lies' Moor ! the home of the curlew, 
 Cloth'd with the clouds, thy beauties are not few. 
 Nor Skiddaw's top, nor great Helvellyn's height. 
 Shows greater grandeur to the ravish'd sight, 
 Than does the crown of wide-spread Rom'lies' 
 
 Moor, 
 Where the vast scene is stretched to either shore. 
 There we behold the hills of many a shire; 
 The lofty mountains to the clouds aspire ; 
 Whernside uprears on high his snow-clad crest, 
 While the blue Pendle trembles in the west ; 
 The hills of Derbyshire are southward seen, 
 Though vales divide, and rivers roll between ; 
 Old Ingleborough lifts his time-worn head, 
 And Yorkshire as one spacious map is spread : 
 Yonder the towers of Ebor's fane appear, 
 And Cleveland hills their broad blue tops uprcar ; 
 Leeds, wrapt in smoke, dark-looming, eastward 
 
 lies ; 
 Hut here the air is pure as are the skies. 
 Far from the noise of all created things, 
 No sound is heard but from the moorcock's wings ; 
 The pomp of human greatness lure is 1 
 
 < >r tails like mites beneath the winter's frost 
 A scene like this, within old England's roast. 
 Nor Matlock, Buxton, nor proud Bath can boast.
 
 202 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 
 
 Grandeur and peace upon the Station* dwell, 
 And Health sits smiling at the mountain well ; 
 Rock, river, mountain, valley, hill, and tree, 
 Contend for beauty as for majesty. 
 Ye British beauties, of fair Eden's mould, 
 Come, see the grandeur that these vales unfold. 
 
 Daisies spring in modest pride, 
 With the cowslips at their side ! 
 Roses blush and lilies shine — 
 Wharfdale ! blooming health is thine. 
 
 Days of Romans, in the shade, 
 
 As far distant objects fade : 
 
 When their polish'd shields did shine, 
 
 Days of warriors once were thine. 
 
 On the towers, now long unseen, 
 Have the steel-clad warriors been, 
 Hurling weapons at the foe, 
 While the Saxons fought below. 
 
 Danes have drunk at Ilkley wells ; 
 Hosts have fought where Lister dwells ! 
 Many a trumpet's piercing tone 
 Echo'd loud from Hanging Stone, f 
 
 * The Station is the highest point on Romilies' Moor, from 
 which place Captain Mudge took his observations nearly seventy 
 years ago. 
 
 t The eastern promontory of Ilkley Crag.
 
 THE VALE OE ILKLEY. 203 
 
 In his link-mail armour bright, 
 Myddleton, the warrior knight, 
 Some five hundred years ago, 
 Glitt'ring rode to meet the foe. 
 
 But the trumpet now is still ; 
 Not a rock from yonder hill 
 Echoes back the piercing blast, 
 As when Fairfax' troopers pass'd. 
 
 Briton, Druid, Roman, Dane, 
 
 Knight, and warrior, all are gone — 
 
 Saxon, Norman, bard, and thane, 
 Thou survivest Myddleton ! 
 
 Those whom trade as vot'ries owns — 
 Who have hung the counter o'er — 
 
 Who have crav'd for wealth in towns, 
 Till their comforts are no more, 
 
 Let them come and dine on trout — 
 
 Lovely Wharfdale's famous fishes ; 
 < live relief to anxious doubt — 
 Taste the best of Wharfdale's di 
 
 On each side the world is still ; 
 
 Not a voice disturbs the scene. 
 Where is i 'lark Hober Hill, 
 
 Rising from its base of green.
 
 204 . THE VALE OF ILK LEY. 
 
 On these heights Retirement reigns, 
 Far above all mortal ills ; 
 
 While upon the mountain plains 
 Wild birds drink from purest rills. 
 
 At the foot of Simon's seat, 
 
 'Mid the shades, sits silent Thought 
 
 Glitt'ring in this lone retreat 
 
 Darts the gold-bespangled trout. 
 
 There the peaceful ruin stands 
 Underneath the mighty hill, 
 
 Where the priors had their lands, 
 Where the abbots rang'd at will. 
 
 Dark, amid the shadowy woods, 
 Are the jaws of terror hid, 
 
 Where Wharfs rapid, foaming floods 
 Thunder through the yawning Strid. 
 
 See what grandeur — terror, hung 
 On the dark electric cloud, 
 
 From the waves of ocean sprung, 
 O'er yon distant woodlands bowed. 
 
 Deep it rolls upon the Stake ; * 
 Dread the loud tremendous roar ; 
 
 Deeper still its echoes wake 
 
 On the heights of Rom'lies' Moor. 
 
 * A well-known mountain in Wharfdale.
 
 THE VALE OF ILKLEY. 205 
 
 When the whirlwind rends the woods, 
 
 And the lightning's vivid glare 
 (i lances on the glitt'ring floods, 
 
 Ev'ry hill says, " God is here ! " 
 
 Where is He not? — the earthquake shows His power; 
 
 He rules the thunder, lives in ev'ry flower ; 
 
 Rides on the rapid tempests as they pass, 
 
 And shines in glory on each blade of grass. 
 
 The whole creation — ev'ry distant sphere — 
 
 Immensity proclaims, " Lo ! God is here !" 
 
 Dark-brooding clouds, precursors of the storm, 
 
 O'er mortals pass ashamed, and cry, " Reform ! " 
 
 Priest, lord, and king, and ye ungrateful poor — 
 
 Let reformation enter ev'ry door ! 
 
 Let every heart that swells a Briton's breast, 
 
 Receive that pure, that bright, immortal guest, 
 
 For ever constant and for ever free, 
 
 Which sav'd a world — sweet, smiling Charity ! 
 
 O Ilkley ! noble are thy ancient halls, 
 Thy beauteous valleys — uraiul thy waterfall 
 Lovely thy groves, thy grottos, crystal rills; 
 Thy antique < him h, ami all thy woodland hills. 
 Round thee have all the pleasures of the chase 
 Smil'd in p. i on a happy race ; 
 
 The huntsman's horn, the shout, the bay of hounds, 
 Have fillM thy valleys with their merry sounds;
 
 206 THE HUNTER'S DIRGE. 
 
 And health has liv'd where exercise has been, 
 In thy old castle, through each varied scene. 
 
 But times have chang'd — old customs are no more 
 The mirth and pomp in ancient hall are o'er ; 
 Dumb are the minstrels, mute the harpers' lays, 
 And fled the sports of llkley's festive days, 
 When yearly its old church with music rung, 
 And the high mass by Bolton's priests was sung. 
 No modern fane, on consecrated ground, 
 Can ever echo such a solemn sound 
 As that which peal'd within the ancient choir, 
 When all its tapers shone with hallow'd fire. 
 
 THE HUNTERS' DIRGE. 
 
 Ye woods, in Rishworth's verdant vale, 
 Which oft have echoed to the horn ! 
 
 Ye rocky hills, that blushed so deep, 
 From hunters gay at early morn ! 
 
 Weep, till your tears in crystal rills 
 Make winding Aire with grief run o'er, 
 
 That on the brown-robed heathy hills, 
 The huntsman's shout is heard no more.
 
 THE HUNTER'S DIRGE. 207 
 
 Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds 
 
 By changing echoes borne away, 
 Who crossed the moors in joyful chase. 
 
 And pleasure, on the sportive day! 
 
 Go sit, where you unearthed the fox, 
 And mourn till echo hear and weep ; 
 
 Wet, with your tears, the time-worn rocks, 
 That modern squires no huntsmen keep : 
 
 Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient race ; 
 
 Round Marley Hall in sorrow tread ; 
 Where dwelt the glory of the chase, 
 
 Who oft the noble sportsmen led. 
 
 Then take the horn, the requiem blow, 
 
 O'er rural bliss that now is lost, 
 And sound the dirge o'er those laid low, 
 
 Who never sighed at hunting's cost !
 
 208 FEMALE CONSTANCY. 
 
 FEMALE CONSTANCY. 
 
 Stars through rolling centuries shine, 
 Nor does their lustre ever fade ; 
 And thus the virtues of the maid 
 Glitter when her form's decayed, 
 
 With beauteous radiance divine, 
 Who never sighed to any swain 
 But one, and constant doth remain, 
 
 Still rememb'ring him with care, 
 Before the Maker of the spheres 
 She breathes for him incessant prayers, 
 And not another youth appears, 
 
 That wounds the bosom of the fair : 
 And can the youth deceive such love, 
 And conscience never once reprove ? 
 
 Maids to flowers have been compared, 
 But flowers of sweetest scent decay : 
 So doth the fair, who runs astray 
 From Virtue's sweet sequestered way, 
 
 Whose heart to many a youth is shared ; 
 While she who true through life has been, 
 Falls like a branch of evergreen.
 
 THE FAITHFUL WIFE, 209 
 
 THE FAITHFUL WIFE. 
 
 From times of ancient Greece, the fair 
 By greatest poets have been sung, — 
 
 The virgins with the lovely air, 
 
 And all their beauties fresh and young ; 
 
 But praises greater far are due 
 To her who braves the storms of lite, 
 
 In ev'ry state her bosom true — 
 At ev'ry age the faithful wife. 
 
 How many nymphs have gained the praise 
 When blithe sixteen upon them shone , 
 
 But soon the transient bloom decays. 
 And ev'ry outward beauty's gone. 
 
 While she who in her bosom hears 
 
 A spark of virtue's sacred lire. 
 Which like the purest gem appears, 
 
 When hive's impetuous flames expire. 
 Is lovelier far when pale and cold — 
 
 She falls like autumn's ripened grain : 
 
 Our mem'ries then her worth unfold, 
 
 And wish her here to shine again. 
 o
 
 210 SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The birks may wave, the heath may bloom, 
 The lasses trip the mountains o'er, 
 
 And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom, 
 But I can touch my harp no more. 
 
 The lambs may skip, the fishes sport, 
 And glitter in their woodland rills, 
 
 But I no more the muse can court, 
 
 Where thyme perfumes the purple hills. 
 
 There oft my sweet Elvina sung, 
 
 And softly trill'd the rural lay, 
 Till raptures in my bosom sprung, 
 
 " As pleasure wing'd my hours away." 
 
 But Nature now is fresh in vain ; 
 
 The richest gifts to me are poor, 
 For bliss can never come again, 
 
 And I can touch my harp no more. 
 
 No more with joy can I behold 
 
 Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom ; 
 
 The hand which oft I press'd is cold, 
 The heart that lov'd me in the tomb. 
 
 But still she lives in realms of day, 
 Far distant from a world of pain : 
 
 Oh ! could I soar to her away, 
 
 Then would I touch my harp again.
 
 
 oral nub T^r 1 i iji o ti s ^ocms. 
 
 ALAS! WHERE ARE THEY? 
 
 " I betook myself to the repositories of the dead ; and 1 ex- 
 claimed, in a plaintive tone, 'Alas ! where are they?' and Echo 
 replied, in the same plaintive tone, 'Alas! where are they? 
 
 From the Arabic. 
 
 Soft ! behold in the shade the dark abbey appearing; 
 
 Hark ! yon sad plaintive voice, — it is Myra the fair ; 
 The black robe of crape see the virgin is wearing, 
 
 And mourns her lost lover deposited there. 
 What a stillness ! how solemn ! — 'tis awfully fine! 
 
 Night's queen throws the dark cloudy vale from her 
 face. 
 The ivy leaves tremble, as faintly they shine, 
 
 Ami silence is now the sole lord of the place: 
 "I'was tints when fair Myra turned slow from the dead. 
 
 And cried out " Alas ! where are they?" 
 Echo heard the sad sound through the cloisters she 
 fled, 
 
 And whispered ill sorrow — "Alas ! where are they?"
 
 212 ALAS! WHERE ARE THEY? 
 
 When the pale moon was shining upon the clear river, 
 
 Sad Laura went slowly to mourn o'er the dead : 
 Her husband, her son, and her daughter, for ever 
 
 Reposed where the branches of cypress were spread. 
 She leaned on the cold marble statue which stood 
 
 At the head of the tomb, till she fainted away ! 
 She revived — the tears gushed from her eyes like a 
 flood, 
 
 As her words burst in anguish — " Alas ! where are 
 they ? " 
 'Twas silent around, and no answer was heard, 
 
 But Echo, which bore the sad question away, 
 Asked the grottoes, the groves, and each sorrowful bird, 
 
 In soft dying cadence — " Alas ! where are they?" 
 To the place of the dead we may walk deeply mourning, 
 
 To sigh o'er our children, our lover, or sire, 
 But from the dark shades there is now no returning, — 
 
 Without them in sorrow we weep and retire. 
 We may gaze on the turf, or the fine-sculptured bust, 
 
 And sorrowful ask — " Where are they ? " 
 If a faint mournful voice seems to rise from the dust, 
 
 'Tis but soft plaintive Echo that asks — " Where are 
 they ? "
 
 ST PAUL'S CHURCH, SHIPLEY. 213 
 
 THE CONSECRATION OF ST PAUL'S 
 CHURCH, SHIPLEY. 
 
 I Low can a sinner dare to sing the praise 
 Of Him on whom e'en seraphs cannot gaze, 
 Whose glory shines in ev'ry varied place, 
 Throughout infinity — unbounded space ! 
 
 Who formed the hills, who arched the azure sky — 
 The king of undescribed eternity : 
 Yet, let my heart with trembling rapture glow, 
 My tears for all His by-past mercies flow, 
 That yet I live, that yet He gives me breath, 
 And saves a sinner from deserved death. 
 Oh ! let my heart be tuned, the praise to sing 
 Of man's great Saviour ! heaven's eternal King ! 
 The universe His glorious temple is, 
 
 I I is secret place the heavens — the seat of bliss ; 
 But that great God who all the world commands. 
 Stoops down to dwell in temples made with hands, 
 Accepts the breathings of the contrite breast, 
 Relieves the burdened, gives the weary rest. 
 
 ' He hears each humble sound poor mortals make. 
 Though His own choir the heaven of heavens i 
 shake ! 
 
 How urand the sight ! how beautiful to view 
 The thousands thr round the churches new
 
 214 ST PAULS CHURCH, SHIPLEY. 
 
 To see the colours waving on the wind, 
 The great Archbishop with his flock behind ; 
 To hear the new, the dulcet virgin chime, 
 Which brings to mind the day of olden time ! 
 The lame are seen with crutches halt along, 
 The old, the blind, are mingled with the throng ; 
 E'en those who think another creed is- right, 
 Press on the way, to see the noble sight. 
 'Twas thus, when Fountain's * lofty pile of old, 
 Was opened with the priests adorned in gold ; 
 When all the pomp of ages long gone by, 
 Burst in magnificence upon each eye. 
 The grounds of Studley were with people spread, 
 When the Archbishop first at Fountain said : 
 " Lift up your heads, ye gates ! eternal doors, 
 Ascend ! for God is come — that God is ours ! 
 Who is the Lord ? " then burst the mighty song, 
 " The God of battle, terrible and strong ! 
 He comes ! He comes ! adorned with power and love, 
 Ye gates, arise ! ye heavenly portals, move ! " 
 The chorus bursts — His praises sound aloud, 
 And God descends to bless the list'ning crowd. 
 Whatever other sects shall please to say, 
 Here let poor mortals find the heavenly way, 
 Till moss grows on the tow'r, or on the walls, 
 And each fine antiquated column falls ; 
 Here may discordant sects unite to raise 
 Loud anthems to their Heavenly Father's praise ; 
 * Fountain's Abbey, near Ripon.
 
 NE W CHUR CH AT WILSDEN. 2 1 5 
 
 Before His throne in meek submission fall, 
 And each one strive to crown Him Lord of all ! 
 Let party zeal be banished from each mind, 
 And all to holiness alone inclined ; 
 Let none in wild and scornful ecstasy, 
 Cry out — " The temple of the Lord are we ! " 
 But charity let each meek pastor teach, 
 \n 1 love to God and man undaunted preach ; 
 Let servile fear be driven from his breast, 
 And ever on his Saviour's promise rest : 
 " Lo ! I am with thee always, to defend 
 And bless the Gospel, till each rebel bend." 
 
 ON THE NEW CHURCH AT WILSDEN. 
 
 (Wl:l I I ix APRIL 1S24.) 
 
 WHAT temples, various, since old Time began. 
 Have on this little globe been reared by man ! 
 What different kinds of gods been worshipped here. 
 Since earth, new formed, was balanced in the sphere 
 
 le, ere the pointed pyramids anise, 
 In lands remote, which scarce a modern km 
 The sumptuous Jewish temples -where are th 
 Which seemed to scorn old ruin and de< iy?
 
 216 NEW CHURCH AT WILSDEN. 
 
 When cost was nought, — and Asia, at command 
 Brought forth its treasures to the builder's hand : 
 But now — would Europe golden millions give 
 One column from these fabrics to receive, 
 'Tis all in vain, — no stone nor Hebrew bust, 
 But cent'ries since have been reduced to dust ! 
 All the old temples built when Hesiod sung, 
 And those which stood when Homer's harp was 
 
 strung, 
 Are covered o'er with herbage or with trees, 
 And not one stone the antiquarian sees. 
 The abbeys where " Te Deum " oft was sung, 
 And where the instruments of music rung, 
 Where " Venite Exultemus " used to rise 
 In praise devout, ascending to the skies, 
 Are clothed with ivy in its solemn green, 
 And modern artists pencil o'er the scene. 
 Successive storms the tow'rs in furrows wear, 
 And on their columns dampy sweats appear ; 
 The creeping shrubs upon the arches grow 
 Suspended o'er the humbler weeds below ; 
 And high engraved upon the time-worn scroll, 
 Scarce legible, the words, " Pray for the soul." 
 The grass waves wildly on the broken wall, 
 And ev'ry year some time-worn fragments fall. 
 
 Not so with thee, thou church, so fair and new, 
 White as the polished marble to the view.
 
 NEW CH UR CH A T W I LSD EN. 2 1 7 
 
 Ere any stone is loosened from thy wall, 
 
 New states shall rise, and present empires fall ! 
 
 Perhaps, like Greece, old Albion shall decay, 
 
 Ere those fine columns shall be worn away ; 
 
 Its commerce and its glory be no more, 
 
 And science lied to some far distant shore. 
 
 With lofty trees thou may'st be circled round, — 
 
 And here the deep-toned organ yet may sound. 
 
 A town may flourish on this barren hill, 
 
 Renowned for science, commerce, wealth, and skill ! 
 
 Here shall some pastor, learned, good, and just, 
 In solemn pause resign the dust to dust, — 
 Perform each office with a pious care, 
 And cheer the wretched sinking in despair. 
 
 The bride, with modest blushes on her face, 
 Shall lightly tread across the hallowed place, 
 So filled with joy when to the altar led, 
 Joy, mixed with fear, — a momentary dread ! 
 Here will the pious sons and daughters mourn. 
 As slowly from a parent's tomb they turn ; 
 II re shall the tuneful youths, the virgin train, 
 Join with the organ in a holy strain, 
 rouched by the sweet expressive wail. ling trills, 
 Which give the undescribed cold shiv'ring thrills. 
 Such .i with feeling minds are giv'n. 
 
 Which charm the soul, and lift it up to heuv'n
 
 218 RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 But diff'rent sects in time may yet arise,— 
 The present doctrines of the Church despise ; 
 A future reformation yet may come, 
 And o'er our blessed religion cast a gloom. 
 Such great mutations have all earthly things — 
 How oft have creeds been changed by different kings ! 
 The future generations yet may hope 
 For heav'nly bliss through pardons from the pope. 
 The cross, the holy water, and the shrine 
 Of some famed saint, may yet be thought divine ! 
 But whatsoever doctrine here is giv'n, 
 May each succeeding pastor teach the way to heav'n ! 
 
 RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Swift-winged and pleasing harbinger of spring ! 
 
 Thou from thy winter's voyage art returned, 
 
 To skim above the lake, or dip thy wings 
 
 In the sequestered river's winding streams. 
 
 Instinct has brought thee to the rural cot, 
 
 From whence, with new-fledged wings, thou took'st 
 
 thy flight. 
 Oh ! could I give thee intellect and tongue,
 
 RE TURN OF THE SWALLOW. 219 
 
 That thou to man might'st tell what mazes wild : 
 And what eccentric circles thou hast flown 
 Since thou didst soar in autumn far away ! 
 Cities in rising splendour thou hast seen, 
 And those where solemn desolation dwells. 
 Hast thou not peaceful slept the night away, 
 Perched on the distant pyramid's high point ; 
 Or on some massive column's hoary top, 
 Beheld great /Etna's dark sulphureous smoke, 
 Then dipped thy wings upon the orient waves? 
 
 Like thee, could man, with philosophic eye, 
 Survey mankind in every varying clime, 
 How would his mind expand ! his spacious soul, 
 Released from bigotry and party zeal, 
 Would grasp the human race in ev'ry form,— 
 Denominations, sects, and creeds, would sink. 
 His mind o'erpowered with the thought that He 
 Who formed the universe, regards them all ! 
 
 Upon this little wave-encircled isle. 
 What scenes diversifii hi In- behi 'Id ! 
 
 II ere men of commerce, seeking after gain. 
 To the emporium throng, as ants haste home 
 When frowns the sky, and distant thunders roll ; 
 And there their youthful inexperienced sons. 
 
 In wide extremes of pleasure, mirth, and joy, 
 Heed not the ( ares their Fathers' bosoms feel,
 
 220 RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 But carelessly carouse the night away, 
 Regardless of the wealth by prudence gained. 
 
 Some crowd the theatres, by pleasure led ; — 
 But where's the theatre like Nature's own ? 
 Where sects of various creeds, like summer flies, 
 Meet and re-meet, as though their hopes were placed 
 As widely opposite as the extremes 
 Of inconceivable unbounded space. 
 Then what is man ? think, O ye vain, ye proud ! 
 What his achievements, glory, wealth, or fame ? 
 Where can the history reach of all his deeds? 
 Scarce o'er the little molehill of this earth. 
 And what the various sects — Jews, Pagans, Turks, 
 With those who to the mighty Spirit bow, 
 The wand'ring Arabs, or the sable hordes 
 Who scorched dwell in Afric's torrid vales, — 
 Their idol gods, their temples, or their mosques, 
 And even Christians, with their numerous sects, 
 Divided, parted, and anatomised, 
 Till almost ev'ry man's a different creed ?— 
 Astonished, he who thinks must make them one, 
 And breathe a fervent pray'r, — Heav'n bless the whole ! 
 
 All works of man, performed with greatest art, 
 Shall change, shall waste, and into ruin turn. 
 Where are the pristine altars and the groves ; 
 The first rude temples, and the sacred rocks ;
 
 RETURN OF THE S WALL JV. 221 
 
 The hieroglyphics, and the works of priests, 
 
 Written in characters to us unknown ? 
 
 Where are the walls of Babylon? or where 
 
 The glorious splendour of the Trojan courts ; 
 
 Egypt's geometry, and Grecian lore, — 
 
 The thrones of emperors ; the crowns of kings ; 
 
 The weapons of the warriors of old ; 
 
 The martial airs which cheered the Roman hosts ; 
 
 The wreaths with which the conquerors were crowned? 
 
 All lost, — and dark oblivion wraps the whole ! 
 
 The mighty Chinese empire yet may fall 
 Like those of Greece, of Egypt, and of Rome. 
 Canton, with all its millions, may decay, 
 And golden Hindoostan may yet arise, 
 Turn from its gods, — embrace the Christian creed. 
 
 Ye narrow-minded men, whose souls are bound. 
 Give wings to thought, and let your fancy soar ! 
 See the tossed ocean leaping at the rocks. 
 To tear them from their stations, and engulf 
 The pond'rous masses in its foaming jav 
 Behold the vessels wrecked, — the wretched crews, 
 with dread horrors, leave their grasp and sink, 
 Their List faint shrieks all lost in ocean's roar! 
 These are your fellow-moi ad their state, 
 
 Man with his reason, reading, wit, and all. 
 May . but nought of certainty is there.
 
 222 RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Next view the field of war, — behold the fray 
 On that small ant-hill, see the curling smoke, 
 And hear the roar which twice three leagues can 
 
 drown. 
 Stand at a distance, and the armies fade. 
 Let the volcano burst, the hosts are lost, — 
 Smoke, lava, ashes would entomb the whole ! 
 Or did the earthquake open its wide jaws, 
 Victor and vanquished, armour, banners, all 
 Would sink, — and war be silent as the grave ! 
 
 Search for great Hannibal or Caesar now; 
 Where shines their grandeur? what can we behold 
 But some few letters which record their names ? 
 Sage and philosopher, the ignorant and learned ; 
 The tyrant hated, and the prince beloved ; 
 The statesman, patriot, poet, and Mogul ; 
 The Indian chiefs, the despicable Deys ; 
 Those who with microscopes behold the mite, 
 And they who calculate the comet's course, 
 Measure the distances of heavenly orbs, 
 Number their satellites, and think they view 
 Islands and seas stretched o'er the distant spheres ; — 
 Kings, priests, and paupers — live, and then expire ! 
 
 Had poets but thy pinions, they would soar 
 To taste the far-famed streams of Helicon ; 
 Artists and antiquarians, winged like thee,
 
 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON. 223 
 
 Would fly to view the works of Grecian art, 
 
 Then soar to Atlas, or the pointed Alps, 
 
 And rest where mortal footsteps ne'er were seen : 
 
 Myriads would visit then the sacred place 
 
 Where heav'n's Eternal Majesty expired. 
 
 But man, proud man, with all his vaunted skill, 
 
 Must travel slowly o'er this atom globe, — 
 
 Though wonderful his new invented things, 
 
 His art still leaves him destitute of wings. 
 
 ASCENT OF MR GREEN'S BALLOON, 
 
 FROM HALIFAX, APRIL 1 9, 1824. 
 
 Behoi d th' assembled myriads near,— 
 
 The shouts, the drums, the trumpets hear, 
 
 When expectation's on the wing 
 
 To see of aeronauts the kin 
 
 Rise in his ornamented car, 
 
 ( In wings of gas to soar afar ! 
 
 Behold the beauties in the place, — 
 
 I low pale is ev'ry lady's I 
 
 \\ hen the decisive moment's near. 
 
 And from the strings all hands are clear.
 
 224 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON 
 
 Like some bright meteor's flame on high, 
 Self-moved, he soars towards the sky ! 
 When he arrives a mile in height, 
 What then are mortals in his sight ? 
 All dwindle to a pigmy size, 
 They look like emmets in his eyes. 
 The steeples, halls, and verdant parks, 
 Are in his view but little marks ; 
 The mountains seem but little hills, 
 Broad rapid rivers look like rills, — 
 And those alone who there have been, 
 Can truly paint the circling scene. 
 
 The air balloon a picture is 
 Of man's most elevated bliss. 
 As on the wings of hope he hastes, 
 He finds all earthly pleasure wastes. 
 The sweetest bliss that man enjoys 
 In its possession only cloys ; 
 Though with good fortune for his gas 
 He o'er the clouds of want may pass, 
 Yet come a storm, the weakened air 
 May drop him on a sea of care. 
 
 The enthusiasts, who soar on high, 
 And seem as if they'd grasp the sky, 
 With reason weak, and fancy strong, 
 Think all the sects but theirs are wrong ;
 
 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON. 225 
 
 Condemn all creeds, and think that they 
 Alone are heirs of endless day. 
 They cling around their car of hopes, 
 Till demon Nature cuts the ropes. 
 As through this evil world they pass, 
 And fierce temptations waste their gas, 
 They downward fall — the phantom vain 
 Comes rapid to the earth again : 
 And when they can get breath to speak, 
 They own they are but mortals weak. 
 
 The playful boy, when young his hope, 
 First forms his weak balloon with soap ; 
 With joy bright glitt'ring in his eyes, 
 He views it from the tube arise, 
 Dances and laughs to see it soar 
 With Nature's colours painted o'er. 
 Thus miniature balloons of boys 
 Are emblems true of riper joys. 
 
 The gay coquette, whose thoughts despise 
 The sober youth, though e'er so wise, 
 Becomes ;i spendthrift's mistress soon, 
 And soars aloft in love's balloon. 
 Through all the gayest scenes they pass, — 
 Her marriage portion is the gas 
 That bears them in the circle gay. 
 And turns the midnight into day.
 
 226 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON 
 
 But after all these golden hours, 
 They find the air-borne chariot low'rs ; 
 Their lofty flight they then repent, 
 For friends all fly from the descent, 
 And those who envied them before, 
 Rejoice to see their flying o'er. 
 
 The dashing youth who sports along, 
 Amid the wine, the dance, the song, 
 The opera, the park, the ball, 
 At Covent Garden and Vauxhall, 
 Upon the turf, or at the ring, 
 With gold enough, is just the thing. 
 High in his atmosphere of pride 
 In his balloon he loves to ride; 
 While round his car the nymphs attend, 
 His ample fortune help to spend. 
 For ballast he no reason takes, 
 Till debts increased the phantom shakes ; 
 He falls, amid the gloomy cloud 
 Of creditors, and cries aloud, — 
 " Could I but live past moments o'er, 
 " Folly's balloon I'd mount no more ! " 
 
 The tyrant in his horrid car, 
 Hung round with implements of war, 
 While on its edge sit Rage and Death, 
 And murder'd myriads lay beneath,
 
 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON 227 
 
 Elately rides, — his flags unfurled, 
 And waving, o'er a prostrate world. 
 The ruined empires see him pass, 
 Pride and ambition for his gas ; 
 Despair below looks wildly up, 
 And, frantic, drinks the pois'nous cup ; 
 ( >rphans and widows curse his flight, 
 And Mercy, weeping, shuns the sight ! 
 When he to loftier heights would soar, 
 His'ballast is the warrior's gore, 
 Which from his car the monster throws, 
 And sprinkles on the field of woes ; 
 Hut He who rules above, looks down, — 
 His lightnings blaze — the tyrant's crown 
 I >rops from his head, — his mighty car 
 Is broken on the field of war ! 
 The wounded warriors join with all 
 In joy to shout the tyrant's fall. 
 
 The humble poet, oft, alas! 
 Fills his balloon with fancy's ga^ ; 
 
 I see him launch it t\w attend. 
 
 I I e jusl is aided by one friend, 
 
 Who finds him ballast, silk, and ropes, 
 And keeps alive his trembling hope 
 Then loosed from earth and anxiou 
 Aloft he springs upon the air ;
 
 228 ASCENT OF GREEN'S BALLOON. 
 
 With lofty themes his passions glow, 
 
 The sordid world he views below ; 
 
 Through clouds he soars, and thinks he hears 
 
 The heav'nly chorus of the spheres. 
 
 He looks behind, — his fancy views 
 
 Close to his car, the Tragic Muse ; 
 
 And, as in air he rides along, 
 
 She charms him with her solemn song. 
 
 Her car's adorned with sword and spear, 
 
 The dagger and the scimitar ; 
 
 The pois'nous goblet, — broken crown, 
 
 And palaces half tumbled down. — 
 
 The bloody vest, the murdered maid, 
 
 Are on the muse's car portrayed. 
 
 The wide-stretched scene is spread below, 
 
 Where rich meand'ring rivers flow ! 
 
 The flow'ry fields, the foaming seas, 
 
 The mountains topped with waving trees ; 
 
 The dancing nymphs, the sportive swains, 
 
 And crippled age, oppressed with pains. — 
 
 Time present, past, and future, lies 
 
 All spread before his fancy's eyes ; 
 
 While his enraptured passions glow, 
 
 His lines in easy accents flow : 
 
 But humble bards must soon descend, 
 
 And in the shades their raptures end.
 
 MAN'S LIFE. 22!) 
 
 MAN'S LIFE. 
 
 I'll sing no more of cheerful things, 
 My lyre shall mourn in pensive strain, 
 
 The muse with tears shall wet her wings, 
 And with her feeble voice complain : 
 
 Grief shall her future hours employ — 
 
 No more her features shine with joy; 
 
 Each day and night will I declare— 
 
 Man's little life's a life of care ! 
 
 Through every stage of life, what woe ! 
 
 What various forms can sorrow take ! 
 Pleasures may charm an hour or so, 
 
 But sorrows ever are awake ! 
 Even infants, weeping at their birth, 
 As if they feared the ills of earth, 
 In feeble plaintive cries declare 
 Man's little life's a life of care ' 
 
 How oft we see the young at play 
 
 Sore grieved and weeping o'er their toys ; 
 
 E'en in the morning of their day 
 
 Are sorrows blended with their joys : 
 
 Then 'tis best to tike the < up, 
 
 With resignation drink it up, 
 
 Since of this truth we're well aware, 
 
 Man's little life's a life of care '
 
 230 MAN'S LIFE. 
 
 The youth on love's strong pinions soars 
 
 Far — far beyond what he can gain, 
 And sees the nymph his soul adores, 
 
 Reject him, heedless of his pain; 
 While she must feel love's painful dart, 
 From one who slights her in his heart. 
 Thus, disappointed youths declare — 
 Man's little life's a life of care ! 
 
 Where is the busy tradesman's peace, 
 
 When losses after losses come ? 
 His rising family increase, 
 
 And ruin hastens to his home. 
 O'ercome with grief, he sits and sighs, 
 
 Broods o'er his sorrows in despair, 
 Then, weeping, to his partner cries — 
 
 Man's little life's a life of care ! 
 
 The sire, upon his crutches stayed, 
 
 Weakened by age, disease, and pain ; 
 His grey locks tott'ring on his head, 
 
 Declares the joys of earth are vain ! 
 His joyless nights are spent in sighs, 
 His hearing lost, and dim his eyes : 
 No hopes of shortest pleasure here, 
 He dies — and leaves a life of care !
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 231 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 While others love the concert, mask, or ball, 
 
 And walk in grandeur through the gazing crowd, 
 I'll seek the spot where bursting cat'racts fall, 
 And o'er my head the tempest roars aloud, 
 While the deep dark abyss is murm'ring hoarse, 
 That the swollen stream comes rushing with such force. 
 
 There, when the moon's broad orb is glimmering 
 seen 
 Just rising in the orient atmosphere, 
 And trembling leaves but thinly intervene, 
 And all night's glories in full pomp appear, — 
 Tensive I'll walk, to study nature o'er, 
 \nd on the wings of meditation soar; — 
 
 List to the treble rills, whose tinklings sweet 
 
 Ring softly on the cavern's roi ky side; 
 l'.ehold them with the larger < urrent meet. 
 Whose tenor murmurs on the stony tide : 
 While the majestic bass the cat'ract roars, 
 Like the deep notes of ocean on its shores I
 
 232 PSALM XVIII. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Such are the concerts that my soul admires ; 
 These I can hear with feelings of delight ! 
 A solemn awe my thoughtful breast inspires, 
 When heav'n is decked by the great jeweller 
 Night ! 
 Tis then my thoughts, on fancy's airy road, 
 Soar far, and ask — "Where dwells great Nature's 
 God ? " 
 
 The shining orbs responsive answer — " Here I" 
 
 The twinkling glow-worms say by Him they shine ! 
 The loud abyss deep murmurs He is there ! 
 And ev'ry object shows a Pow'r Divine ! 
 Nature proclaims Him there, in ev'ry part, 
 And conscience whispers — He can read my heart ! 
 
 PSALM XVIII. PARAPHRASED 
 
 (from VERSES 6 TO 1 6). 
 
 When in the temple of his God 
 In sorrow Israel's monarch prayed, 
 
 Revenge ! — the great Eternal vowed ; 
 The earth — the heav'ns were sore afraid !
 
 PSALM XVIII. PARAPHRASED. 233 
 
 When frowned the Great Eternal King, 
 
 All nature trembled at His look ; 
 Heav'n's choristers all ceased to sing, 
 
 While the eternal pillars shook ! 
 
 ^\'ild rolled the clouds of darkest hue, 
 And wrapped the day in sable vest, — 
 
 The affrighted sun his light withdrew, 
 And thunders rolled from east to west ! 
 
 Earth trembled, and the ocean roar'd ; 
 
 The clouds all blush'd with cheeks of flame ; 
 Dread terrors veil'd the mountains o'er, 
 
 And earthquakes shook old Nature's frame ! 
 
 The bending heav'ns obeisance made, 
 
 As He on fiery cherubs rode ; 
 Beneath His feet the darkest shade 
 
 Rolled as a chariot for its God ! 
 
 The stars had from their orbits fled, 
 
 And melted all created things, 
 Had not the darkness wrapped I lis head, 
 
 As high He rode on whirlwinds' wings. 
 
 The channels of the mighty deep, — 
 
 The centre of the world was bare; 
 The earth — the ocean could not keep 
 
 Their stations, when their God was there !
 
 234 PSALM CXIV. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 As heralds He the lightnings sent, 
 The thunder was His trumpet strong ; 
 
 Devouring clouds before Him went, — 
 Hail, fire, and storms flew swift along ! 
 
 His enemies His arrows felt, 
 And as a shadow fled away : 
 
 Thus Israel's foes to nothing melt, 
 When faithful to their God they pray. 
 
 PSALM CXIV. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 When from proud Egypt's cruel land 
 
 The Lord His people led, 
 Encircling them on ev'ry hand, 
 
 The sea beheld and fled. 
 
 His holy place with Judah was, 
 
 O'er Israel He reigned ; 
 The waters moved to let them pass, 
 
 But Israel still complained. 
 
 On either hand Jehovah made 
 
 A wall across the deep ; 
 The mountains skipp'd, were sore afraid, 
 
 The hills removed like sheep !
 
 PSALM CXLVIII. PARAPHRASED. 235 
 
 Jordan roll'd backward to its source, 
 
 And left its channel dry ; — 
 It durst not keep its wonted course, 
 
 While Israel's God was nigh ! 
 
 When they within the desert prayed, 
 And told their wants and fears, 
 
 The flinty rocks in pity wept, 
 And Israel drank their tears. 
 
 Tremble then, earth, at Jacob's God, 
 
 His holy name adore ; 
 Large as thou art, were He to nod, 
 
 Thy place would be no more ! 
 
 PSALM CXLVIII. PARAPHRASED 
 
 Praise ye the Lord ! let songs of praise 
 
 Through highest heav'ns in chorus ring ' 
 Ye heights, where mortals cannot gaze, 
 
 Adore your great eternal King ! 
 
 Ye angels, that are clothed in light, 
 Ye hosts, which marshal at His word. 
 
 \ i ribe both majesty and night, 
 In holy concert, to the Lord !
 
 236 PSALM CXL VIII. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Shine to His praise, thou glorious sun ! 
 
 And thou, pale moon, at midnight hour 
 Adoring in thy orbit run 
 
 And show thy great Creator's pow'r ! 
 
 Ye comets, too, which wand'ring far, 
 And in the wide-stretched ether blaze, 
 
 Tell ev'ry distant unknown star 
 To join ye in Jehovah's praise ! 
 
 Ye stars, beheld by mortal eyes, 
 For ever steadfast, fixed and true, 
 
 The anthem join — till praise arise 
 From all the wide extended blue ! 
 
 Ye heav'ns beyond the heav'ns, rejoice ! 
 
 In praise, ye unknown oceans, roar, 
 Which heard at first th' Almighty's voice 
 
 Bid you to last for evermore ! 
 
 Fixed in His great eternal throne, 
 
 By an unchangeable decree, 
 To last when ev'ry orb is gone, 
 
 Existing through eternity! 
 
 Ye mountains, lift your heads on high ; 
 
 In praise toward His throne ascend ! 
 Praise Him, ye lesser hills ! reply 
 
 In awe, ye oaks, — ye cedars, bend !
 
 PSALM CXLVIII. PARAPHRASED. 237 
 
 Ye fruitful trees, wave ev'ry bough, 
 With blossoms or with fruit arrayed ! 
 
 By ev'ry shrub that blooms below, 
 Let homage to His name be paid ! 
 
 Thou earth, in songs thy glory give, — 
 
 One universal Sabbath keep : 
 With all that in the ocean live, 
 
 And monsters of th' unfathomed deep. 
 
 Ye clouds, that crown the mountain's brow, 
 Fraught with the lightning's vivid blaze, 
 
 To distant thunders, deep and low, 
 Echo on high His awful praise ! 
 
 Ye storms of hail, that ride along, 
 On the wild wings of tempests borne, 
 
 Learn in the air the holy song, 
 And with it to the earth return ! 
 
 Learn it, ye snows ! and ev'ry cloud 
 That sails in grandeur on the air ! 
 
 ¥e whirlwinds, bear His praise abroad, 
 And Ills tremendous pow'r declare! 
 
 Lions, which in the desert roar, 
 And all the mighty beasts ol prey 
 
 That range the unknown forests o'er, 
 To Him your nightly homage pay !
 
 238 PSALM CXI VIII. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Ye creeping reptiles, weak and small, 
 By man unnoticed and unknown, 
 
 Show forth His skill — He formed you all, 
 Ye live by Him and Him alone ! 
 
 Ye larks, ascending toward the sky, 
 Ye birds, which warble in the wood, 
 
 With all the various fowls that fly, 
 
 Tune your wild notes in praise to God ! 
 
 Praise Him, ye kings, by mortals crowned ; 
 
 And ye who judge by earthly law : 
 Let songs in ev'ry court resound ; 
 
 Ye princes, bend your plumes in awe ! 
 
 Ye youths, His sacred name adore ; 
 
 Ye maidens, on His glories gaze ; 
 Old men, whose earthly joys are o'er, 
 
 And infant children, shout His praise ! 
 
 To God, the great eternal King 
 (For He alone deserves all praise), 
 
 Let joyful hallelujahs ring 
 
 Through all creation's boundless space ! 
 
 The glorious lustre of the sky 
 Is darkness to th' eternal light 
 
 Wherein He dwells enthroned on high, 
 Below all depth — above all height.
 
 SOLEMN REFLECTIONS. 239 
 
 Praise Him, ye saints ! though last, the best \ 
 Ye whom He still delights to raise 
 
 To bliss, and crown you with the blessed, 
 Close by His throne to sing His praise ! 
 
 SOLEMN REFLECTIONS. 
 
 My life wastes away, o'erburden'd with care ; 
 
 My days are o'erclouded with gloom; 
 I'm toss'd through the night on the verge of despair. 
 
 And shudder to think on the tomb. 
 
 When backward I look, nought but foil) and sin 
 
 Have been my employment below \ 
 I've err'd from the way I should have walk'd in. 
 
 Ami run in the high road to woe. 
 
 The strength of my passions has hurried me on, 
 
 Until I've run so far astray : 
 I'm afraid ev'ry beam ol Heaven's mercy is gone. 
 
 And my bosom too harden'd to pi
 
 240 SOLEMN REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Shall the blessings, the threat'nings, the sermons I've 
 heard, 
 
 Against me in judgment arise? 
 Or in vain mortal pride shall I question the Word 
 
 Which points to a crown in the skies ? 
 
 The time soon will come when all I have read 
 Will be lost in the thoughts of the grave ; 
 
 And my tongue, which so many light verses has said, 
 Will be asking for mercy to save — 
 
 To save a lost soul which has stray'd from the road 
 
 Wherein it once ran with delight — 
 Which has sought lying vanities rather than God, 
 
 And, like Samson, is robb'd of its might. 
 
 If yet there is mercy, O may I return 
 
 To Him who is mercy above ! 
 In deepest repentance, O Lord ! let me mourn, 
 
 And this rock from my bosom remove.
 
 *m 
 
 •3> V->- 
 
 
 j 
 
 Jj a u t J* r f r ij. 
 
 THE ABSENT LOVER. 
 
 I\ vain the youths and rosy maids 
 
 All wish me to be gay, 
 For health declines, and pleasure fades, 
 
 While Henry's far away. 
 
 The birds may strain their warbling throats, 
 
 I pon the blossom'd spray, 
 But there's no music in their notes, 
 
 When I [enry's far away. 
 
 The sweets of June, the hill, the dale, 
 
 With natUl 
 
 Appear to me but winter • 
 
 When 1 lenn 's far away. 
 Q
 
 242 THE ABSENT LO VER. 
 
 The evening moments creep but slow, 
 And dull's the brightest day ; 
 
 For none my anxious cares can know, 
 When Henry's far away. 
 
 My trembling harp no pleasure yields, 
 
 My hands forget to play; 
 No joy at home, nor in the fields, 
 
 While Henry's far away. 
 
 The hours which now I think my best, 
 
 I wish them not to stay; 
 For nought on earth can make me rest, 
 
 While Henry's far away. 
 
 Phaeton, cord afresh thy whip, 
 
 And on thy coursers lay, 
 To make them o'er thy azure skip, 
 
 While Henry's far away. 
 
 And, Night, upon thy sable throne, 
 Be scarce an hour thy stay: 
 
 But bid the weeks be swiftly gone, 
 While Henry's far away. 
 
 Then, on the wings of rosy Health 
 
 May he be swiftly borne ; 
 For more to me than worlds of wealth 
 
 Will be his blest return.
 
 THE D YING L O VER. 2 1 ! I 
 
 THE DYING LOVER. 
 
 An ! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine 
 
 Will give its beating o'er ; 
 This weary aching head recline 
 
 Upon thy breast no more. 
 
 These hands can pluck no more for thee 
 
 The heather's purple bloom ; 
 No more must I accompany 
 
 My lovely Mary home. 
 
 But, hush ! — those sighs of fragrant breath, 
 
 The lovely crystal tear, 
 Can no impression make on Death, 
 
 Or keep me longer here. 
 
 Go, touch my sweet piano's strin 
 
 And chant me into rest, 
 Till angels come, and on their wings 
 
 Convey me to the blest. 
 
 And mourn not .is 1 soar awaj 
 
 To tune my harp on high ; 
 Useless the tears upon my < lay, 
 
 For I'm prepared to die.
 
 244 LOVE ON THE HEATH. 
 
 LOVE ON THE HEATH. 
 
 On the heath-vestur'd hills, where I courted my 
 Sally, 
 
 Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry 'stalk ; 
 The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley, 
 
 Were all that could see us or listen our talk. 
 
 The pale yellow moss on the side of the mountain, 
 Far softer than velvet, invited our stay; 
 
 And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the 
 fountain, 
 We, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away. 
 
 How oft she would say, when sat happy together, 
 " 'Tis thee — and thee only I ever can love ! " 
 
 With breath far more sweet than the bloom on the 
 heather, 
 Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove. 
 
 How oft had she vowed, while we walked o'er the 
 rushes, 
 With me, and me only she'd wander so far, 
 Then bent down her head with such beautiful 
 blushes, — 
 'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
 
 ON LOVE. 245 
 
 On the heath thus we lov'd, and our love so delicious — 
 If Heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below, 
 
 It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious, 
 Which only in innocent bosoms can glow '. 
 
 But oil ! how the pleasures of mortals are clouded, 
 For Sally the heather-bells blossom no more ! 
 
 With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded, 
 And I on the heath must behold her no more ! 
 
 O N L O Y E. 
 
 The love how true — the love how sweet, 
 
 That is in youth begun, 
 When innocence and beauty meet, 
 
 That never lov'd but one ! 
 
 No anxious doubts, no jealous f< 
 I »! iturb the constant breast ; 
 
 The faithful youth, whose vows are truth, 
 With one alone i M. 
 
 1 t other suitors come — her heart 
 
 I i >m him she never mm 
 Nor aught on earth but death can par: 
 
 Her soul from him she loves.
 
 246 LOVE SANS REASON. 
 
 If angels smile at aught on earth, 
 They smile on love like this, 
 
 Whose origin's of heav'nly birth, — 
 The crown of mortal bliss ; 
 
 The sweetest flower that blooming grows 
 Amongst the thorns of care ; 
 
 The balm that heals our bosoms' woes, 
 And yields contentment there. 
 
 Such is that love which Heav'n bestow'd 
 To make its creatures bless'd ; 
 
 And such in our first parents glow'd, 
 When Eden they possess'd. 
 
 LOVE SANS REASON. 
 
 Wild's the night, my love, my Mary ! 
 
 But I promised thee to meet ; 
 Winds and rain they sound so dreary, 
 
 Yet thou list'nest for my feet ! 
 
 Dark the woods which lie between us, 
 
 High the rocks I have to pass, 
 Where the nymphs and swains have seen us, 
 
 Each one happy with his lass.
 
 LOVE SANS REASON. 2 1 7 
 
 Frail's the plank across the river, 
 
 Slipp'ry with a night of rain ; 
 One false step — I'm gone for ever, 
 
 Ne'er to meet my love again ! 
 
 Swoll'n the streams of ev'ry fountain, 
 
 Trackless is the stormy moor, 
 Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain 
 
 Which I have to wander o'er. 
 
 Though the winds be cold and dreary, 
 
 I have promis'd thee to meet ; 
 If I reach my love, my deary, 
 
 'Twill but make our bliss more sweet ! 
 
 What the rocks or misty mountains? 
 
 What the darkness of the woods? 
 What the roaring of the fountains, 
 
 Though the rills be swoll'n to floods? 
 
 What the trackless moor or river. 
 Though some demon should appear? 
 i those stop me ? < >h do, —never ! 
 
 Three short hours will land me there. 
 
 Then my plaid I will throw o'er me, 
 
 Sing of Mary on the way ; 
 Though great dangers lie before me, 
 
 Yet I cannot, will not stay.
 
 24S / WILL LOVE THEE, MARY. 
 
 I WILL LOVE THEE, MARY: 
 
 While the larks mount up in spring, 
 While the grouse sport on the ling, 
 While the thrush and blackbird sing, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 While the heat of summer glows 
 On each daisy, pink, and rose, — 
 Come sweet pleasure or deep woes, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 When the harvest field appears 
 Yellow with the golden ears, — 
 Bless'd with joys, or press'd with cares, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 In the coldest winter's frost, 
 On the drifted mountain lost, 
 Or on foaming billows toss'd, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary ! 
 
 Life may waste, — but still impress'd 
 Are thy virtues on my breast ; 
 Till in death my heart shall rest, 
 
 I will love thee, Mary !
 
 MARY, I WILL TIILNK OF YOU. 21!) 
 
 MARY, I WILL THINK OF VOL 
 
 Ti nk — " In a cottage near a wood." 
 
 When upon the heather bloom 
 First appears the evening dew, 
 
 When the daisies close their eves, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 When the woodland doves I hear. 
 
 On the budding birchen bough, 
 While the thrush is singing clear, 
 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 When I hear the evening chime. 
 
 While soft echo answers true, 
 Though at midnight's solemn time, 
 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 When upon the orient skies 
 Morning spreads her pinky hue, 
 
 When 1 wake, before I i 
 Mary. I will think of you. 
 
 When among die heather hells, 
 
 Rousing up the wild curlew, 
 Where the wildest music swell-, 
 
 Mary. I will think of you.
 
 250 ODE TO LA URA. 
 
 On the banks of Windermere, 
 'Mid fair scenes for ever new, 
 
 Then I wish'd my Mary there, 
 Sharing ev'ry changing view. 
 
 When my bark must leave the shore, 
 Yet, unchang'd, my heart is true ; 
 
 Singing to the well-tim'd oar, 
 I'll drop a tear and think of you. 
 
 When my bark is far away, 
 
 Nought but seas and skies in view, 
 
 Ploughing through the wat'ry way, 
 Mary, I will think of you. 
 
 ODE TO LAU R A. 
 
 Softly sighing will I mourn 
 
 The blossom that was nipp'd in spring, 
 Hang a chaplet on the urn 
 
 Of lovely Virtue's blossoming. 
 
 O'er her no praise shall marble bear, 
 Those pageants vain of solemn pride ; 
 
 Though all on earth I held most dear, 
 Forsook me when my Laura died.
 
 TRUE AFFECTION. 251 
 
 Oh ! 'tis in vain — I'll cease to try 
 
 To write in characters my sorrow deep. 
 
 For could I write a river dry, 
 
 My eyes another sea could weep. 
 
 But words can never show the worth 
 
 Of her who was too rich to stay, 
 Mourning on a joyless earth, 
 
 When fit for everlasting day. 
 
 TRUE AFFECTION. 
 
 The face of Henry faded fast, 
 The fever next in crimson came ; 
 
 Each weary day was thought the last. 
 For furious was the fever's flame. 
 
 Eliza heard, Eliza sighed, 
 
 And often of the youth inquired ; 
 
 Her vow was given, and she his brii 
 Was all she wished <>n this side heav'n. 
 
 She heard the croakn a cry, 
 
 lli lovel) eyes of sleep ben 
 
 She thought —If now my Henry die. 
 There's nought for me but sorrow left.
 
 252 TRUE AFFECTION. 
 
 The fair was there, and all was mirth, 
 The viols and all music play ; 
 
 But not a joy was left on earth — 
 These were to Henry flown away. 
 
 Now, Henry's father, he was proud, 
 And scorned Eliza, she was poor ; 
 
 He vowed his son should wear a shroud 
 Ere he should see Eliza more. 
 
 The fever raged, till every one 
 
 That nursed the youth was laid near death ; 
 The father durst not see his son, 
 
 But feared contagion from his breath. 
 
 Yet Henry's mother never moved, 
 
 Stayed with the youth, and would not move 
 
 When all relations say, " We loved," 
 Where is such truth as mothers' love ? 
 
 'Twas midnight, and the winds were strong, 
 
 Henry insensible to pain, 
 His pulse not likely to beat long, 
 
 Nor his parched tongue to speak again. 
 
 The storm beat hard against the door, 
 The eaves-drops fell both loud and fast, 
 
 The lightning blazed amid the shower, 
 When, lo ! a virgin's form went past.
 
 TRUE AFFECTION. 253 
 
 His mother trembled at the sight, 
 
 Then looked if Henry yet had breath ; 
 
 The form that passed in purest white, 
 She thought the messenger of death. 
 
 We need not lengthen out the tale ; 
 
 It was Eliza came to pray, 
 Amid the storm of rain and hail, 
 
 That she might with her Henry stay. 
 
 She spoke, but spoke as in despair, 
 
 " Is yet my Henry's spirit here ? 
 O let me stay ! I will not care, 
 
 Though death in every form appear." 
 
 Softly in grief the mother spoke, 
 
 "Eliza, why in such a plight?" 
 She says, " My heart will sure be broke, 
 
 If I see not your son to-night." 
 
 The mother's pity melted then, 
 
 She softly crept towards tin- door ; 
 She lrt the storm dren< lied maiden in — 
 She came, hut home returned no more. 
 
 All dropping she to Henry flew, 
 In time to catch his parting breath, 
 
 That kiss she to her bosom drew, 
 
 \nd soon with him was lain in death.
 
 254 THE DESERTED MAID. 
 
 THE DESERTED MAID. 
 
 To some gloomy cave will I wander away, 
 Where waterfalls foam through each cleft, 
 
 And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day, 
 Since I by my lover am left. 
 
 There hang, ye dried ferns, in the wet gloomy shade, 
 
 Ye owls, fly around me in scorn, 
 As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd, 
 
 Whose features with weeping are worn. 
 
 Oh let not a flower be seen in the field, 
 
 Nor daisies spring up near my feet ; 
 Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield, 
 
 Where my lover and I used to meet. 
 
 Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud, 
 
 Nor throw it away to the wind ; 
 Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood, 
 
 Where I on his bosom reclin'd. 
 
 But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose, 
 Nor bloom in your beauty and charms, 
 
 As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes, 
 Lull'd to peace in a false lover's arms.
 
 A CALM SUMMER'S NIGHT. 255 
 
 Ye stockdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost, 
 
 Let your cooings be accents of pain, 
 In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost, 
 
 Till the grottos re-echo the strain. 
 
 The gems that he bought in my bosom I'll bear, 
 
 I only the jewels will view, 
 And dim their bright lustre with many a tear, 
 
 Which springs from a bosom that's true. 
 
 When life has ebb'd out to the last fatal day, 
 And this bosom heaves feebly for breath, 
 
 If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray, 
 And show that I lov'd him in death. 
 
 A CALM SUM M E R 'S X I G 1 1 T. 
 
 'I'm. night is calm, the cygnet's down 
 
 Scarce skims the lake along 
 The throstle to die ha/el's flown, 
 
 To trill his evening song. 
 
 The curling woodbine now app< 
 
 More sweet than fragrant gums, 
 I he sky a robe of i rimson wears, 
 The scale-clad beetle hums.
 
 25 G A FRAGMENT. 
 
 What pleasure, walking with my Jane, 
 Earth's truest, best delight, 
 
 Returning to embrace again, 
 And loath to bid good night. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 AI.CASTO. 
 
 Banish the wealthless virgin from thy thoughts! 
 Or eminence and wealth are from thee far 
 As from the beggar is the monarch's crown. 
 
 REGINALD. 
 
 Break nature's laws, and send me to the world 
 In my worst suit, no king in miniature, 
 Stamped on rich ore, to be my passport through, 
 I'll love her still ! Our passions now are mixed, 
 As are the waters of two meeting rills. 
 Ours is superior love, as rarely found 
 As is the phoenix burning on her nest. 
 I saw and loved her when she rowed along. 
 The lake unruffled, save with her white skiff. 
 Had she been absent there, I could have seen, 
 Upon the bosom of the polished lake,
 
 A FRAGMENT. 257 
 
 Inverted trees, and rocks, and crimson clouds, 
 Tinged with the lustre of the setting sun ; 
 But all I now remember seemed a sky, 
 And she like Dian on th' inverted arch, 
 Skimming in modest majesty along — 
 With her she took my heart : and can your wealth, 
 Your honours, influence, or wide estates, 
 Purchase a form as fair, a richer skiff; 
 Give to another nymph that voice I heard, 
 Teach Myra's song, and make such echoes join ? 
 Do these — her image I will strive t' efface, 
 Though painted on the canvas of my heart. 
 
 ALCASTO. 
 
 Is not Romilia more lovely far, 
 Possessing wealth, and modesty, and wit ; 
 So virtuous, that the night's unhealthy wind 
 Plasts not her cheeks to make her blushes fade ? 
 
 REGINALD. 
 
 Know you my Myra's worth ? Has Slander spoke ! 
 No — earth's three darkest demons all are mute. 
 She takes her soft guitar, and sings so sweet. 
 That gloomy, callous-hearted Envy weeps, 
 Shrinks to the shades where meagre Malice sits; 
 But both are charmed, their vices lose, and ^\ic 
 V\>on her beauty, and return to prai
 
 t$pIJatmnt$ J^ms. 
 
 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 (written in 1820.) 
 
 Hail, glorious Commerce ! goddess of our isle ! 
 Thou, who hast rais'd her to the tow'ring height 
 Where, thron'd she sits, the empress of the world, — 
 Britannia's glory, hail ! of thee I sing : 
 Thou, who with swiftest pinions wing'st thy way 
 To every distant port throughout the seas, 
 Then back return'st, with every blessing fraught 
 The kingdoms of the fruitful earth can yield. 
 
 Thou hast a daughter, whose industrious hands 
 Supply the earth with stuffs of richest hues, 
 In which are dress'd the sultan and the slave, — 
 Princes and Kings, Jews, Pagans, Turk, and Priest, 
 The Indian ladies and the Persian dames, — 
 Bradford her name, now known throughout the world.
 
 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 259 
 
 Small was her fame, her trade and wealth were small, 
 When, from a few thatch'd cottages she rose, 
 To form a street, the shadow of a town ; 
 But view her now — behold her bursting forth 
 In far extending streets, majestic built, 
 Wherein the mould'ring bricks are seldom seen, 
 While polish'd stones compose her rising walls, 
 And, speak in silent accents, through our land — 
 Where Commerce reigns, old England's sonsarebless'd ! 
 
 Oh what a change in this most favour'd town, 
 Since its brave sons lay lifeless on the field, 
 With gory wounds, by civil discord dealt — 
 Scenes almost now forgotten and unknown — 
 When trembling virgins sought their lovers brave, 
 And on their mangled bosoms, frantic, wept; 
 While mothers mingled with the streaming blood 
 Tears of deep anguish and unutter'd woe 
 On the soak'd earth where their dear sons were slain. 
 
 When peace return'd, and civil discord ceas'd, 
 ( )n Bradford, then, the sun of Commerce dawn'd : 
 But faint and few its beams.- Few were the goods 
 Which then, with toil and wean' steps, were brought 
 < >n the j ided pack-horse to the little town, — 
 A public house the only piece-hall w 
 And one small table held the merchant's store. 
 Behold, how chang'd ! so many now her goods,
 
 260 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 That she can form a zone to gird the world ; 
 
 With rich moreens, can deck the Russian court ; 
 
 In lighter goods adorn the Japanese ; 
 
 Can far outshine the tint of Persian dyes, 
 
 And clothe the world from Zembla's coldest shores, 
 
 To hottest tracts of Afric's sultry plains. 
 
 When envious minds, by proud presumption curs'd, 
 With dire seditious trash the country fill'd, 
 Aiming to shake the basis of our throne, 
 Drew thousands into error and to shame, 
 Old Bradford stood, — yes, like its motto, stood, 
 Which deck'd the banner of the volunteers, 
 " Ready " to arm, and " steady " to the king. 
 
 While bless'd with Commerce, Bradford never dreads 
 Pale-visag'd poverty, nor meagre want ; 
 Her sons are free, and, when in war engag'd, 
 Their wealth and hearts are open to the king : 
 Freely they give — as freely as they join 
 The joyful shouts, when vict'ry crowns our hosts, 
 And England echoes with triumphant joy. 
 
 Bless'd is that king, who, in his subjects' hearts, 
 Has fix'd the steadfast basis of respect! 
 Then let rebellion rise — 'tis crush'd at once ; 
 Or let proud hostile fleets loom on our seas, 
 And foreign foes approach with ev'ry wind,
 
 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 2G1 
 
 While on each deck their glist'ning arms are seen, 
 Our constitution, commerce, and our king 
 Become the trumpets that arouse our souls : 
 The king our Jove, our constitution Mars, 
 Our trade Minerva, and our God our shield, 
 And, led by chiefs to English bosoms dear, — 
 The threatening fleets, whatever flags they bear, 
 Soon spread the bottom of the trembling deeps 
 With wrecks and trophies of their shatter'd pride ! 
 
 Oh that my feeble pen could half describe 
 The num'rous blessings Bradford's sons enjoy ! 
 In chill December's cold and piercing nights, 
 When all the diamonds of yon spangled arch 
 Shine brilliant through the air, by frost made pure, — 
 When the bright moonbeams on the candied snow, 
 Create unnumber'd gems of ev'ry hue, 
 And beautify the scene, — then is the time 
 The starv'd inhabitants of heath-crown'd hills 
 Cling round the shimm'ring light of turfy fires; 
 And, as they shudder with the piercing blast 
 That penetrates their crazy tenements, 
 Oft wish that coals were near, but wish in vain. — 
 Hut, blest with her exhaustless mines of coal, 
 Were Bradford plac'd where mitred hills of snow 
 Raise their white heads beyond the Arctic line, 
 Where the green sea is one vast wild oi ice, 
 She would defy a winter at the pole.
 
 262 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Prompted by Commerce, in the summer months, 
 When bleating flocks are lighten' d of their load, 
 The manufacturers and staplers seek, 
 Through ev'ry shire, the farmer's woolly store, 
 Happy employment ! — when, beneath the shade 
 Of lofty trees, the shepherd shears his sheep, 
 While, smiling o'er the group, his master stands, 
 And hears with joy the shearer's festive song, 
 Pours out the ale, and joins their rustic mirth ; 
 Then makes them wrap, with honesty, each fleece, 
 Which, when unloos'd, may like his heart be found, 
 Nought to contain but equity and truth. 
 T' augment the pleasure of the rural scene, 
 After a year of absence, now arrives 
 From marts of commerce his accustom'd friend. 
 Upon the carpet of the verdant earth, 
 With joy the long-tried friends together meet, 
 Admire the fleece — the source of England's wealth- 
 Which all the climates of the world beside 
 Can ne'er surpass in quality and strength. 
 The farmer's blooming daughter, too, is there, 
 Blushing with modesty and virgin grace, 
 Great Nature's self the painter of her cheeks : — 
 The stapler's youthful and enamour'd son 
 Sees all the world a blank but her fair form; 
 While from her eyes the swift-wing'd darts of love 
 Fly quick, and pierce his inexperienc'd heart. 
 Poor youth ! — he, like a ship with colours gay,
 
 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 263 
 
 Just launch'd upon the ocean of the world, 
 Knows nothing of its tempests and its storms, 
 But thinks the main as tranquil as the port. 
 Meanwhile the fathers bargain for the wool; 
 The price is asked — 'tis set — disputed — giv'n ; 
 And soon the swelling sheets are homeward sent, 
 And half the vessels that the Humber bears, 
 Arc fraught with wool, Britannia's wealth and boast. 
 
 When at its destin'd place 'tis landed safe, 
 The sorter first consigns each various kind, 
 With nice exactness, to its proper bin — 
 Emblem of man ! who, in this chequer' d world, 
 According to appearance takes his place ; 
 The great to palaces, the proud to courts ; 
 To fine-built mansions some, and some to huts 
 Lowly and mean, yet fill'd with greatest peace, 
 Their residence like bins where wool is thrown ; 
 And the partition which divides each class, 
 Death soon breaks down, commixing ev'ry sort. 
 
 The comber next employs his ancient art, 
 W'hii h do raa< hinery can supersede.* 
 In vain the ingenious stretch their utmost skill: 
 As oft as tried, the expensive schemes of art 
 Abortive prove ; — the comber still employ'd, 
 
 " In [820, it was the general opinion that no machine could 
 evei superse le hand-combing.
 
 264 THE COMMERCE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Sings at his work, and triumphs o'er them all ; 
 Then plans for ale; and when the quart goes round, 
 Talks of his travels, happier than a king. 
 
 The spinners, too, in times which now are pass'd, 
 With many a weary step spun out the yarn, 
 Singing to pass the tedious hours away; 
 Or on the pleasant evenings of the spring, 
 Tranquillity pervading all the scene, 
 Upon the verdant earth their wheels were plied ; 
 And village spinsters, with their rural songs, 
 Charm'd their lov'd swains, and labour turn'd to joy.— 
 But now, with wheels as num'rous as the stars, 
 With motion multiform as heavenly spheres, 
 The invention of the skill'd mechanic's mind, 
 Our wool has drawn out to the finest thread, 
 Unequall'd in the world. But time would fail 
 Minutely to describe each process of our trade. 
 
 May Bradford's Commerce prosper still, 
 Her greastest boast, her glory, and her all ! 
 Let Commerce flourish, then we stand secure — 
 Destroy it, and the seas defend in vain 
 From foreign foes Britannia's favour'd isle.
 
 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 265 
 
 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 
 
 Ye that have trembled with the nerves unstrung, 
 
 The theme neglected which you should have sung ; 
 
 With fearful gloom the mind encircled round, 
 
 Or sunk in fears amid the deep profound ; 
 
 Pardon the timid mind that now indites, 
 
 The pen that trembles as your poet writes. 
 
 'Tis not of stars, nor distant orbs I sing, 
 
 Parnassus' mountain, nor the muses' spring ; 
 
 Nor smoking /Etna, nor the constant light 
 
 ( )f Strombolo, that gilds Sicilian night. 
 
 A thousand wants, a thousand fears are mine, 
 
 A bard that has to struggle for the Nine; 
 
 But hence, ye cares — anxieties avaunt — 
 
 Be drown'd, ye sorrows, and be banislvd, want ; 
 
 False fancied ills, disturb no more this breast, 
 
 For whilst I treat of genius I'm blest. 
 
 e v 
 
 When first the shapeless sable ore 
 Is laid in heaps around I,ow Moor, 
 The roaring blast, the quiv'ring flame, 
 Give to the mass another name : 
 White as the sun the metal runs, 
 For horse-shoe nails, or tlnmd'ring guns ;
 
 266 LOW MO OR IR ON WORKS. 
 
 The trembling hair-spring of a watch, 
 
 An anchor, or a cottage latch — 
 
 Most implements the farmers have, 
 
 And those of steamers on the wave ; 
 
 The tailor's needle, or the shell 
 
 That levell'd once where princes dwell ; 
 
 The engine, boiler, cobbler's awl, 
 
 The carronade, the pond'rous ball ; 
 
 The place where steam first moves his wings, 
 
 The nails in beggars' shoes and kings'; 
 
 The anchor's chain, the fisher's hook, 
 
 The sword — the hatchet — and the crook, 
 
 The sounding anvil, all the blades, 
 
 The cause of many thousand trades; 
 
 No pen can write, no mind can soar 
 
 To tell the wonders of Low Moor. 
 
 Wrapp'd in dark clouds that curling rise on high, 
 Mix'd with the quiv'ring flames of ev'ry dye, 
 Noble in blackness, great, and wide, and deep, 
 Not like mankind, thou never art asleep ; 
 Thy sun-white flames for years have been awake, 
 Thy mighty hammers all the mountains shake — 
 Here from the mine, as when Mount Ida's flame 
 Lighted the coal, and liquid iron came ; 
 Thy coal, thy stone, and Craven's flinty rock, 
 Join'd with the powerful blasts, the hammer's 
 shock,
 
 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 2G7 
 
 Mould into masses, which shall ever stand, 
 
 Or to improve, or to defend our land. 
 
 In every clime, through every varied zone, 
 
 Throughout the world thy heavy guns are known : 
 
 From the Pacific to the Indian shore, 
 
 Nations have heard their dread tremendous roar. 
 
 Here, wond'ring strangers, while they view around, 
 
 See mighty moulds promisc'ous on the ground : 
 
 Struck with astonishment they wildly gaze, 
 
 Amid thy thunders and each quiv'ring blaze. 
 
 Here lie the cannon, peaceful, all asleep, 
 
 Which yet shall thunder on the mighty deep ; 
 
 The mortars there, and bombs of every size, 
 
 Which yet with flames shall streak the distant skies. 
 
 The place where armour by the gods was 
 form'd, 
 Ere round old Troy the Grecian warriors storm'd. 
 Was silent to the echoes of each stroke, 
 And noise of hammers, heard amid thy smoke. 
 Here pow'rful levers raise the pond'rous guns, 
 And pulleys, where a boy can play with tons. 
 How slow, yet sure, the boring wheels appear, 
 And soon the new-form'd cannon glitters there ; 
 But should a Haw within the piece be found. 
 When it has mov'd ten thousand times around. 
 Soon with the massive ball, the piece is broke 
 The whole foundation trembles with the stroke.
 
 268 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 
 
 Since thy first smoke arose and infant blast, 
 What hosts have fled, what hostile days have 
 
 pass'd — 
 What guns once thine are buried in the deep, 
 Where anchors, balls, and many a sailor, sleep ; 
 Their fury quench'd in ocean's deepest bed, 
 With worlds of billows rolling o'er the dead. 
 
 Thy strong artill'ry, which at Woolwich lies — 
 Should its arsenal once in fury rise, 
 Nations would tremble, fleets and navies fly, 
 For there Britannia stores her thunder by — 
 There pyramids of balls for battle form'd, 
 By which each fortress of our foes is storm'd ; 
 The bursting bombs of every size are there, 
 To guard the land Britannia holds so dear. 
 
 When Romans sway'd the sceptre o'er this land. 
 Near some small brook the infant blast was fann'd ; 
 The boughs of trees were cut to melt the ore, 
 Cent'ries ere Britons heard a cannon roar. 
 But what a change — in sixteen hundred years, 
 No more the flinty or the brazen spears ; 
 The art of war to such perfection grown, 
 Death flies on air, and sweeps whole squadrons 
 
 down. 
 But let the dead the iron balls have slain 
 In dust among the warriors remain ;
 
 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 269 
 
 These times of peace require a milder song, 
 Than when through carnage armies march along : 
 The days are past when dreadful terror smil'd, 
 The useless balls are rusting where they're pil'd, 
 Silent the cannon, peaceful all the hosts, 
 And long eighteens now form a line of posts. 
 Thousands of these that on the batt'ry spoke, 
 To form a railway, will be shortly broke ; 
 The rusty engines that for years have stood, 
 Shall be conducive to the public good — 
 Castings of old machin'ry shall be sought, 
 Melted again and into action brought ; 
 The rapid wheels far fleeter than the wind, 
 Shall leave the show'r in distance far behind. 
 Swift as the rapid stock-dove, engines fly, 
 Gliding as smooth as meteors in the sky : 
 The shining salmon, near the Mersey caught, 
 With wings of steam shall be so swiftly brought. 
 The poor can buy them when they get so cheap. 
 And show their freshness as they try to leap. 
 The grocer, when his sugar is all sold. 
 When coffee's out — if he has got the gold. 
 May breakfast in old I the paper take. 
 
 And land in Liverpool without a shake ; 
 His lunch at Manchester may take at t 
 Buy goods in Dale Street then home again — 
 I lis goods all safe, he guards them on the way. 
 No lessen'd weight, and not one hour delay.
 
 270 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 
 
 Ye panting horses, smoking on the road, 
 Mark'd with the whip, and struggling with your 
 
 load; 
 Your race of cruelty will soon have done, 
 The mail without you soon will swiftly run, 
 The useless coaches, which have made you tire, 
 Shall form a sofa near some kitchen fire ; 
 The Courier, Pilot, or the Duke of Leeds, 
 May cross the furrows fill'd with various seeds, 
 A load of turnips for the sheep convey, 
 Or bear the cattle, through the snow, some hay. 
 
 But see the engine on the railroad play, 
 Two hundred tons force swiftly on the way ! 
 The Menai Bridge was late a wonder thought, 
 The greatest work mechanics ever wrought ! 
 But locomotive power all else transcends, 
 And every proof the first endeavour mends — 
 Of much more use the cannon then will be, 
 Molten again, than roaring on the sea : 
 The world at peace, and commerce spreading 
 
 far, 
 Nor dread of ruin, from the deeds of war. 
 
 O had I genius ! that, Low Moor, to thee 
 The debt of gratitude should then be paid : 
 
 But care and grief, and deep anxiety, 
 Have thrown poetic vigour into shade.
 
 L W MO OR IR ON WORKS. 2 7 1 
 
 Place of true genius, where invention springs, 
 And where the mathematics spread their wings : 
 Where swift revolve, like motion of the spheres, 
 The potent wheels, and all their pow'r appears ; 
 A moving wonder ! — where all things are brought 
 To such perfection, they o'erpow'r the thought — 
 Steady and swift the pond'rous masses turn, 
 And with their weight the solid axles burn. 
 Matur'd by sage experience, here combine, 
 And first of genius — great Low Moor, is thine ! 
 Firm perseverance, and a master's skill, 
 Through change of time, have conquer'd every 
 
 ill. 
 Thy fame for noblest engines far is known, 
 Where greatest skill and high perfection's shown ; 
 Strong to propel the vessels on the sea, 
 ( )r move ten thousand wheels in harmony. 
 Strength of our commerce, these are truly fix'd, 
 Where coal and ironstone are richly mix 'd, 
 In mines of wealth, an unexhausted store. 
 Such as for ages yet shall bless Low Moor. 
 
 What millions sterling have been made, 
 What tens of thousands have been paid, 
 
 What thousands here has genius I'd], 
 Since the first blast has rear'd its head. 
 Crown'd with the flame that soar'd on high. 
 And cheer'd the midnight cloudy sky.
 
 272 LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. 
 
 But for Low Moor, old Bradford town, 
 
 Had never like a city grown, 
 
 Her streets so wide had never spread, 
 
 Nor Commerce rais'd so high her head; 
 
 In days, and years, and times gone by, 
 
 Had not her sable coal been nigh — 
 
 Oh ! for a Milton's pen — a Milton's mind, 
 
 To tell what friendship all the brothers bind. 
 
 When winter comes, and shining nature sees 
 The frost hang hoary on the naked trees, 
 Amid the blackness, there is yet one charm, 
 In frost and winter storms, thy sons are warm ; 
 How blest the workmen, though the labour's hard, 
 Their wages sure — the poor man's best reward ; 
 Cheerful they sing, their labour is delight ; 
 Blest with their families, at home at night — 
 While some uncertain, with an aching breast, 
 Far from their wives and children, take no rest : 
 O useful labour, mine of richest wealth, 
 Man's truest friend, the keeper of his health. 
 
 V
 
 APPEAL OF SPANISH REFUGEES. 273 
 
 APPEAL OF THE SPANISH REFUGEES. 
 
 The brave band of Mina's no more ! 
 
 Riego is laid in the grave ! 
 Iberia's freedom is o'er, — 
 
 'Tis now but the land of the slave ! 
 
 The grapes need not hang on the vine, 
 
 The orange nor lemon appear ; 
 Let riches remain in the mine, 
 
 For many a traitor is there ! 
 
 Ye warriors of Albion ! could we 
 But march in your columns to Spain, 
 
 The coward — the traitor would flee, 
 And liberty triumph again ! 
 
 But now from our country afar, 
 
 For the loss of our freedom we mourn ; 
 
 Who once were the first in the war, 
 And scorned like the traitor to turn ! 
 
 Freedom's banners we once bore on high. 
 
 And then were of warriors the pride ; 
 
 Hut now .ire we forced to fly 
 
 From the home — from the arms of the bride, 
 s
 
 274 ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Now humbly we make the appeal 
 To the sons of blest liberty's isle ; 
 
 Our wants they in sympathy feel, 
 And anguish is changed to a smile ! 
 
 Oh what are Iberia's fields, 
 Or what are the grapes on the vine, 
 
 To the joy which true liberty yields? 
 And, Britain, such blessings are thine ! 
 
 Our struggle for freedom is o'er ; 
 
 The learned — the wealthy — the brave, 
 Have fled from Iberia's shore, — 
 
 'Tis now but the land of the slave ! 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 The greatest bard is fall'n that ever strung 
 
 The mighty lyre that swell'd from hell to heav'n,- 
 
 The sweetest minstrel mute that ever sung, 
 Since from the skies Apollo's harp was giv'n !
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 275 
 
 Though little minds may not lament his fall, 
 
 Nor bring one flow'rto form the mournful wreath — 
 
 He needs no wreath ! for Fame has wove it all ; 
 Wet with her tears — it blossoms at his death ! 
 
 Its amaranthine leaves through time shall bloom, 
 Beyond the reach of Envy's ruthless hand ! 
 
 Love, Liberty, and Genius guard his tomb, 
 
 And weeping there shall Grecian Freedom stand. 
 
 He sung of storms, and of the tempest wave, — 
 No theme on earth his mighty pen passed by ; 
 
 From victory's height — down to the warrior's grave, 
 From earth's dark centre to the lofty sky ! 
 
 Ye minor bards, unstring the feeble lyre! 
 
 Nor strive in Byron's lofty verse to mourn : 
 Four mighty poets only had the fire * 
 
 Fit to inscribe the lines beneath his urn ! 
 
 * Homer, \ Shakespeare, ami Milton.
 
 276 THE BIRTHDA Y OF BURNS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING AT LEEDS, 
 
 TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS, 
 
 1826. 
 
 Learning has many a rhymer made, 
 
 To flatter near the throne, 
 But Scotia's genius has displayed 
 
 A poet of her own. 
 
 His lyre he took to vale and glen, 
 
 To mountain and to shade ; 
 Cent'ries may pass away, but when 
 
 Will such a lyre be play'd ? 
 
 His native strains each bard may try, 
 
 But who has got his fire ? 
 Why, none — for Nature saw him die, 
 
 Then took away his lyre. 
 
 And for that lyre the learned youth 
 
 May search the world in vain : 
 She vowed she ne'er would lend it more 
 
 To sound on earth again ;
 
 DEATH OF THE POETS CHILD. -Ill 
 
 But called on Fame to hang it by — 
 
 She took it with a tear, 
 Broke all the strings to bind the wreath 
 
 That Burns shall ever wear. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S 
 CHILD IN LONDON. 
 
 A solemn scene was here ! 
 Absorb'd in anguish wild, 
 Weeping upon the bier 
 Of his departed child, 
 The father stood — parental grief was there — 
 He kiss'd the corse — a prey to sad despair. 
 
 O Death ! () cruel Death! 
 
 In fearful garb anay'd, 
 How could'st thou snatch the breath 
 ( >!' this sweet babe, here laid ! 
 . see thy victim ! on her cold pale face, 
 A smile yet dwells, though clasp'd in thy embrace.
 
 278 ON RETURNING FROM LONDON 
 
 Clos'd are those sparkling eyes : 
 
 Fled is my baby's bloom ; 
 Her cherub form now lies 
 Enshrouded for the tomb. 
 Martha is gone — has breath'd her last— her thread 
 Of life is spun— is snapp'd ; — the babe is dead. 
 
 Angels ! take her soul above, 
 
 And, as you bear her through the sky, 
 Sing a seraph's song of love, 
 
 A song of heav'nly harmony. 
 Now let celestial music sound, 
 Strike, strike the lyre ! ye heav'nly choir ! 
 Angelic music breathe around ! 
 
 ON RETURNING FROM LONDON. 
 
 How oft the glorious morning broke 
 
 On rock-crown'd hills — Time's paintings grey — 
 When from his bed the lark awoke, 
 
 And warbled to the clouds his lay. 
 
 The hills rejoice— with glory blush, 
 
 Like gold the crystal rivers shine, 
 The blackbird carols with the thrush, — 
 
 Sweet Bingley vale, such scenes are thine ;
 
 ON RETURNING FROM LONDON 279 
 
 And such they were when all its woods 
 Had bow'd not to the woodman's stroke, 
 
 When salmon in its winding floods, 
 The smooth still deeps to surges broke. 
 
 Give me a cot, a garden near, 
 
 By kindred silent in the tomb; 
 Should greatest monarch ask me where, 
 
 I'd answer — this shall be my home. 
 
 The works of art I oft have seen, 
 
 The touches of a master's hand, 
 But never like the hills so green, 
 
 Or Alpine rocks of Cumberland. 
 
 See the pale features of the town, 
 
 With all their fine exterior grace, — 
 Though deck'd with jewels and a crown, 
 
 To Yorkshire lasses must give place. 
 
 Then be content, 'tis always best, 
 
 From wives, from neighbours, ne'er remove ; 
 It takes long years to try the breast, 
 
 Then who can judge a stranger's love? 
 
 The eagles mounting to the sun, 
 
 While on the rocks the ravens . 
 As goats along the ledges run. 
 
 And falcons perch with piercing eye ; —
 
 280 WAKENING OF THE POETS HARP. 
 
 These have we seen, and may we long 
 Gaze on each native hill and vale ; 
 
 And listen to the rural song, 
 
 And smile to hear our children's tale. 
 
 WAKENING OF THE POET'S HARP. 
 
 With harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along, 
 Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its 
 
 strings among ; 
 Then stronger in his measure and bolder in his rhyme, 
 Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling 
 
 chime. 
 
 He wakens then the echo as in grander verse he sings, 
 And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering 
 
 strings ; 
 His rhyme is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes 
 
 the lyre ; 
 His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings 
 
 of fire. 
 
 She leaves all earthly grandeur and o'er the hills she 
 
 soars — 
 What cares he then for slander when every star adores :
 
 A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER. 281 
 
 Here, singing strains unborrowed, the poet's verse can 
 
 claim 
 A wreath that's everlasting, of never-dying fame. 
 
 In his own path of glory he sweetly chants along, 
 And every son of genius can comprehend his song ; 
 Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains, 
 His verse has greater grandeur as higher heights he 
 gains : 
 
 Till lost in the creation — surrounded by its gems — 
 He sees the heaven of heavens bedeck'd with diadems ; 
 And though sometimes in sorrow despised and turned 
 
 to shame, 
 He wins his wreath of glory, composed of endless 
 
 fame. 
 
 FROM A MOTHER TO HER 
 DAUGHTER IN LONDON. 
 
 I I<>\v thoughtful oft I sit alone. 
 
 My only child, and think of thee; 
 I bear thee to th' Almighty's throne, 
 
 Whene'er in prayer I bow the knee.
 
 282 A MOTHER TO ITER DAUGHTER. 
 
 A mother's blessings and her prayers, 
 Are more than words can e'er express ; 
 
 A father's love, a father's cares, 
 
 Though less display'd, are still no less. 
 
 The midnight hour oft comes and goes, 
 And tells the death of each short day; 
 
 I hear it oft before I close 
 
 Mine eyes, while thou art far away. 
 
 But why should I o'er this complain ? 
 
 For many a friend with God is there ; 
 Thou art not lost amid the main, 
 
 As many a mother's daughters are. 
 
 Thou hast not with the worthless fled, 
 
 On folly's miserable way; 
 No word arrives, "Your Betsy's dead," 
 
 In distant climes, far, far away. 
 
 But, blest with health, O let us praise 
 The Lord ! and not repine and mourn ; 
 
 For swiftly pass away the days, 
 
 Which bring my daughter's dear return. 
 
 Then I again shall hear her sing, 
 In mutual labour's sweet employ, 
 
 While Time flies swiftly on the wing, 
 And evenings pass away with joy.
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 283 
 
 When there is so much good and ill, — 
 may the good by her be lov'd ! 
 
 May heav'nly wisdom guide her will, 
 And may she bring a mind improved. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Lovely darlings ! can you dry 
 
 The sweat-drops from your father's brow ? 
 Can you wipe his faded eye, 
 
 Sunk with pain and sickness low ? 
 
 Oh ! my little prattling boy, 
 
 Gladly thou would'st ease my pain ; 
 
 Pleased, would'st give thy father joy, 
 Hut thy infant arts are vain. 
 
 Must I leave you here to mourn, 
 With a mother deep distress'd, 
 
 While I to the dust am borne, 
 
 Where this aching head shall rest ? 
 
 Ves ! methinks I hear you say, 
 •• Mother, when will father come? 
 
 " Why is he so long away, 
 
 " Nor brings his weekly wages home?''
 
 284 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Must I leave you ? — O thou Pow'r 
 
 Supreme ! who seest the orphan's tears, 
 
 Guard them through each infant hour, 
 Watch them in maturer years ! 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Did my estates extend for miles around, 
 And in my mansion all things great abound ; 
 Did gold enrich me, or did rubies shine ; 
 Were greatest titles, wealth, and honour, mine ; 
 Though crystal rivers through my pastures run, 
 Reflecting back the glories of the sun ; 
 Were beauteous gardens mine, and ev'ry breeze 
 Brought fragrant odours from the spicy trees ; 
 Did high majestic hills the landscape grace, 
 And finest scenes adorn great Nature's face, 
 In sweet variety of hill and dale ; 
 The crystal fountain and the fruitful vale.; 
 And cloak'd in ivy were the ancient towers, 
 And sweet enchantment us'd her utmost powers 
 Nor my estates, my titles, wealth, nor fame, 
 The breath of honour, nor the greatest name ;
 
 IMPROMPTU ON A LANDLORD. 285 
 
 Nor high majestic hills, nor flow'ry vale, 
 
 Nor crystal rivers, winding through the dale ; 
 
 Nor all that Nature, all that Art can give, 
 
 Nor merriest life a mortal e'er can live, 
 
 Can make me bless'd when this short life shall end, 
 
 Unless my Maker prove to be my friend. 
 
 IMPROMPTU ON A LANDLORD. 
 
 Beneath this stone lies Harry Rinder, 
 
 Whose heart would light as soon as tinder ; 
 
 And a bright spark from beauty's eye 
 
 Kindle bis soul to ecstasy. 
 
 At length he took a loving wife, 
 
 And then commenced a landlord's life ; 
 
 And all the time he was a 1 newer, 
 
 No man to wife was ever truer. 
 
 Death came at last and made him quail, 
 
 And conscience ->!><>kc about his ale : 
 
 I I id he scut tippling souls to ruin 
 
 By putting drugs in every brewing? 
 
 Then truth of blame did 1 [any clear; 
 
 For never, in bis ale orb 
 
 Did he put berries, drugs, or drops, 
 
 But simply water, malt, and hops.
 
 286 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Where's my harp my soul to cheer ; 
 
 Its tones were wont to glad my breast ? 
 Where's my friend, who dried each tear, 
 
 Encourag'd me, and I was blest ? 
 
 Is he gone ? my only stay, 
 
 On whom my brightest hopes were plac'd ; 
 Is that friendship fled away, 
 
 And its heavenly form defac'd ? 
 
 Has some action, undesign'd, 
 
 Quench'd the spark that once was bright? 
 Or my wild eccentric mind 
 
 Thrown a veil 'twixt me and light ? 
 
 Friendship ! Oh, thou glorious star ! 
 
 Though deep clouded, yet appear ; 
 Wander not from me so far, 
 
 Nor leave me thus oppress'd with care. 
 
 If thou art for ever fled, 
 
 I in darkness long must mourn ; 
 
 Pleasure, hope, and comfort dead, 
 Raptures never can return.
 
 LINES ON "LONG TOM." 287 
 
 LINES ON "LONG TOM,' 
 BRAMHAM PARK. 
 
 G great Long Tom ! when thou with foam art crown'd, 
 Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground ; 
 Despair thou buriest deep within the grave ; — 
 Thy contents sure would make the coward brave. 
 When gloomy Winter, with his roaring floods, 
 Sends his fierce tempests through the leafless woods ; 
 When sleet falls cold and when the night is dark, 
 Fill me Long Tom with ale from Bramham Park. 
 Across the moors I then could cheerful go, 
 Though the cold sleet should change to whirling snow; 
 In sharpest frost I yet should take no harm — 
 In spite of all, Tom's soul would keep me warm. 
 When verdant Spring first dons her virgin shift, 
 And ploughmen hear the skylark in the lift, 
 Send them Long 'Join, and they will sing so loud, 
 The larks will stop to listen in the cloud. 
 If from its verge could sip the mellow thrush. 
 How strong his notes upon the topmost bush ! 
 Could nature's songsters drink, / Tom, from thee, 
 They'd cheer the groves with louder harmony. 
 When Summer comes with all her scorching fires, 
 And on his way the thirsty trav'ller tires,
 
 288 LINES ON " LONG TO Mr 
 
 Though sweat fall from his locks like drops of rain, 
 
 Thy soul would cheer him till he walk'd again. 
 
 In Autumn, when the sportsman hastes away 
 
 With dogs and gun to spend a cheerful day, 
 
 He would, when weary, better hit his mark, 
 
 Had he thy contents brought from Bramham Park. 
 
 In Winter thou art good to kill the frost ; 
 
 Through circling years thy merit ne'er is lost. 
 
 If war should ever rage, or Britons fight 
 
 For their lov'd monarch or their country's right, 
 
 Their ancient British courage would not fail, 
 
 Were they but filled with horns of Fox's ale : 
 
 Then would their bosoms need no more t' inspire 
 
 Their souls to fight with true heroic fire ; 
 
 Rapid as whirlwinds they would sweep along, 
 
 Vanquish their foes, however fierce and strong. 
 
 May British tars for ever have such ale, 
 
 While e'er a breeze can bend each noble sail ; 
 
 Then will the cannons roar till every wave 
 
 Curls back and owns itself Britannia's slave : 
 
 May no disloyal, no dishonest hand, 
 
 Touch thee, O Tom! while here thou hold'st thy 
 
 stand. 
 But shouldst thou ever any soul inspire, 
 Just cheer'd, not drunk, but warm'd with honest 
 
 fire, 
 With grateful bosom may he walk along, 
 And never be too drunk to sing a song !
 
 WRITTEN AT TONG HALL. 289 
 
 How I could write, wert thou but hither borne, 
 Full as I saw thee on the opening morn, 
 When slow thy contents lessen'd every draught, 
 And those who knew thy power stood by and laugh'd ' 
 Then Freedom brought the tear to either eye, 
 And fill'd the humble bard with ecstasy. 
 For generations, firm as Eldwick rocks, 
 Be thou the far-fam'd mighty horn of Fox ! 
 
 WRITTEN AT TONG HALL, 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE MARRIAGE OK COL. AM' 
 MRS TEMPEST, 1829. 
 
 A i.i. the joys of months and years 
 
 Shall this day rememher'd be; 
 While old Sorrow with her cares, 
 
 Sinks in past eternity. 
 
 Some have in the tempest sunk. 
 
 Deep within the ocean's bed ; 
 Others, with proud tame made drunk. 
 
 Shone an hour, the next have lied. 
 
 T
 
 290 DEA TH OF LAD Y RICKITTS. 
 
 But the stars which smiling shone 
 On your horoscope of birth, 
 
 Circling find you both as one ; 
 None can sever you on earth. 
 
 And as days and years go round, 
 Like two strings in unison, 
 
 Trembling to affection's sound, 
 True as when it first begun. 
 
 Parents of a happy race ; 
 
 May your children's children shine, 
 Till each orb has chang'd its place, 
 
 And the world be all divine. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LADY RICKITTS.* 
 
 Well may the tears of overwhelming woe 
 Down the pale cheeks of num'rous mourners flow ! 
 They fall for one whose beauty and whose worth 
 Exceeded all I ever knew on earth. 
 
 * Daughter of Col. Tempest of Tong Hall, and wife of Sir 
 Convwallis Rickitts.
 
 DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 291 
 
 In vain I turn in hopes to hear the strings 
 Responsive wake to her sweet carollings ; 
 Then to the marble which in silence stands ; 
 Then to the harp that trembled 'neath her hands ; 
 Then to her tomb, where all that art can give, 
 Stands in pure love to make her mem'ry live. 
 In vain my spirit strives to track her flight 
 To the far regions of eternal light : 
 The awful bourn of death my friend hath pass'd, 
 And rests beyond dark sorrow's keenest blast ; 
 
 views no more the changing scenes of earth, — 
 She only liv'd to give a cherub birth, 
 Then Hew away to heaven's most blest abode, 
 To rest upon the bosom of her God. 
 
 THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Wei p, all ye birds, ye bowers ! 
 
 \ friends, a vigil keep ! 
 Send forth your tears, ye flowers ! 
 All ye who knew her weep. 
 That she is gone who in your circle smil'd, 
 Far from her husband and her lovely child !
 
 292 THE MUSE. 
 
 The lov'd, the virtuous wife, 
 
 Has enter'd into rest ; 
 Too weak for cares of life — 
 Call'd to her Father's breast ; 
 While like a cherub her sweet babe appears, 
 And smiles, unconscious of a father's tears. 
 
 Her bounty cheer'd the poor, 
 Her hands the needy fed ; 
 Now all her pains are o'er, 
 Now that sweet flower is dead, 
 And her glad spirit, borne on seraph's wing, 
 Attunes the Christian's harp where angels sing. 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 What means it though the poet's cot 
 Be placed in some sequester'd spot, 
 Where oaks, and elms, and beeches grow, 
 Or on the heath, where rushes bow, 
 In vales, where peaceful graze the flocks, 
 Or near the mossy-vestur'd rocks ? 
 Romantic scenes can ne'er indite, 
 Nor situations make him write.
 
 MELPOMENE. 1>9:5 
 
 'Tis genius must his breast inspire, 
 
 And light the true, poetic fire. 
 
 Without it he may read and pore 
 
 Ancient and modern classics o'er, 
 
 May walk in ruins late or soon, 
 
 While through the arches shines the moon, 
 
 Where sleeps the abbot, monk, or friar ; 
 
 But if he has not Nature's lyre, 
 
 Nor ancient ruins, nor the woods, 
 
 The rippling rills, the foaming floods, 
 
 Embattled fields, nor ancient hall, 
 
 Romantic scenes, where cat'racts fall, 
 
 Nor works of other authors' pens, 
 
 Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor Highland glens, 
 
 Nor all the scenes which ever graced 
 
 The paintings of a man of taste, 
 
 Not all the arts the scribblers use 
 
 Can make a bard without the Muse. 
 
 M ELPOM EN !•:. 
 
 Tin Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd, 
 Majestically great above the rest, 
 With thoughtful look, and tears, and pallid cheek, 
 A comic line is scarcely heard to speak ;
 
 294 MELPOMENE. 
 
 For higher themes her feeling breast inspire 
 
 Than lyric measures or the keen satire. 
 
 The widow's woes, — the virgin's love, she sings, 
 
 The fate of heroes and the fall of kings ; 
 
 Or palaces in ruins, where the throne 
 
 Which now is broke, with regal grandeur shone, 
 
 Where once the beauteous chequer'd marble floor 
 
 With blood of kings was deeply crimson'd o'er ; 
 
 There like a widow on her husband's tomb, 
 
 She sits enshrin'd amid the tragic gloom, — 
 
 Paints ev'ry scene of ancient tyrants' deeds, 
 
 Then gazes on the ruins wrapp'd in weeds, 
 
 Till her rich mind replaces ev'ry stone, 
 
 And seats the murder'd monarch on the throne, 
 
 Musters his guards — which long in dust have been, 
 
 Beholds his knights, his heroes, and his queen ; 
 
 Sees the vile traitor, with his murd'ring train, 
 
 Act all his deeds of darkness o'er again ; 
 
 The courtiers lov'd to-day, and rais'd on high, 
 
 Frown'd on to-morrow, and their glories die ; 
 
 The dauntless heroes, mark'd with many a scar, 
 
 Rush on in search of glory to the war, 
 
 And on their arms the dread suspended fates 
 
 Of empires, kingdoms, or contending states ; — 
 
 Shrouded in terrors, while around her plays, 
 
 In ev'ry form, the lightning's vivid blaze. 
 
 Wading in blood, she marks the hero's fall, 
 
 While with her crimson pen she minutes all.
 
 DIRGE. 295 
 
 When to the charge the furious steeds advance, 
 And red with noble blood the glitt'ring lance — 
 The drums, the trumpets, and the clang of arms, 
 The rattling mail, and war's most dread alarms ; 
 The banners waving over either host, 
 The day hung doubtful — neither won nor lost ; 
 The smoking tow'rs, the city wrapp'd in fire — 
 With loftier themes the Tragic Muse inspire — 
 The noise of battle plumes her tow'ring wings, 
 And gives terrific grandeur while she sings ! 
 
 D I R G E. 
 
 Blest may my children be, 
 When death shall carry me 
 Into eternity, 
 
 Ne'er to return ; 
 When the fast-falling tear 
 Drops on their father's bier, 
 May some true friend lie near, 
 
 While the_\- all mourn.
 
 296 DIRGE. 
 
 I now have had my prime, 
 Till there is nought in time 
 But Care's high hill to climb, 
 
 Weary and faint ; 
 Pleasure is fled away, 
 Grief is resolv'd to stay 
 With me by night and clay, 
 
 Terrors to paint. 
 
 What is bright glory's beam ? 
 Why, 'tis an empty dream, 
 Or as the meteor's gleam 
 
 Crossing the sky. 
 Can riches pleasure bring ? 
 No — cares oppress a king : 
 All earthly joys but sting 
 
 Deep as they fly. 
 
 Nothing but virtue can 
 Give comfort unto man, 
 Whose life is scarce a span, 
 
 Wasting away : 
 Honour is but a shade, 
 Like beams on rain display'd, 
 Whose colours quickly fade, 
 
 Ere ends the day.
 
 SONG. 297 
 
 Thus shall our sorrows end : 
 May we have one great Friend, 
 Through whom we can ascend 
 
 Far beyond pain ; 
 There may my children come, 
 May we all find a home, 
 Far, far beyond the tomb, 
 
 In bliss to reign ! 
 
 SONG. 
 (written for a WOUNDED seaman, who fought at 
 
 THE BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR.) 
 
 With my limbs in the deep, 
 And my locks all grown hoary, 
 
 By cowards insulted, and poor, 
 Few think how I fought 
 For my country and glory, 
 
 Or know half the hardships I bore. 
 
 When the wars are all o'er 
 I im thought of no more 
 The deeds of my valour are lost ; 
 
 Forgot is the day 
 Of Trafalgar's dread bay, 
 When my comrades to Neptune were toss'd.
 
 298 THE STORM. 
 
 Where the waves stood aghast 
 At the cannon's dread roaring, 
 And the white curling surges retir'd, 
 Brave Britons their broadsides 
 Were rapidly pouring, 
 By Nelson and glory inspir'd ! 
 
 Then the prince of the deeps 
 His trident uprear'd, 
 A moment in wonder he gaz'd ; 
 But, struck with great terrors, 
 He soon disappear'd, 
 Our cannon so dreadfully blaz'd ! 
 
 In the midst of the conflict 
 Great Nelson undaunted, 
 Regarded nor balls nor the wave, 
 But order'd the grog 
 
 When the British tars wanted, 
 And told us what England expects from the 
 brave ! 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 When gentle breezes kiss the tide, 
 And waft the vessel o'er the deep, 
 
 Silent beneath her stately side, 
 
 The peaceful waters seem to sleep.
 
 THE STORM. 299 
 
 The sluggish waves just heave along, 
 While swift she cuts the yielding main ; 
 
 The sailors' hearts with hope beat strong 
 To reach their lomr-left homes again. 
 
 But gathering clouds the sun o'erspread, 
 While he with crimson gilds the west ; 
 
 The storm appears, whose awful head 
 With terror chills each sailor's breast. 
 
 The frighted billows seem to know 
 The dreadful tempest ere it comes ; 
 
 And, where the whirling hail descends, 
 The frothy sea in madness foams. 
 
 Nearer and nearer rolls the storm, 
 And wraps in darkness all the sky ; 
 
 While o'er its frowning awful cheek, 
 The dazzling flashes frequent rly. 
 
 The azure vault is seen no more; 
 
 But, wrapp'd in deepest gloom of night, 
 The waves return, the thunders roar, 
 
 And lightnings glare- their only light ! 
 
 Then buried deep beneath the waves, 
 The shatter'd rigging and the shrouds. 
 
 While, mad with rage, the tempest raves — 
 Her helm is lost among the cloi:
 
 300 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 No steady course the vessel keeps, 
 By such a dreadful tempest driv'n ; 
 
 But, like a cork upon the deeps, 
 Uplifted by the waves to heav'n. 
 
 What fervent prayers, in that dread hour ! 
 
 For worlds unknown, they all prepare ! 
 And to appease the Almighty Power, 
 
 Is ev'ry trembling seaman's care. 
 
 At last she strikes — and floats no more, 
 But sinks a wreck amidst the deep ; 
 
 And, far from England's happy shore, 
 Beneath the waves the sailors sleep. 
 
 In vain their friends, with bosoms true, 
 Expect with joy their bless'd return ; 
 
 For them no more their friends shall view, 
 But for their loss in anguish mourn. 
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK, 1825. 
 
 THE ORATORIO. 
 
 Genius of Music ! whom, as poets say, 
 Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey ! 
 Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme, 
 Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time !
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 301 
 
 Fade from my mind, ye country concerts all, 
 Church oratorios, and each private ball ; 
 Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor 
 As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar, 
 Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain 
 As Britain's sons may never hear again ! 
 Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old, 
 The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold ; 
 The carriages through dust swift rolled along, 
 Bearing their inmates to the scene of song. 
 The good old city, deck'd in modern grace, 
 Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face, 
 But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again, 
 If any cloud let fall a shower of rain. 
 
 Had some great bard been there, he might have 
 seen 
 Hundreds of instruments, encased in green ; 
 Or boxes, from all parts of England sent, 
 Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent, 
 All ranks of people throng to the hotel, 
 And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell ; 
 And Uric were trunks which Europe's costumes fill, 
 To grace their owners in the gay quadrille ; 
 Servants in every various colour dressed, 
 And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest ; 
 Most brilliant equipages throng each street. 
 Ami, jostling, every kind of carriage meet ;
 
 302 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 Astonished thousands on the Minster gaze, 
 
 And join to give the noble structure praise : 
 
 For far beyond description is the pile — 
 
 The queen of buildings in our native isle, — 
 
 Whose grandeur and magnificence unite 
 
 To strike with awe, or fill us with delight ! 
 
 How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young, 
 
 Assemble there to listen to the song, 
 
 And youth and hoary-headed age combine 
 
 To call the scene magnificently fine ! 
 
 Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads, 
 
 When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads. 
 
 All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill, 
 
 Were imitated there with nicest skill; 
 
 But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes 
 
 Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes. 
 
 The hour arriv'd- — high up above the throng, 
 Stood the Euterpean votaries of song. 
 All was still as death ! — a solemn awe 
 Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they 
 
 saw ! 
 Proud titles and distinctions were forgot, 
 Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot ; 
 Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze, 
 Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise. 
 The distant organ glorious to behold, 
 King of all instruments, shone bright in gold ;
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 303 
 
 Trombones and double basses, placed around, 
 
 Waiting the signal for majestic sound. 
 
 And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near 
 
 His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear? 
 
 O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song, 
 
 If in imagination I am wrong ! 
 
 The gorgeous splendour now I all forget, 
 
 And view the shades of great composers met — 
 
 Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir, 
 
 Descend to touch the chords with genial fire ; 
 
 Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim, 
 
 Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn. 
 
 The assembled thousands, wrapp'd in silence all, 
 See the grand host obey their leader's call. 
 Within the instruments lies music's fire, 
 And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir ; 
 Six hundred minds, who know each cadence 
 
 swi . 
 In one stupendous choral phalanx meet ! 
 Silent they stand, until the signal's given : 
 And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n, 
 Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds, 
 And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds. 
 Those who have met the foes on foreign hills 
 Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills, 
 Which shining ruir. could never bring, 
 
 Nor death, though Hying on the battle's wii
 
 304 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 But, here, the mighty strains the stoutest melt, 
 
 And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt — 
 
 Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud, 
 
 Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud. 
 
 Viols and voices swell the chorus forth, 
 
 And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth. 
 
 All parts so full — the mind can wish no more, 
 
 Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar. 
 
 The organ swells — what more can earth perform ? 
 
 Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm ! 
 
 The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound 
 
 Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd ; 
 
 And " Gloria Patri " in such strains is giv'n, 
 
 As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n. 
 
 O for a power that I to all could tell 
 The praise of those who play'd and sung so well ! 
 First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song, 
 And Mori's praise should to my theme belong ; 
 Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise, 
 Though my weak verse their fame no more can 
 
 raise : 
 And, with the warmest feelings I would write 
 Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White. 
 Had I but time, each name I would put in, 
 Of all who play'd a choral violin — 
 Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain, 
 While these my verses last, should here remain ;
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 305 
 
 Lindley, and Crouch, and Richardson, and Sharp, 
 Moxon, and Piatt, and Bochsa, with his harp ; 
 And those of foreign climes, all great in song, 
 Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong, 
 And fail due praise to genius to impart — 
 Tis useless — since they live in ev'ry heart. 
 Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet, 
 Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet. 
 The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire 
 To touch, in graceful strains, sweet " Jubal's lyre." 
 " Let the bright seraphim," sweet Stephens sung, 
 As though the notes from angel-voices sprung. 
 His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise, 
 That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from 
 
 praise. 
 When Eraham sung with all his power and skill, 
 He turned the blood of all the audience chill. 
 The great and noble, young, and old, and fair. 
 Felt the full charm of his sublimest air ;* 
 While beauteous Caradori stood alone 
 For warbling trills, and melody of tone. 
 
 In music's art, 1 have but little skill, 
 Yet oft 1 find its powers old I n kill ; 
 
 Though distant, fancy yields me some delight — 
 Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright. 
 
 I uther's I [ymn. 
 
 u
 
 306 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 With many a singer from a foreign land — 
 The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand ! 
 As when on seas the storm begins to lower, 
 And the dread tempest brings forth all its power 
 Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore, 
 Where we scarce hear the white -topp'd surges 
 
 roar; 
 But as to land the billows roll along, 
 Louder and louder bursts the awful song, 
 Until the rocky cavern on the beach 
 The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach ; 
 Then we poor mortals stand in mule amaze, 
 And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze : 
 So did the finest solos of the choir 
 Send forth their strains, and then again retire ; 
 The trio breaks still more distinct and clear, 
 And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear ; 
 The swelling semi-chorus louder grows, 
 And then it dies away in graceful close. 
 " He is the King of Glory " next we hear, 
 As though deep thunder and the storm were there. 
 All know their parts — the chorus swells with ease 
 From voices louder than " the sound of seas." 
 
 Though far-fam'd Catalina be not here, 
 Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear ; 
 For shall our native poets' words give way 
 To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day ?
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 307 
 
 To foreign pride shall British genius bend, 
 
 While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend ? 
 
 No — British songs, well touched in ev'ry part, 
 
 Are those which please the best, and reach the heart : 
 
 Italian trills may loud applauses reap, 
 
 But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep. 
 
 Where is the tow'ring soul can comprehend 
 Those scenes, which never truly can be penned, 
 Where grandeur and sublimity appear, 
 To charm the eye, or to astound the ear ? 
 When were the tones of such an organ drowned, 
 And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound ? 
 When were a hundred viols played in vain ? 
 Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain ? 
 The chorus bursts ! — it shakes the massive walls — 
 The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls, 
 O'erpowers the double basses and trombones, 
 The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones. 
 Though I [aworth's Parker strain his potent lungs, 
 Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues, 
 His thrilling accents can be heard no more 
 Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar. 
 
 When Yorkshire's choral sons their powers unite, 
 Their tones astonish, and their chords delight ; 
 Healthful and Strong, their voices may defy 
 In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
 
 308 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 Yes, when they sung the song which Israel sung 
 On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung, 
 Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain, 
 The chorus bursts — " The Lord shall ever reign ! " 
 Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed 
 'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost. 
 "For ever and for ever He shall reign," 
 Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again ! 
 And, as the strains increase, still more and more 
 We seem transported to the distant shore, 
 Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song, 
 And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along. 
 " For ever and for ever He shall reign," 
 In heaven itself, must be the highest strain ! 
 
 THE CONCERT. 
 
 The beams of day retire o'er western hills ; 
 The concert room with gayest fashion fills ; 
 The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer, 
 With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear. 
 The choral strength to-night is left behind, 
 While the delicious song enchants the mind. 
 The overture, performed in grandest style, 
 Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile. 
 Next come the songs which youthful lovers want, 
 In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 309 
 
 No instrument, but some great master's hand 
 Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band ; 
 No fault is there, in music or in words, 
 For nothing added could improve the chords : 
 All is complete — the grand performance such, 
 Nothing there is too little or too much. 
 
 The world's forgot, and grief and sorrow fly ; 
 Anguish and care and melancholy die, 
 When music sweet thus trembles on the strings, 
 And lifts the mind above created things ; 
 Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast, 
 Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd. 
 The double drums we now distinctly hear, 
 The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear ; 
 The strong viola, and the serpent's tones ; 
 The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones ; 
 The violoncello, and the double bass ; 
 The viols, sweetest music of the place ; 
 And on the air the varying notes are borne. 
 From the soft harp, and from the deep bass 
 
 horn ; 
 Then comes the song, with soft Italian choi 
 Though sweet, yet few can understand the words. 
 IImw weak, insipid, formal, and how d> 
 To Braham's "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!" 
 I >r " Rule Britannia," which was heard before 
 In such like strains as Ei nd hear.-, no m
 
 310 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 When Catalani sung it in such style 
 As made the concert room seem Britain's isle, 
 And all its millions met in one great throng, 
 To hear the grandeur of the noble song. 
 But let the concert be whate'er it will, 
 Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill ; 
 Though all the parts in richest style we hear, 
 And solemn grandeur, they approach not near 
 In boldness and magnificence, to these 
 Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze- 
 Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung 
 While music lasts, or instruments are strung. 
 But human minds variety pursue, — 
 Music itself attracts the most when new; 
 But, when the praise of present music's pass'd, 
 Handel's grand choruses shall ever last. 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 The Ball Room emulates the light of day — 
 All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay ; 
 Each instrument to finest tones is set, 
 For leader of quadrilles is Collinet. 
 So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair, 
 All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there. 
 Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along, 
 Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng ;
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 311 
 
 The Highland chieftain, in his tartan plaid, 
 
 And some like warriors of the old crusade. 
 
 Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes, 
 
 And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes: 
 
 Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews, 
 
 Peasants and players, in costumes out of use. 
 
 Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor, 
 
 Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more, 
 
 But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail, 
 
 And future generations tell the tale, 
 
 How their great ancestors had dane'd with lords, 
 
 Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words ; 
 
 And many a smile which in the dance was seen, 
 
 May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green : 
 
 For such a sly insidious imp is Love, 
 
 He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove ; 
 
 Where peasants dance upon the festive day, 
 
 I [e plays his pranks unseen, and soars away. 
 
 In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind, 
 
 And wounds in parties of the most refin'd ; 
 
 Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair, 
 
 But often sends his strongest arrows their. 
 
 Many who felt his dart in fragrant bow. 
 
 Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers; 
 
 While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep — 
 
 Their only tear, are those which daisies weep. 
 
 But oh, may none who figured at this ball, 
 
 Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall ;
 
 312 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORE:. 
 
 But on this night, should any hearts be joined, 
 May sucli through life know happiness refined ; 
 And when they with fantastic dresses part, 
 Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart, 
 In which, when worldly cares the passions try, 
 May love increase, till death dissolve the tie ! 
 
 How changed old Ebor, since the Roman foe 
 Entered her gates, and laid her glories low! 
 Her warriors slain, or carried captive far, 
 Who knew no dance except the dance of war ; 
 Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn, 
 That called them to the chase at early morn ; 
 While this, in war-songs, raised their courage 
 
 high, 
 They rushed to battle, not afraid to die. 
 Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung, 
 The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung ; 
 The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head, 
 While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled ; 
 Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home, 
 Beating their swords against the shields of Rome ; 
 While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears, 
 And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears ; 
 But now, no foreign foes approach her walls, 
 No Danish ruffians revel in her halls ; 
 Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance j 
 Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
 
 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 313 
 
 Adorn'd in fancy dresses, show their skill 
 To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille. 
 Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke, 
 And arms ! to arms ! the piercing trumpet spoke. 
 To arms ! to arms ! the rattling drums reply — 
 The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh. 
 They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu, 
 But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew. 
 The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field, 
 With breasts unarm'd — their valour was their shield ; 
 And Europe's shield these warriors proved to 
 
 be ; 
 For on their helms danced fame and victory. 
 
 But what has York's grand festival to do 
 With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo, 
 Except to tell the great how bless'd they are — 
 Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war ? 
 For then was many a fair, who loved the bl 
 Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave. 
 And ladies of the purest virtue th 
 Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear. 
 Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet, 
 And hundreds show the graces of their i. 
 
 ire, the lords and ladies wheel around. 
 Still keeping time to mua ■ etest sound. 
 
 Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known 
 Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
 
 314 MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK. 
 
 Old age and wisdom there sat smiling, fain, 
 And wished to try if they could dance again ; 
 E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned 
 That such accomplishments they never learned. 
 
 Now viols' notes in softest cadence die — 
 The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry: 
 For be musician's genius e'er so fine, 
 It always fails, except improved with wine — 
 Wine, which gives poetry and music wings, 
 Inspires with animation all the strings ; 
 Makes each wind instrument have better tone, 
 And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone. 
 Now they repose — and what each clime affords 
 Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords ; 
 And every dainty that can please the fair, 
 With choicest wines, is in profusion there. 
 Old York had ransacked every vale and hill, 
 To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill. 
 The far-famed band their viols, tune again, 
 And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain ; 
 With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves, 
 And fans are waved around like poplar leaves, 
 In all the colours which the rainbow bears, 
 When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears. 
 
 Had I been there, I might have sung of all 
 The glory and the grandeur of the ball ;
 
 SPORTS OF THE FIELD. 315 
 
 But, fettered fast, far distant forced to stay, 
 My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way. 
 No muse I boast, no great poetic skill, 
 Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille ; 
 But this I know, in humble country reels 
 Care cannot stick a feather on their heels ; 
 Time wings away, while all forget his speed ; 
 While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed. 
 
 The music bursts again ! — -the diamond's blaze, 
 And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze. 
 Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost, 
 Such lovely forms could Athens never boast ; 
 The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced, 
 Had they but seen how British ladies danced ; 
 And great Raphael should there have present been, 
 To keep through ages the imposing scene, 
 When those who tripped along no more can move 
 In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love. 
 
 SPO R TS F T II E F I ELD. 
 
 When oaks are brown and birches bare, 
 And not a bird is singing, 
 
 The sportsman drives away his care. 
 The speckled woodcocks springing.
 
 316 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 True joy he in the country knows, 
 
 His faithful springers ranging 
 Among the hazel's yellow boughs, 
 
 Or holly, never changing. 
 
 And when the long-bill'd woodcock springs, 
 Mark ! — the sportsman calling, — 
 
 The blue smoke curls, — its useless wings 
 Through the trees are falling. 
 
 Full many a man at this would sigh, 
 
 As sore against religion ; 
 But at a feast just let him try 
 
 Roast woodcock, grouse, or widgeon. 
 
 ENGLAND'S LAMENT 
 
 FOR 
 
 THE LOSS OF HER CONSTITUTION. 
 
 Let verse, in wild, harmonious numbers flow : 
 My muse descend to pay the debt I owe. 
 Long hast thou taken far thine airy flight, 
 And left me wrapp'd in gloomy shades of night ;
 
 ENGLAND S LAMENT. 317 
 
 But when commotions in our nation blaze, 
 When England's sun is robb'd of half its rays, 
 Again these drowsy, torpid passions shake- 
 Rouse every nerve — let all their powers awake. 
 Bring me the magic shell, the native lyre, 
 And warm my bosom with a patriot's fire. 
 For where's the breast that feels not anguish rise ? 
 And where the Protestant, but thinks and sighs? 
 The bells that once in cheerful peals could turn, 
 Have changed their notes, and in their changes 
 
 mourn; 
 The flags, that once waved glorious on each tower, 
 Now, drooping, weep, and shrink from Papal power ; 
 Around their staves, now motionless are furl'd, 
 That waved in victory o'er a concmer'd world. 
 Learning and art, come hang your heads and weep, 
 Cambridge be closed — a fast let Oxford keep \ 
 Muses be clad in emblems of despair ; 
 Ye trees we love, no British roses bear ; 
 A foreign serpent's nestling at your roots, 
 To kill your branches while the shamrock shoots ; 
 And myri ids that have long been open I 
 To heroes decorated with the ro 
 Conspire to make our churches tumble down, 
 \nd place that emblem on the triple crown. 
 
 Old Ebor's patriot Duke is now no more : 
 The colours which the noble Frederick bore.
 
 318 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 In death, are dusty : every shatter'd shred 
 
 Speaks volumes ; for the Church's friend is dead. 
 
 No more of England's glory let us sing, 
 
 Let Nelson rest, nor touch the vocal string ; 
 
 Let patriots' tears, in torrents flow like rain, 
 
 For all is lost our fathers fought to gain. 
 
 Old England mourns; our wives— our children mourn, 
 
 While patriot hearts with double fury burn 
 
 To see the far-famed chief of Waterloo 
 
 (Adorned with laurels taken from the roe), 
 
 Bring by that arm that oft made tyrants fall, 
 
 Creatures of Rome to Stephen's ancient hall. 
 
 In ruined abbeys soon will be fresh souls, 
 
 Monks in their glory, boasting in their cowls : 
 
 Where nightly shouting birds have hatching been, 
 
 Soon will the chisel and the square be seen. 
 
 Spain will rejoice — in Paris friars dance; 
 
 Old England's weakness will enliven France. 
 
 Through all the Continent it will be said : 
 
 " The ocean's rulers are at last afraid. 
 
 " Proceed, proceed, the British lion teaze, 
 
 " He seems to sleep supinely at his ease ; 
 
 " Tug at his ears, and pluck his aged mane, 
 
 " Close up his eyes, he cannot war again. 
 
 " Ye peers, new-made, bring shamrock for his food, 
 
 " Goad him with pikes, and try to rouse his blood : 
 
 " Bind him with beads, place thistles on his paws ; 
 
 " Then make him bow his head to Papal laws ;
 
 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 319 
 
 " And shout on Dover's cliff— let Calais hear — 
 " Another step is gained — another cheer ! " 
 
 Watch him, ye Churchmen ! see him move to rise, 
 His nostrils smoke, there's lightning in his eyes ; 
 Long has he heard the restless beings moan, 
 In silence watch'd them till they shook his throne. 
 With awful voice he asks, " What wish you more ? " 
 And three broad kingdoms tremble at his roar. 
 They answer — " Half the jewels of your crown, 
 " And all the abbeys that are tumbled down ; 
 " That abbots, monks, and friars all may be 
 '• True English subjects, and as Britons free. 
 " We wish the trident from Britannia's hand, 
 •■ We wish to place her on some rocky strand ; 
 " Take sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight, 
 •• With blood of martyrs make her blot the date ; 
 " And as with mournful steps she wanders slow, 
 " Drown her deep waitings with ' Erin go Bragh !' 
 " And when in deepest anguish she appears, 
 " Throw her a nun's rich veil to wipe her tears." 
 
 The lion shook his mane — a rocket flew ; 
 Each lull and dale the flaming signal knew. 
 Woolwich awoke, its latent voice to try; 
 Thames trembled with the dread artillery. 
 The five Luge cannons in the centre placed, 
 With Oriental hieroglyphics graced,
 
 320 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 Spoke all at once — the deep and sullen roar 
 
 Awoke the heaviest metal at the Nore : 
 
 The ships on Med way, and old muddy Thames, 
 
 Turned into rage, and bellowed forth in flames. 
 
 The guns on every batt'ry of the land, 
 
 Enwrapp'd in smoke, vowed England's Church should 
 
 stand : 
 From hill to hill the thundering echoes ran, 
 Till Ebor heard, and every Highland clan, 
 The Tower's old guns spoke last — the massive walls 
 Felt the fierce shock — though destitute of balls. 
 Then old John Bull, awaking, rises slow : 
 " Why all this thunder? I could wish to know." 
 A British patriot answer'd with a sigh, 
 " Rome o'er our nation's gained the victory ; 
 " The Pope and all the Cardinals can boast, 
 " Their feet again have touch'd Britannia's coast." 
 
 " Never," said John, " while this strong arm of mine 
 " Can carve a sirloin, or my lips taste wine." 
 Then from his eyes burst forth the manly tear, 
 Sprung from the heart, which showed that grief was 
 there. 
 
 He oft had heard, at distance, of the storm, 
 But now he views it in its darkest form, 
 Borne on the winds, and in religion wrapp'd ; 
 Design its lightnings ; every mountain capp'd
 
 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 321 
 
 With clouds of darkness, such as once o'erspread 
 The hearts of cardinals, when martyrs bled. 
 He saw unchanging Eldon leave his place ; 
 The people mourned ; and grief on every face 
 Of noblest subjects, plainly could be seen ; 
 And sorrow reigned where loyalty had been. 
 
 Let eloquence, supporter of each cause, 
 Lose all its powers, and make a solemn pause ; 
 Forget all figures of three thousand years, 
 And every Churchman's heart dissolve to tears, 
 Yet unto Eldon silent honour give, 
 Whose honesty and truth shall ever live. 
 Let monuments of praise to Eldon rise, 
 Whose truth on earth shall glitter in the skies. 
 In every true, unchanging, loyal breast, 
 His bright, unshaken virtue long shall rest. 
 Like the strung watch-tower, when the tempests rage, 
 He firmly stood — the beacon of the age! 
 When seas of eloquence to storms are wrought, 
 Raging in all the sophistry of thought ; 
 When princes, dukes, and heroes, changed as wind, 
 Firm as a rock was Eldon's patriot mind : 
 The Liturgy— the Church — the Word of God — 
 The sure foundation where Lord Eldon stood. 
 
 Nor does he stand alone — for millions yet 
 Retain what memory cannot well forget.
 
 322 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 Firm is their hope ; though clouds may now obscure 
 
 Old England's glory — yet she rests secure, 
 
 While patriots like Sadler brave the storm, 
 
 With fury tossed in every varied form. 
 
 He scorns the varying scribblers of his day, 
 
 Unmindful what the editors can say. 
 
 Secure in rising merit, all their scorn 
 
 Fades like the mist that hides the light of morn ; 
 
 The more their envy, higher he ascends, 
 
 His mind unmoved, the glory of his friends. 
 
 Oh for a thousand more in Stephen's hall, 
 
 Like him to listen when the people call : 
 
 Old England would not long in dust be laid, 
 
 Press'd to the earth, and perishing for trade. 
 
 No ! all would join with mind, with heart, with hand, 
 
 To send prosperity through all the land. 
 
 Then would the glory of old England be 
 
 Again restored to its own dignity, 
 
 And sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight 
 
 Would burst again with its own glorious light. 
 
 With patriot spirit, Churchmen never fear, 
 
 Unmoved, unchanged, let bishops persevere. 
 
 Secure for ages have their churches stood, 
 
 Their doctrines pure, and ratified with blood. 
 
 There sleep our fathers, there the heroes sleep, 
 
 And shall we not the Church in safety keep ? 
 
 Ye deists, or ye atheists, tell me where 
 
 Does honesty or sterling worth appear,
 
 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 323 
 
 If not in those who at the church attend, 
 Whose prayers all other prayers on earth tran- 
 scend. 
 Take every volume, every book away, 
 The flow'ry verses lasting scarce a day, 
 Or bring all books creation could contain, 
 With all the records of the martyrs slain — 
 Mahomet's Alkoran — or creeds of popes — 
 Can these support the fearful Christian's hopes ? 
 All fail — ye know it — Latin prayers when read, 
 Not understood, nor reach the heart, nor head. 
 Take every ship that ever fought in war — 
 Take England's honours — garter — crown — and star — 
 Take the broad pennants — let them all be furl'd, 
 And to some dark abyss be quickly hurl'd — 
 Take all — then ask what made old Albion stand 
 When war and blood stained every popish land ? 
 Why, nothing ever made us rest secure 
 But true religion and the Church kept pure. 
 Take from our favoured land the vital part, 
 She falls, like Nelson, wounded in the heart. 
 
 Oft have we heard the hills, the valleys ring 
 With England's anthem of "Cod save the King;" 
 But now the children have forgot the sun-, 
 ( >r weakly sounds the chorus from ea< h tongue. 
 Oh ! what a change : — and this the total cause, 
 For England cannot bend to popish laws.
 
 324 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 The hated deed we know was quickly done, 
 That darkly clouded England's glorious sun, 
 The clouds shall yet disperse, the shadows flee, 
 The Constitution gain the victory! 
 Shall every lord, shall every earl turn fool ? 
 These noble Britons of the ancient school : 
 Shall sterling worth, the glory of our land, 
 Plant a false banner on the sea-beat strand ? 
 No, never ! woman with her richest smiles, 
 Who sometimes kings, and often lords, beguiles, 
 Shall fail to bring the Vatican's rich crown 
 To glitter on our great archbishop's throne. 
 Popes never more, while eagles rise with wings, 
 Shall have their stirrups held by British kings. 
 
 O Ireland ! every blessing has been given 
 That England e'er could grant on this side heaven, 
 And now thou wouldst with England's goodness 
 
 play, 
 Cut the strong cable, and then launch away. 
 Thy bonds and ties to England thou wouldst break, 
 Tow thyself off, and leave the nation weak : 
 That must not be : — thou canst not have thy will ; 
 In every storm our chiefs are Britons still. 
 Long have they borne thy insults till they tire, 
 Patience has quenched their thunders and their fire. 
 When these no more can bear, ye all will fly; 
 An arch of flame will quiver on the sky.
 
 ENGLAND S LAMENT. 325 
 
 When vengeance rouses from the British shore, 
 Liffey shall tremble with the dismal roar : 
 To mountains, rocks, and caves, ye all shall flee, 
 Wrapp'd in the gloom of your own infamy. 
 
 If ever Britons loved the Brunswick line, 
 If Eldon's honesty did ever shine, 
 If ever war brought terrors on our shore, 
 If on the coasts the waves did ever roar, 
 Now is the time for faithful priests to stand, 
 The strength — the bulwark — of a sinking land. 
 
 O'er that loved monarch let your sighs be heard, 
 And bless the memory of King George the Third, 
 Who loved not monarchy, but who could part 
 With throne and crown, ere he could yield his 
 
 heart 
 To break the oath, the seal, that placed the crown 
 Upon that head, which care and grief bore down. 
 
 See old John Bull with all his sons around, 
 His honest brow with silv'ry honours crowned. 
 Upon the ceiling is the church portrayed, 
 Where his dear partner low in dust is laid : 
 The portrait of the priest he loved, hung there, 
 His hand contains the Book of Common Prayer j 
 And on the ceiling all exposed t<> view. 
 The scene from Milton's paradise perdu ;
 
 326 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 Where monks' and friars' robes are toss'd on hisrh 
 "Through the wild limbo of light vanity." 
 He thinks of all the struggles that have been ; 
 In various wars, what changes he has seen. 
 He sighs at the condition of the realm, 
 Without a chief with pow'r to guide the helm. 
 
 Let all the papers, journals of the day, 
 Use all their eloquence to lead astray 
 The reading multitude : 'tis all but wind, 
 And cannot move the honest patriot's mind. 
 The various sects that wish to have the pow'r, 
 Whose plans have sprung and perish'd in an 
 
 hour, 
 And never take old Oxford's glory down : 
 The Church has friends in every British town : 
 The poor — the rich — will join the Church to save, 
 And guard the relics of a father's grave. 
 No inquisition ever shall be here ; 
 Nor heretics in prisons drop a tear ; 
 Nor popish darkness ever quench the light 
 That tells the British subject what is right. 
 Then cease to murmur — Britons rest secure, 
 For ages yet shall England's Church endure ; 
 Infallibility she does not boast, 
 Believing not in relics — saints — nor host, 
 What these have gained is but the weakest part, 
 For " Church and State " fill every loyal heart.
 
 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 327 
 
 But is all settled ? — do they wish no more ? 
 
 And is the great, the mighty struggle o'er ? 
 
 No ! — what they've gained, with patience must be 
 
 tried ; 
 Till then, beware ye grant them aught beside; 
 For if your boon will not their envy kill, 
 There is no peace — nor ever ! ever will ! ! 
 
 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 To combat error in each varied form, 
 
 Which comes o'er England as a sweeping storm. 
 
 Engages now the minds, the time, the breath, 
 
 Of those that should be comforters in death. 
 
 Of all the various volumes in the land — 
 
 In every language — by whomever plann'd — 
 
 However great or wise the author be — 
 
 However penn'd ( heat Book ! there's none like thee. 
 
 There the sublime, with majesty and awe. 
 
 Pours forth the dreadful thunders of the law ; 
 
 And there the songs the mighty prophets su 
 
 The masterpiece of either mind Or tongue, 
 
 Beyond the reach of any other pen, 
 
 As furthest stars are lost to human ken.
 
 328 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 And are there men in Christian England born, 
 That laugh the authors of that book to scorn ; 
 Dispute its origin, and vainly say 
 Tis preach'd by priests for lucre and for pay ? 
 Reject its history of Adam's fall? 
 Deny His Godhead who redeem'd us all ? 
 Is Homer like the Bible ; or that thing 
 Call'd Alkoran, and brought on pigeon's wing,* 
 For which Mohammedans may fret and fight, 
 Groping their way in atheistic night ? 
 The ten commandments you may cast away, 
 And tell the Christian 'tis in vain to pray ; 
 Then rear the mosque, and Mahomet believe — 
 Confucius worship, and yourselves deceive ; 
 Adore the stars, or yet the larger lights, 
 And for the Scriptures read th' " Arabian Nights ; " 
 State — if you dare — that Christ did ne'er ascend 
 To His high throne— the dying Christian's friend ; 
 In Owen, say — is all our faith and hope, 
 He is our teacher, patriarch, and pope ! 
 Say that he form'd us, gave us breath and life- 
 Despises marriage and the name of wife ; 
 Say from the azure he the comets hurl'd — 
 So great, he nearly can create a world ; 
 Then scoff at priests, and o'er professors boast, 
 Until pale death demands the trembling ghost. 
 
 * Prideaux's Life of Mahomet.
 
 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 329 
 
 Ah ! then's the time the Socialist to try ; 
 
 Without a Christian's hope, where can he fly? 
 
 Your pity for our priests is but your scorn, 
 
 The church lands you would take to grow your corn ; 
 
 Let Canterbury's wealth to you be giv'n, 
 
 The Owenites might try their fancied heav'n. 
 
 Could Durham's riches, or old Ebor's fee, 
 
 Be giv'n to Chartist demagogues and ye ; 
 
 Still not content, old Chester you would want, 
 
 And great Llandaff's estate, to sow and plant. 
 
 The sacred edifices you would let fall, 
 
 Or make each choir a Scientific Hall, 
 
 Ye then would ape the deeds of deist France, 
 
 .Make mirth in churches — in cathedrals dance; 
 
 Then would some sophist leader lift his voice, 
 
 And, as he broke the cross, would shout — " Rejoice ; " 
 
 While ancient statues that have stood for years, 
 
 Would almost blush, and marble melt to tears. 
 
 But had you all the wealth and power you want — 
 
 Were England yours, to sow, to reap, to plant — 
 
 In your new system, would no writs be sent ? 
 
 Must Owenites live free from tax and rent? 
 
 Would every debt be cancell'd in one day, 
 
 By those wise chiefs who sing, but never pray .' 
 
 If SO, 'twould not be hcav'n the human mind 
 
 Would yet be craving, fretful, and unkind ; 
 
 Then would be contests tor the richest town. 
 
 Who must be chiefs, ami who must wear the crown ;
 
 330 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 All social order, and all rule be lost, 
 
 And England's greatness into ruin toss'd. 
 
 This baseless system never can succeed, 
 
 Unless all nations turn to Owen's creed ; 
 
 For should no troops be kept to guard the strand, 
 
 No fleets, how soon the enemy would land ; 
 
 The foreign foe would ransack hill and vale, 
 
 Famine and death would then our ports assail, 
 
 England, brave England, would be downwards hurl'd, 
 
 And scorn'd would be the mistress of the world. 
 
 From days of Adam to the present hour, 
 
 Mankind has ever been averse to pow'r ; 
 
 The wise, the prudent, ever envied were, 
 
 For demagogues in every age appear. 
 
 Long centuries since, the golden calf was made, 
 
 And Moses' priesthood might be called a trade : 
 
 Not pleas'd with Joshua in everything, 
 
 They slighted judges, and desir'd a king ; 
 
 A king was granted, but he reign'd not long 
 
 Ere king and all his government was wrong. 
 
 From man's beginning to the present hour, 
 
 Has human nature always envied pow'r ; 
 
 In every nation of this little world, 
 
 What kings, what queens, have to the dust been hurl'd, 
 
 Till reason teaches, and great learning's shown, 
 
 The serpent nestles nearly in the crown ; 
 
 And should the Moral World be fairly tried, 
 
 So long as mortal bosoms harbour pride,
 
 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 331 
 
 Thousands to mar the plan would there conspire, 
 
 And in this Moral World would each aspire ; 
 
 To mount ambition's ladder men would try ; 
 
 The top gain'd, others at the bottom lie. 
 
 So 'tis with all of every creed and state, 
 
 For wealth and honour, hundreds rush to fate ; 
 
 But those that take a premium on heav'n, 
 
 Which on this earth was never, never giv'n, 
 
 To purchase land, to lay it out in farms, 
 
 To make new nature, with ten thousand charms, 
 
 To lead their dupes into the silken snares, 
 
 Gain fifty pounds ; to join the common shares 
 
 Is beauteous, when in imagination seen, 
 
 But see the chasm that years must roll between. 
 
 Vain as the Southern Bubble it will be — 
 
 As soon expect a bridge across the sea. 
 
 The mind of man, the learned sophists • 
 
 Is like the cotton, which unstain'd today, 
 
 To-morrow circumstances twist it round. 
 
 And in another shape the bulk is found. 
 
 Perhaps it runs in each disciple's head, 
 
 The spinning of New Lanark, and the thread 
 
 Which broke in forming, spun with so much hi 
 
 That its material snapp'd, and went to waste. 
 
 But let us set- the proi ess further yet, 
 
 The warp and woof, the finest we can 
 
 Is formed in calico; a conscience made. 
 
 And dyed, in colours just to suit its trade.
 
 332 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 If 'tis a lawyer's, it must dark appear ; 
 
 If for a nun, unspotted, white, and clear ; 
 
 Or should it deck the Turkish heart or head, 
 
 A turban it must form, of white and red. 
 
 As unstain'd snow upon the frosty morn, 
 
 Glitt'ring with gems, when by a princess worn ; 
 
 But coarsest waste, its colours dim and grave, 
 
 Is that which suits the bosom of the slave. 
 
 Thus Socialists the various creeds would make 
 
 To suit all states, and every colour take ; 
 
 Stain it with dyes of every varied hue ; 
 
 Print it with doctrines, either false or true ; 
 
 Stretch it from north to south, from east to 
 
 west, 
 Then call it conscience — place it in the breast, 
 Say the human mind is like cotton dyed, 
 And show that atheist doctrine is their pride ; 
 So spiders weave the net to catch the fly — 
 Entangled once, they flutter, tire, and die ; 
 When 'tis too late they feel the fatal snare, 
 And e'en in death to others cry — " Beware ! " 
 
 Go on, great Brindley, and expose their wiles, 
 Attack their system, gain eternal smiles ; 
 Join with the phalanx of the Christian band, 
 To drive this specious doctrine from the land. 
 Why all their eloquence, their shallow praise ? 
 'Tis but to set the nation in a blaze.
 
 O WEN'S NE IV MORAL WORLD. 333 
 
 Among the aged, first O'Connor tries, 
 
 Then Owen makes our youth his sacrifice. 
 
 The demagogues have talked till they are hoarse, 
 
 And led their dupes to arms and bloody force. 
 
 With milder tones, but yet as base and low 
 
 As depths of schism and discontent can go, 
 
 These say that paradise on earth would be, 
 
 Were their New World but spread from sea to sea ; 
 
 Then palaces would rise on every hand, 
 
 The poor be rich, and rulers of the land : 
 
 The Gospel ministers, their silks might weave ; 
 
 The bishops of the state, their mitres leave; 
 
 All things in common, then the rich, the brave, 
 
 Might stoop to elevate the vagrant slave ; 
 
 The gen'rous lord, that bounteous gives his store, 
 
 Must have his carriage and his halls no more ; 
 
 The first-born sons must be no longer heirs, 
 
 And equal all in such a creed as theirs; 
 
 The links of social ties, for ages join'd, 
 
 Must be drawn out to suit an Owen's mind ; 
 
 The marriage rite be called no more divine. 
 
 Nor He that chang'd the water into wine. 
 
 What dire confusion in the land would be, 
 
 Should Owen's doctrine make the married free; 
 
 If stronger ties than caprice did not bind 
 
 The evil passions of the human mind. 
 
 Faults would be found with every virtuous wife, 
 
 Her dowry vanish'd in a six months' strife ;
 
 334 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 What innocence would on the wilds be thrown, 
 That to the Moral World would ne'er be known ; 
 No guard nor guide, no home, no help or stay, 
 When palling passions cast the wife away. 
 The thought's prepost'rous, that the good, the 
 
 fair, 
 Should not through life an equal burden share ; 
 With every joy be more encircled round, 
 With every sorrow yet more closely bound, 
 With every smile of daughter or of son 
 Consider nuptial life but just begun. 
 And are there those would marriage set at nought, 
 And let creation's fairest gems be bought ? 
 The bird of paradise may be encag'd, 
 But should the lark the keeper's mind engage, 
 The beauteous bird, well fed and blessed to-day, 
 To-morrow's sold, or left to birds of prey : 
 So would it be with woman good and fair ; 
 Her fortune spent, then lost her partner's care ; 
 Hopeless, in penury, the wife be left, 
 Of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry stay, bereft ; 
 Then sorrow rests upon the mother's cheeks, 
 While the base Owenite a richer seeks. 
 No legal tie, and all the chain is broke, 
 The marriage rite is priestism, or a joke. 
 
 But is our being to this world confin'd ? 
 Then farewell all the wisest of mankind,
 
 O WEN'S NE W MORAL WORLD. 335 
 
 All men are equal, both the wise, the good, 
 And Hindoo priests, with deities of wood ; 
 The great apostles, and the prophets slain, 
 Had equal hope with Volney or Tom Paine. 
 Man's a machine, and as a puppet mov'd, 
 Helvetius, Godwin, Owen, say 'tis prov'd. 
 If some may ask, why all this great parade? 
 'Twould seem to say that Christians are afraid ; 
 Else, why should champions of the greatest power 
 Combat the doctrines fleeting as an hour ; 
 But recollect, the mosquito can bite, 
 And adders sting, though little is their might ; 
 A fly, the noblest steed can much annoy ; 
 The asp, with death can blast a parent's joy; 
 And should their doctrine now corrupt the young, 
 The deadly poison lurks beneath the tongue. 
 And must our Bible blaze at their command ? 
 Will kings let fall their sceptres from their hand? 
 Will masters their authority forego, 
 And let their servants teach them what to do? 
 Buchanan of his eloquence may boast, 
 As second leader of the impious host, 
 That would the Sacred S< riptures supersede, 
 And pour contempt on every Christian's cr< 
 Dash down the font, and say that baptism's vain ; 
 M ike marriage \<>id — then deluge hill and plain 
 With doctrines base as infidels can bring, 
 To ruin virgins, or dethrone a king.
 
 336 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 Let Christian ministers of every creed 
 Conjointly rise, and then will they succeed ; 
 But, when divided, vain is all their power, 
 The fold is weak, and sophists can devour. 
 Let party spirit now be laid aside, 
 Unite in one, without sectarian pride. 
 O England ! where are all thy mighty fled ? 
 Where are thy patriarchs — thy illustrious dead : 
 Thy Latimers and Cranmers, where are they ? 
 Such noble minds are surely passed away, 
 Who in the flames Jirm and exulting stood, 
 And seal V the Scriptures with a martyr's blood ! 
 Where is the Socialist so bold, so brave, 
 That for his creed would triumph o'er the grave ? 
 If Owen be your guide, with him go on 
 Till life's last quiv'ring, trembling taper's done. 
 Then ask his aid, when struggling hard for breath, 
 What consolation he can give in death ; 
 Laugh then at ministers, and wish to stay — 
 That is the time when mortals learn to pray. 
 When eloquent and just, great, awful Death 
 Comes as Heaven's sheriff to demand our breath ; 
 He then persuades, whom none could yet advise ; 
 Serves all alike, the foolish and the wise. 
 The honour'd great, for whom the flatterers shout, 
 Thou hast despised, and from the world shut out ; 
 Thou draw'st together all the pomp, the pride, 
 Cruelty, ambition, and all else beside ;
 
 DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER. 337 
 
 The poor, the rich, the feeble, and the strong ; 
 
 The sons of sorrow, and the sons of song ; 
 
 Lay'st them in dust, and shroud'st them with thy pall, 
 
 And two short words, " Hie jacet," cover all. 
 
 But without Christ, where would the soul be cast? 
 
 How bear the power of Heav'n's o'envhelming blast ? 
 
 For conscience is the fuel of the fires 
 
 And bears the vengeance, when the dust expires. 
 
 At such a scene — when every hope is lost, 
 
 And the eternal part to ruin tost — 
 
 Could yon bright sun to double darkness turn — 
 
 The ocean, in a robe of sackcloth mourn — 
 
 Were nature all to howl, lament, and sigh, 
 
 And blackness shroud the brilliant orbs on high — 
 
 She could not heave a sigh, too vast, too deep, 
 
 O'er one that's lost, and must for ever weep. 
 
 ON Till 
 
 DEATH OF THOMAS COOl'KK, ESQ., 
 
 . BING] I \. 
 
 How bootless are our tears, though ev'ry drop 
 Springs from the fountain of a sorrowing heart ' 
 
 No sorrow death's relentless hand can stop, 
 Or, for a moment, turn aside his dart.
 
 338 DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER. 
 
 Affection's ties, without remorse, he breaks : 
 
 Lo ! 'neath his feet, our friend, dear Cooper, lies ! 
 
 He moves not, when a tender sister speaks, 
 Nor sees a father's hopeless agonies. 
 
 Death ! thou hast slain the noblest of thy foes — 
 One who oft rescued victims mark'd by thee — 
 
 One who could sympathise in others' woes, 
 And forms of beauty from thy grasp set free. 
 
 Friend of our soul ! in him we could confide 
 In weal or woe — but now our friend is gone ! 
 
 We ask by whom his place can be supplied ; 
 And hopeless sorrow, weeping, answers — none ! 
 
 Nor midnight hour, nor wildest winds of heaven ; 
 
 Nor pelting showers of rain, or snow, or hail ; 
 Nor perilous paths through forests, tempest-riven ; 
 
 Nor raging hurricanes could aught avail 
 
 His visits to the afflicted to restrain : 
 
 Through these he rode, regardless of his health, 
 The blessed harbinger of ease to pain, 
 
 Alike to homes of poverty or wealth. 
 
 Hundreds, on sickbeds, oft have yearn'd to hear 
 His welcome step, and bless'd him when he came ! 
 
 Hope dawn'd when their Samaritan stood near, 
 With soothing balsams for the suffering frame. 

 
 DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER. 339 
 
 But 'tis the last, the last sad solemn day, 
 
 When by his mourning friends, his dear remains 
 
 To their last home, are slowly borne away, 
 
 And the deep death-knoll peals in dirge-like strains. 
 
 Alas ! he who has oft renew'd the springs 
 Of life in bosoms sickness had oppress'd, 
 
 The comforter, with healing on his wings — 
 Has pass'd from earth to his eternal rest. 
 
 But he has left a blessed name, 
 
 That long shall live in many a grateful heart : 
 His good deeds are his monumental fame, 
 
 Which will survive all boasted works of art. 
 
 We feel, what words in full can ne'er explain, 
 A weight of woe at loss of one so lov'd ; 
 
 But hope our loss is his eternal gain, 
 In the bright land to which he is remov'd. 
 
 ■&■ 
 
 The grave receives his dust, which there shall lie, 
 Till in the clouds appear the great white throne ; 
 
 And the last trumpet pealing from the sky, 
 Bid " mortal immortality put on." 
 
 Oh ! shall no meet memento of our love 
 
 Mark the dear spot where his remains repose? 
 
 Yes, we will plant his honour'd dust above. 
 The early snow-drop, and the fragrant rose ;
 
 340 ON A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 And there, when to God's house we come to pray, 
 On holy Sabbaths, in the circling years, 
 
 We will at early morn our visits pay, 
 
 And bathe the flowers with true affection's tears. 
 
 ON A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 DROWNED IN THE STRID. 
 
 The lovely group adorn'd with ev'ry grace, 
 
 With health and pleasure beaming in each face, 
 
 Upon the river's brink in rapture stood, 
 
 And saw their charms reflected in the flood, 
 
 With trees of ev'ry size and varied hue, 
 
 And grey rocks blent with heaven's azure blue : 
 
 Whilst mellow blackbirds and the tuneful thrush 
 
 Sang dulcet strains on ev'ry blossom'd bush ; 
 
 There happy hearts throbb'd fast with mirth and glee, 
 
 Enjoy'd the scene and Nature's harmony. 
 
 But hark ! what piercing, what terrific cries ; 
 
 Shriek answers shriek, affrighted echo flies, 
 
 Tells every rock, and all the streams that flow 
 
 From all the hills and through the vale below, 
 
 " Eliza's lost in Strid's dark rocky deeps," 
 
 The mountains mourn, and every valley weeps.
 
 ON A YOUNG LADY. 341 
 
 Despairing, to the Strid the virgins go, 
 
 And every bird chants plaintive notes of woe ; 
 
 Courageous Dean true heroism display'd, 
 
 And struggled hard to save the drowning maid, 
 
 Plung'd headlong 'neath the rocks, and div'd away 
 
 To rob the roaring torrent of its prey ; 
 
 He caught her strings * with mingled hope and fear. 
 
 They quickly broke — he saw her disappear — 
 
 Again urg'd on the sinking maid to find, 
 
 He deeper plung'd and left all light behind, 
 
 Explor'd the basin to its deepest bed, 
 
 The thund'ring waters rolling o'er his head, 
 
 He search'd the eddying gulf in vain to find 
 
 The lovely maid, till faint and almost blind, 
 
 At last exhausted he could bear no more, 
 
 Nor scarce had strength to reach the rocky shore ; 
 
 Grasp'd by cold death upon his watery bed. 
 
 Insensible to pain, Eliza's life had fled. 
 
 Hoarse roar the surges o'er the lady's grave, 
 
 The foam glides swiftly on the circling wave, 
 
 A thousand bubbles burst amidst the strife, 
 
 As floating emblems of man's fleeting life : 
 
 In richest colours these a moment play, 
 
 Then mingling with the current, pass away : 
 
 I low like the world ! when greatest joys appear. 
 
 Death, or deep anguish, oft are lurking near. 
 
 * The strings of her bonnet which broke and slic sank.
 
 342 ON A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Ye angry surges and ye foaming deeps, 
 Where watchful death his awful station keeps ; 
 How could ye dance, and sport with form so fair ; 
 Exult o'er beauty sinking in despair, 
 Take her from friends without a last adieu, 
 And there expose her lifeless form to view? 
 And did they weep ? Ah no ! their cheeks were dry, 
 Grief froze the tears before they reach'd the eye ; 
 The modest blushes from each face depart ; 
 And, join'd with anguish, centre in the heart. 
 Insatiate deep ! who like the stormy main 
 No pity know'st for youth and beauty slain ; 
 Clad in white foam with death thou could'st rejoice, 
 Laughing at sorrow with thy hideous voice, 
 Dancing to thine own music, deep and hoarse, 
 Thy whirlpools sporting with the lifeless corpse : 
 
 When Romili* fell, and in thy current slept, 
 His mother mute with woe, all Craven wept ; 
 Tears from the willows dropt into the flood, 
 And weeping nymphs near thy dark palace stood. 
 'Twas thus when lov'd, when fair Eliza fell, 
 The valley echoed with the alarming bell, 
 The vale of Bolton all suffus'd with tears, 
 In sable robe and mourning weeds appears ; 
 In solemn strains each feather'd warbler sings, 
 
 The boy of Egremont, son of Cecelia de Romille, sole heir 
 and last of the family.
 
 THE POETS SICKBED. 343 
 
 The soaring skylark pensive drops his wings ; 
 The varied trees, the shrubs of Wharfdale weep ; 
 The high cascades with sorrow murmur deep, 
 Each pensive muse mourns o'er Eliza's tomb, 
 And Strid's dark shades are wrapt in deeper gloom : 
 The ravens croak, and on the guilty stream 
 Each shadowing light now sheds a lurid gleam. 
 The trembling peasant thinks he sees her shade, 
 Expecting every step to meet the maid ; 
 But, vain his fears ; her soul is far away, 
 And her fair form now rests in kindred clay. 
 
 THE POET'S SICKBED. 
 
 How little looks the world to him in pain, 
 Whose whole estate is sorrow's darkest train, 
 With mind in ruins and his soul o'erthrown. 
 When friends retire as though they were not known. 
 
 How deep the anguish when his genius wastes, 
 As early, trembling, to the grave he has: 
 With quiv*ring pulse an appetite destroy'd — 
 
 All pleasure tied which once he most enjoy'd.
 
 344 THE BIBLE. 
 
 The stars no pleasure give, no orb on high 
 Inspires his soul with highest ecstasy ; 
 The vast unfathom'd sea he views no more, 
 The heavens' beauty in his bosom's o'er. 
 
 With landscapes, rocks, and hills, he so much lov'd, 
 His trembling anxious bosom is not mov'd ; 
 His unsubstantial friends, who once were sweet, 
 The lonely bard now tread beneath their feet. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 Of all the various volumes in the land — 
 
 In ev'ry language — by whomever plann'd — 
 
 However great or wise the author be — 
 
 However penn'd — Great Book! there's none like thee. 
 
 There the sublime, with majesty and awe, 
 
 Pours forth, the dreadful thunders of the law ; 
 
 And there the songs the mighty prophets sung, 
 
 The masterpieces of both mind and tongue, 
 
 Transcend the reach of any other pen, 
 
 As farthest stars are lost to human ken.
 
 A PRAYER. 345 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 Thou, whose name, with trembling, angels use — 
 A name no human language can express ! 
 
 Be Thou my light, my glory, and my muse, 
 And stoop the meanest worm on earth to bless. 
 
 Thron'd in the heaven of heavens, eternal Sire ! 
 
 I less than nothing in Thy sight appear ; 
 Thine is this spark of immaterial fire, 
 
 That warms my breast, and acts the umpire there. 
 
 To Thee, great Source of being and of light, 
 
 May I this heart in adoration raise ! 
 Bow down before Thy majesty and might, 
 
 And with deep rev'rence give Thee worthy praise ! 
 
 Where 1 have err'd, as I too oft have done, 
 May (!•■ ■• > " ntan< e for my errors How ! 
 
 While with sin< erity I mourn alone. 
 
 Far from the crowd of ostentatious show. 
 
 In yon vast region of unbounded space, 
 
 Thine arm. unseen, susl tins < : all ; 
 
 And shall proud morl umscribe Thy grace, 
 
 As insufficient for the wants of all ?
 
 346 TO THE CRITICS. 
 
 What is this earth, with all it doth contain, 
 Its lofty mountains and unfathom'd sea ? — 
 
 The sea a drop, the earth itself a grain, 
 Weigh'd in the balance with immensity. 
 
 Such is Thy mercy's sea, without a shore, 
 That ev'ry soul in ev'ry human breast 
 
 Needs but to ask (Thou dost require no more), 
 To give that mercy, and to make it bless'd. 
 
 Mine be that boon when life's short day shall end, 
 And to some unknown world my soul shall soar ! 
 
 Be Thou my God, my Father, and my Friend,— 
 Oh grant me this, and I can ask no more ! 
 
 TO THE CRITICS. 
 
 Sat down by my wee rusted lyre, 
 
 And musing which way to get through, 
 
 Ye quenchers of poets' best fire, 
 How oft have I trembled at you !
 
 TO THE CRITICS. 347 
 
 The vulture may seize the young lamb, 
 
 The raven may torture the dove, 
 And critics may tell what I am, 
 
 But oh, let your censures be love ! 
 
 Ye weighers of man's little wit, 
 
 Which comes in a book to your eye, 
 
 Like spiders on cobwebs you sit, 
 To mangle and murder a fly. 
 
 Write your praise or dispraise for the great, 
 
 And rail on the muse of a lord, 
 Shoot at those who are laughing at fate, 
 
 And strike with your fame-killing sword. 
 
 But come to my cottage, and view 
 What feathers I have for my wings ; 
 
 And then you will own there arc few 
 So lowly durst strike at the strin 
 
 I gaze on my children asleep, 
 
 Assur'd that their lot is but hard ; 
 Yes, while I write verses I weep 
 
 To think their best friend is the bard.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Newport, ) „ , . , 
 
 Newcastle, \ ( - reneraJs :n the Royal Army. 
 
 Fairfax, General in the Parliament's Army. 
 
 Preston, Leader of the Townsmen. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Robber. 
 
 Miser. 
 
 Atkinson, a Native of Bradford. 
 
 Ghost. 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 
 Guards, Clubmen, Soldiers, Attendants, etc., etc. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Bowling Camp. 
 
 Enter Newcastle, Newport, Goodricke, etc. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 The terms we offer'd are rejected ; * 
 And the mad rabble, with unthinking souls, 
 Scorn all authority, and, in contempt, 
 Trample the crown and sceptre in the dust, 
 
 This line is altered as follows in the 2d Edition, published 
 1 83 1 : Now scornfully rejected are our terms.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 349 
 
 And o'er the broken fragments triumph. 
 Shall we, who represent the sacred form 
 Of Heav'n's anointed, suffer such an insult, 
 And tamely too, my lord ? 
 
 Newport. 
 
 Never, my lord : 
 Sooner shall ev'ry town dissolve in smoke, 
 Than e'er a single gem of Britain's crown 
 Is touch'd by rebel hands ! Our ocean-circled throne, 
 'Gainst foreign foes, like the unshaken Atlas, 
 Still unmov'd, secure as granite rocks, 
 By mortals ne'er approach'd, has stood for ages.* 
 And shall those envious sharks, those shrimps in arms 
 Swim through the ocean of our loyal blood ? 
 No, never — till our counsellors are fools, 
 Our soldiers cowards, and our king a slave ! 
 
 Newcasti i . 
 | Thy words arc valiant, and inspire our men. 
 Each sentence thou hast spoke, thy soul must feel. 
 But, to the point : — At such a time 
 Ev'n for a moment to suppose that we 
 Could meet embattled squadrons front to front, 
 Would wrong our judgment, and defeat our ends.] I 
 From wary ambush, with impetuous r.. 
 
 I Ed.- 
 + 2d Ed. omits these mx lin<
 
 350 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Like furies, will they rush upon our men.* 
 Their wives and children urge them on to fight, 
 And make the music which inspires their souls. 
 Our cannon, in the most convenient place, f 
 Must send the orbed messengers of death 
 Against the church, which most they will defend. 
 
 Goodricke. 
 There's no disbanded soldier in the town 
 But is an officer to train the rest. 
 Firm resolution sits on ev'ry brow, 
 And scarce a man amongst them is unarm'd. 
 From the surrounding villages they come, 
 With rustic weapons, made from scythes and harrows. 
 Meanwhile the townsmen, with exulting shouts, 
 Welcome them all, and spur them on to conquest. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Fairfax will lead them. Tell that to our troops. 
 There's not a private in our royal ranks % 
 Who will not, when he hears the news, cry out — 
 Lead us on, gen'ral, to our monarch's foe ! 
 High in the air will toss their glitt'ring arms, 
 And, as they form their ranks, shout — Now for Fairfax ! § 
 
 * 2d Ed. — Let them like fumes rush, etc. 
 
 t 2d Ed. — Our cannon thund' ring shall defeat them all, And 
 send, etc. 
 
 t 2d Ed. — There s not a private soldier in our ranks. 
 
 § 2d Ed. — And as they form their ranks, shout — Victory!
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 351 
 
 The horses of our cavalry will prance 
 As if they heard the trumpets of the foe ; 
 Make the firm turf to dance beneath their feet,* 
 Impatient to begin the work of glory. 
 
 GOODRICKE.I 
 
 [Our cannon, in their present situation, 
 Are ill adapted for their slaught'rous aim. 
 I have descried a spot, call'd Goodmansend, 
 Which would command each corner of the town. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 At Goodmansend, then, let them be dispos'd : 
 And, ere to-morrow night, the sun shall see 
 The rebel army stretch'd upon the earth, 
 Or bowing to the king they now defy.] 
 
 | Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. -Council Chamber in Bradford. 
 
 Fairfax, Preston, J etc., etc. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Now is the town surrounded — not with walls, 
 Hut by our furious and victorious foes. 
 
 * 2<1 I'll. — Make the firm pavement dance, etc. 
 
 t 2d Ed. omits the next s] f Goodricke and Newcastle. 
 
 X 2<1 Ed. substitute I for Preston throughout.
 
 352 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 No passage for retreat— no strong-built towers — 
 
 No battery or ammunition ; but 
 
 The fire of liberty still burns, unquench'd, 
 
 With fervent glow, in ev'ry hero's breast. 
 
 On one side stands the ruin of your all, 
 
 But, on the other, certain victory. 
 
 I come, to aid you in a glorious cause. 
 
 'Tis not to gain renown I thus am arm'd ; * 
 
 I wage not war for that frail bubble, fame j 
 
 I see no wreath of laurel in the air. 
 
 What tempts me thus to meet the shining swords 
 
 Of brother Britons, in this dreadful war, 
 
 Which sullies England with ten thousand stains, 
 
 And makes the envious nations all rejoice, 
 
 Is — to regain our liberties and rights, f 
 
 Priest. 
 Should I advise, and my weak words be heard, 
 You'll not appear in arms, to aid a cause 
 That wants the seal of Heav'n to make it good. 
 What state e'er flourish'd that despis'd its king ? 
 What monarch suffer'd but the royal blood 
 Was pour'd in vengeance on the guilty land ? 
 For they who hate their king must hate their God : 
 
 2d Ed. — What is my armour ? 'tis but civil war ; 
 
 From England be it, yes, from England far. 
 I come not here for that frail bubble, fame. 
 f 2d Ed. — I come to gain our liberties and rights.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 353 
 
 Insulting Heav'n by slighting its vicegerent. 
 And though the royal Charles may have his faults, 
 When Heav'n sees good, without our puny aid, 
 'Twill mend him, or remove him from the throne. 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 Shall we, who glow with rage to gain our rights, 
 Be turn'd to cowards by a zealot's words ? 
 Must we endure the galling iron yoke 
 Of meanest slav'ry, and our necks in mire, 
 While pontiff pride, and monarchy's proud crest 
 Nod us to silence like a child in fear ? 
 Shall we, whose fathers, in the foreign wars 
 Would never fight but in the foremost ranks, 
 Basely submit to tyrants, while our force, 
 Link'd up by valour like a chain of steel, 
 Would pierce an army like a misty cloud? 
 [Champing their bits the steeds of Britons are. 
 And none can meet our poverty in war.]* 
 
 Pru t. 
 Let wisdom guide ye. Let us view the fate 
 Of other towns that fight against the throne. 
 Judge well your strength, and what your store of arms. 
 Your men. unskilful, raw in Moody strii 
 One half would rush in passion on the f 
 
 * Added in 2d Ed. 
 
 t 2d Ed. — Your men unskilful in 
 
 z
 
 354 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 And, in their headstrong rage, would miss their aim ; 
 The rest in fear would throw their arms away,* 
 And leave the bleeding bodies of their friends. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Is this the opinion you have of your friends?! 
 Are all men cowards 'cause you think them so ? 
 Nay — here are men whose breasts are void of fear, 
 Who thirst for victory, and who burn with rage. 
 Could they stand tamely by, and see their church, 
 And its once lofty venerable tow'r, 
 Lie level with the tombstones of the dead ? 
 Think of the martyrs, that in fiery death 
 Gave God the glory — see them clap their hands, 
 While blazing faggots waft them up to heav'n ! 
 Shall yon most sacred edifice of yours 
 Be laid in ruins, while we fly in fear ? 
 Methinks the ghosts of your forefathers cry — 
 Defend your church, or at her altar die ! 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 Defend your church ! yes, that's the word which fires 
 My burning bosom with heroic rage. 
 All things of earth are as a feather light 
 When in the balance with a mount of lead. 
 Shall we, then, fly, while murd'ring balls of fire, 
 
 * 2d "EA.—The rest in fear would throw away their arms. 
 + 2d Ed. — Is this the opinion that you entertain?
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 355 
 
 Like ploughshares of destruction, level all 
 The sacred edifice, and bury deep 
 The glorious pile where piety resides ? 
 
 Priest. 
 Alas ! how many mortals thirst for fame ! 
 Their eye-balls, made of pride, see nothing else 
 But their own interest ; whose bloodthirsty souls, 
 Dead to remorse and pity, grasp renown 
 In the swoln streams of kindred blood. 
 Religion, law, authority, despis'd, 
 By haughty beings, desperately bent, 
 Deep shaded in this dark tremendous night 
 Of dread intestine horrors, which are cast 
 On this once-smiling, peaceful, happy isle. 
 Fools wish for crowns, and cowards for renown ; 
 The profligate for wealth, the base for gold ; 
 The ignorant for rule, the vile for praise : 
 Thus, various kinds of poor disloyal souls,* 
 With envious eyes behold their monarch's throne, 
 And thirst to stain it with their country's blood. 
 
 Thy disaffection to our glorious cause 
 
 Will taint our camp, and give a rise to tern.i. 
 
 Reform thy phrase, or go where it may serve 
 
 * 2d Eil.—,.\ uls. 
 
 t 2d Ed. omits Fairfax's speech rebuking the pri<
 
 356 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Thy interested and capricious views. 
 
 The fulminations of a bigot priest, 
 
 Will never shake a host of steadfast men. 
 
 Priest. 
 When the dark cheeks of heav'n shall blush, 
 And all yon star-deck'd arch shall frown in fire, 
 Know, ye rebellious chiefs, I clear'd my soul, 
 And warn'd you, ere your swords were dy'd in blood. 
 But if you still persist, reflect on this — 
 Behold the horrors of this dreadful war ! 
 See fathers, sons, and kinsmen yield their blood ; 
 See mothers weeping o'er their orphans, slain ; 
 Your virgins ravish'd, and your town in flames ! 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Engage we must : and here is not the place 
 For priests to interfere — their duty's prayer. 
 Therefore, away ! infect not with thy words 
 A cause like ours, which freedom waits to crown ! * 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Then take your course. — If words have no effect 
 
 With murd'ring swords, throw blood against the stars, 
 
 And on the azure face of heav'n write death. 
 
 I'll say no more ; but, with my latest breath, 
 
 Cry — Bless my country, and protect its throne. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 * 2d Ed. — heroic souls, away! 
 
 Priests never fight, 'tis we must win the day.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 357 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Now, gentlemen, give ear unto my words : 
 The little time that fate allows for peace, 
 Must be employ'd in active preparation. 
 Around the tow'r let wool-packs now be hung, 
 To shield the pile from the impending danger. 
 Let all your clubmen practise well their arts, 
 That, when the strife begins, they may be firm. 
 Take careful note no spy invades the town, 
 To carry back our secrets to the foe. 
 Let ev'ry man exert his utmost pow'r 
 To save the cause which he has vow'd to aid. 
 Now we'll disperse, — and should we meet again, 
 'Twill be with glory and eternal fame. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III.— Hall. 
 
 Enter Lady Fairfax. 
 
 I.\i'\ Fairfax. 
 These jarring sounds of warlike preparation 
 Are now become familiar to mine ear, 
 And, on my woman's cheek — th' effect of fear — 
 No longer is the lily's whiteness seen. 
 Yet, for my lord, my mind is anxious still, 
 Though reckless of myself. -Oh ! Fairfax, Fairfax ! 
 When will the day arrive, when, free from war,
 
 358 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Thy wife shall clasp thee to her tender heart, 
 And talk of perils and disasters past ? 
 
 Enter Fairfax. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 How fares my lady ? I have news to tell 
 Will make thy heart exult within thy breast. * 
 I am commanded, on the instant, hence, 
 The Parliament insist that I shall quit t 
 The town of Bradford for another post. 
 Much do I fear the townsmen will regret J 
 The absence of my well-tried valiant men. 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 Alas, my lord ! in thee they lose [their] thy shield. 
 Where Fairfax in the bloody battle moves, 
 Danger and fear must vanish [from] 'fore his face ; 
 Courage and valour circle him around, 
 And victory sit smiling on his plume. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Sweet flatterer, forbear ! I cannot stay 
 To hear these praises from a consort's lips. 
 Danger and peril, greater than we leave, 
 Must meet us yet, before we find a time 
 To deal in compliments and courtly phrase. 
 
 * 2d Ed. — Which would make thy bosom much exult. 
 + 2d Ed.— The Parliament insisted that I should quit. 
 J 2d Ed. — But much I fear, etc.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 359 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 My noble husband ! I respect thy thoughts, 
 And feel the justice of thy sage reproof. 
 Think not a woman cannot feel the fire 
 That constant burns within a glorious breast ; 
 Oh yes, she can — though her body's form'd 
 Of weaker matter and more gentle mould, 
 Yet still, her soul can emulate the copy 
 Which daring manhood sets before her sight. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 If Fairfax has a claim to fame and glory, 
 Thou, lovely lady, art the pristine cause. 
 Thy virtue holds the lesson to my eye, 
 And, not to copy, were to sink in shame. 
 O England ! — torn will) civil, bloody strife, 
 When shall the sun of peace again shine o'er thee? 
 When shall thy children meet with brothers' love, 
 And cease to grasp their murd'ring instruments ? 
 When will tin- day arrive, when pipe and lute 
 Shall take the place of trumpet and of drum? 
 Hot fall the bolt on his accursed head. 
 Who would imbrue his hand in native gore ! 
 lleav'n, stretch Thy curse, e'en to the utmost limit, 
 Upon the wretch, who. lost to fellow-feeling, 
 Would kindle discord on his native shores ! 
 
 Enter Pres ton [Lister].
 
 360 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 My lord, I bring you word, that Newport's son, 
 Led on too far by his impetuous spirit, 
 Became entangled by our trusty friends : 
 He saw his danger, — call'd aloud for quarter. 
 " I'll give thee Bradford quarter," said a townsman, 
 And, on the instant, stabb'd him to the heart. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Preston [Lister] ! my blood is frozen in my veins, 
 To think an act so villainous should pass. 
 Henceforth your town is stain'd with guiltless blood. 
 Was't not enough that he confess'd his conquest, 
 But must you, when he ask'd a soldier's right, 
 Withhold that boon ? Remember, gallant friend, 
 While we are foes we still are countrymen : 
 And, shall an Englishman deny his brother 
 What would be granted from a foreign foe ? 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 My lord, the act did meet my stern reproof; 
 Therefore, this blame attaches not to me. 
 Your soldiers wait for you to lead them hence, 
 Under the cover of this gloomy night : 
 For, should the enemy suspect your plans, 
 It were in vain for you to venture forth.* 
 
 * 2d Ed. — to venture forth at all.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 3G1 
 
 Fairfax. 
 Why then, we'll on — and speed us with your pray'rs. 
 Bradford, adieu ! — again, in happier time, 
 I hope to see thee, arm'd with strength and pow'r, 
 By civil broils untorn. Preston [Lister], farewell ! 
 Urge my instructions to our steady friends. 
 If Providence should smile upon their arms, 
 Let mercy and thanksgiving follow it. 
 Never can mortals think to pay the debt 
 They owe their Maker ; but a virtuous soul 
 Will ever glory to acknowledge it. 
 
 '[Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Bowling Camp. 
 
 Enter Newcastle and Newport. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 My noble friend! let me express my praise 
 At viewing fortitude so great as thine. 
 An only son, torn from a doting sire, 
 And perishing, by vile and trait'rous means, 
 Might well call forth a flood of manly tears. 
 
 \ i v. I '( 
 
 Think'st thou, my friend, that Newport e'er can weep
 
 362 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 At sorrow like the present ? — No — never, never ! 
 My heart is swelling and my brain's on fire ; 
 But tears refuse to help me in distress. 
 A trifling cause may make a hero weep ; 
 A greater one may drive his reason mad. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 I feel thy pangs — and only wish'd to call 
 The drops of nature in to thy assistance ; 
 But since my wishes are in vain applied 
 To rouse the father, let me rouse the man : — 
 Think — shall we wait, and tardily neglect 
 The means of vengeance, when within our pow'r ? 
 
 Newport. 
 Never — my friend ! — Let us not lose a second. 
 Oh that I could, like a red ball of fire, 
 Dash through the midst of this relentless band, 
 And, dealing fierce destruction all around, 
 Call forth the spirit of my murder'd son ; 
 Make it confess I had reveng'd its wrongs, 
 Then see it sink to everlasting peace ! 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Early to-morrow we attack the town, 
 And, doubtless, it will make a brave defence : 
 Reserve your noble fire for that occasion, 
 Then let it burst in desolating fury.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 3G3 
 
 Newport. 
 Eehold what gath'ring clouds obscure the town, 
 As if in mourning for th' approaching scene ! 
 Hark ! how the wind begins to howl and sigh, 
 As if some demon rode upon the blast ! 
 
 Newcastle. 
 *And, look ! from yonder ancient edifice, 
 What wand'ring night birds wing their dreary flight ! 
 List ! how they shriek ! — presaging the approach 
 Of wild destruction and tempestuous fight. 
 
 [Thunder and lightning. 
 
 Newport. 
 Now, to complete the scene the vivid flash 
 Streaks the black sky in forms of hideous shape ! 
 Methinks I read in letters writ in fire, 
 " Bradford, thy measure of despair is full ! " 
 
 ( Bell tolls. 
 How solemnly the deep-ton'd midnight bell 
 Gives warning of the flitting hours of sK 
 Sleep, did I say ? Alas \ where is the man. 
 Aware of what will happen on the morrow, 
 Can close his eyes, forgetful of its horrors ! 
 
 NEW( vstle. 
 Until fierce discord from our land is driv'n, 
 
 * 2d Ed, makes the next thirteen lines a continuation 
 Newport's address.
 
 364 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 No terrors e'er should shake a soldier's heart ; 
 Compos'd in war, serene upon the field, 
 Encircled round with slaughter, he should stand, 
 And brave ten thousand dangers still unmov'd.* 
 And now for one short hour retire to rest ; 
 And let the orders to the army be, 
 That in the conflict they will save the church ; 
 For never let the arm of war be rais'd 
 To strike the mansion of the Deity. 
 Bid all our soldiers be in readiness ; 
 Unfurl the royal banners of our king ; 
 Charge with a shout upon the rebel host, f 
 And let our cannon be the only music. 
 Then, when the sword has dealt its chastisement, 
 Let smiling Mercy, with a kiss of peace, 
 Heal up the wounds which Justice did inflict. \ 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Thicket. 
 
 Enter a Robber, who conceals himself. Enter a 
 Miser, with a spade and bags of gold. 
 
 Miser. 
 Where shall I hide these troublers of my rest ? 
 For fifty years, my constant care has been 
 
 * 2d Ed. — dangers undismay d. 
 t 2d Ed.— proud Cromwell's host. 
 X 2d Ed. omits these last three lines.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 305 
 
 To swell my stores, — and now they're like to vanish. 
 
 Hark ! who was that ? Alack, 'twas but the tree, 
 
 That mov'd its leaves obedient to the wind. 
 
 Some folks there are, would part with all this gold, 
 
 But to be certain of a twelve-months' life ; — 
 
 I care not for the grave, so I be laid 
 
 Where my heart's treasure underneath is hid. 
 
 These golden pieces are my drops of blood ; 
 
 I would not part with one to keep from starving 
 
 [death]— 
 
 [A shout. 
 
 Oh ! mercy on me, what a shout was there ! 
 If that the general should see my treasure, 
 He'd rob me to pay off his drunken troops.* 
 The very thought on't makes me frantic. 
 
 Robber (suddenly appearing from behind a bush). 
 Old man, thy money ! Give it quickly up,t 
 Or meet thy death and never hoard up more. 
 
 M i 
 Oh, monster ! what a sin is robbery ! 
 My life I care not for; but this, my gold. 
 Would damn thy soul, and make thee food for hell. 
 
 * 2d Ed. — If Crotm 
 
 u nkcn ti 
 
 t 2.1 Ed. prefixes the following two lii 
 . ahl rilea 
 This arm and pistol or.
 
 366 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Robber. 
 Quick — quick ! deliver ! Nay — then thus I snatch it. 
 
 [ Takes his money. 
 
 Miser. 
 Hold — yet a moment — give me instant death, 
 Since thou hast robb'd me of my very soul ; 
 Do not withhold the kindness of thine aid, 
 But let thy pistol finish me at once. 
 
 Robber. 
 Though I have robb'd, I will not murder thee ; 
 There is the weapon, do the deed thyself. 
 
 [Gives him the pistol. 
 
 Miser. 
 Ah, caitiff ! villain ! give me back my gold — 
 Give — give it back ! — or I will fire at thee. 
 
 Robber. 
 
 Lend me the pistol, and Til load it thee. 
 
 Farewell, old Judas, and be miserable ! * 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Miser. 
 Nay, then, all's lost ! Will no one take my life ? 
 My life is gone. Will no one stop my breath ? t 
 
 * 2d Ed. — Farewell, old miser, and go heap up more. 
 + 2d Ed. adds — Gold was my god, so give me instant death ; 
 and omits the next eitrht lines.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 367 
 
 If I should jump into the miller's dam, 
 
 They'd drag me out again, and tear my coat, 
 
 And that was new only six years ago. 
 
 A thought has struck me — I have got some poison, 
 
 That once I purchas'd to destroy the rats ; 
 
 But, they were dainty fed, and would not touch it : 
 
 If it were made of fire, I'd swallow all, 
 
 Then dig my own grave, and into it fall. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [Scene III.— Servants' Hall. Soldiers of N ewcastle 
 drinking, singing, etc. — Their arms placed on the tabic — 
 Part of the band playing. 
 
 Enter a Baud, who sings. 
 Britons' blood shall ne'er be spilt, 
 Without horror, without guilt; 
 Brothers yet will rue the day, 
 That these met in bloody fray. 
 
 Foes we have across the sea; 
 Let us live in amity ; 
 from our land be discord far, 
 Scattcr'd those that wish for war. 
 
 Why should here our bolts he hurl • 
 Britons join'd can fight the world : 
 Britain conquers all she meets, 
 Shakes their thrones, and sinks their fleets.
 
 368 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Yes, she needs not others' aid, 
 All the globe of her 's afraid ; — 
 Therefore, Britons, be again 
 Firmly fix'd in friendship's chain ! 
 
 Yet bring haughty Cromwell down, 
 Face his guns, and scorn his frown ; 
 Then again your bard will sing — 
 Tyrants fall, — "God save the King." 
 
 Scene IV. — The Great Hall. Newcastle and all his 
 officers in council. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 My gallant comrades, now I shrink, I dread, 
 To see my countrymen destroy'd and dead ; 
 Upon a foreign shore I there could fight, 
 And conquest then would be my great delight ; — 
 But look this day, how many left behind, 
 For mothers, daughters, and for wives to find ; 
 I almost hear the curses and the sighs, 
 Which from the moor of Adwalton will rise : 
 The greatest vict'ry but in sorrow ends, 
 When that is purchas'd by the life of friends. 
 
 Newport. 
 Death and destruction in my bosom dwell, 
 My son is slain, by traitors' hands he fell.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 3G9 
 
 Could I but find the wretch that slew my son, 
 Arm'd or unarm'd, against him would I run ; 
 Revenge has made me like a ball of fire : 
 You have no sons, you never were a sire, 
 Else would your thunder, and your glitt'ring steel, 
 Make every heart of yon proud rebels feel. 
 Give me one troop of horse, 'tis all I want, 
 The monarch's banner on yon tower I'll plant ; 
 Death I will seek, and face each loaded gun, 
 Or be revenged — they slew my son, my son ! 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Then, injur'd Newport, take Sir Goodricke's troop, 
 Till morning that firm resolution keep ; 
 But these long-waking eyes must rest in sleep, 
 Now is the third long day and nights of fight, 
 I feel I am forc'd to try to rest to-night ; 
 Let guards be placed around, and sober be,* 
 That I may wake to certain victory. 
 
 Scene V. — A chamber in Bowling Hall. 
 
 Enter a Female, attended by ladies ami sacral 
 servants, 
 
 M \KV. 
 
 1 dare do it. 
 
 * In the beginning of the civil war men were impatient of 
 duty, and were often asleep in the houses when they should have 
 
 been on guard. 
 
 2 \
 
 370 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 First Lady. 
 You will be slain or taken. 
 
 Mary. 
 I'll terrify him from his purpose. 
 
 First Lady. 
 Heroic maid ! if you can change his heart, 
 Yours is my gold before I hence depart. 
 
 Second Lady. 
 Hark ! they are drunk : let them fight away, 
 Make pale thy face ; for thy success I pray. 
 
 Mary. 
 Robe me aright ; now hit my face again, 
 Till whiter than death's paleness I remain. 
 
 First Servant. 
 I'll fetch some flour. 
 
 Second Lady. 
 Do not smile nor joke. 
 
 [ They dust her face with Hour. 
 
 First Lady. 
 Now drink this cordial just to nerve thy frame, 
 Thy point once gain'd, is everlasting fame.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 371 
 
 Mary. 
 We have one part of the oak ceiling loos'd, 
 That I can enter safely unperceiv'd ; 
 Scarce in these terrors I refrain from mirth, 
 My voice must be as if 'twas not from earth : 
 Can I persuade him Bradford town to spare, 
 My point is gain'd, and that is all I care. 
 Now see the light, behold the tyrants come, 
 Retire — your feet be still, your tongues be dumb. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Mary solus. 
 Firm resolution, come unto my aid, 
 Support my spirits, make me not afraid ; 
 Bring such a terror to the tyrant's breast, 
 Spirit of fear ! — that shall destroy his rest ; 
 Unnerve his arm, and sink the tyrant's heart, 
 That fear may make him tremble and depart !] 
 
 Scene III. [2d Ed. VII.] —A room in Bowling Hall. — 
 A taper burning. 
 
 \'l WCAST] i 
 
 How happy, in his thraldom, is the slave, 
 
 Who, on his bed Of Straw, 1 ID lose all care. 
 While slumber, calm and tranquil, shuts his eyes,
 
 372 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 And honest labour rocks him to repose. 
 
 The soldier, too, who, stretch'd upon the earth, 
 
 Beneath his canvas canopy, secure, 
 
 Upon his armour rests his careless head, 
 
 Nor drops a tear o'er dearest comrades slain. 
 
 But, like the sentinel, at this dread hour, 
 
 I hear the constant pendulum of time 
 
 Measure the moments of the awful night, 
 
 Which soon will change into a day of death. 
 
 O Newport ! — loyal, brave, heroic youth ! 
 
 Methinks I see him stretch'd upon the earth ; 
 
 His brow, undaunted, shaded by his helm, 
 
 In death, still like his soul, seems undismay'd. 
 
 Oh ! when to-morrow's deadly strife begins, 
 
 And carnage thickens on the reeking field, 
 
 How will the thought of much-lov'd Newport's death 
 
 Inspire our vet'ran troops, and nerve each arm, 
 
 While all the welkin echoes with revenge ! 
 
 Come, morning, come, — when into conq'ring lines 
 
 The trumpet's piercing sound shall rouse us all ! 
 
 But, hark ! what more than earthly voice 
 
 Assails mine ear, and with its awful tone 
 
 Shakes my firm breast, which danger never mov'd ? 
 
 Enter [Mary as a] Ghost. 
 What do I see ? Is this the illusion of a mind 
 Fretted and clouded with the heavy cares 
 That press upon me ? — or art thou — speak ! 
 
 [(Mary) Ghost approaches nearer.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 373 
 
 Art thou to me a friendly messenger 
 From the bright world of purity and peace ? 
 Whate'er thou art, I charge thee, speak ! 
 
 [Mary] Ghost. 
 From the Elysian bowers of bliss, 
 Despatch 'd by meek-ey'd Mercy, I repair'd 
 Down to this lower world, and sought thee, lonely, 
 Intent to melt thy adamantine soul — * 
 Abate thy vengeful ardour, and destroy 
 Thy horrid purposes of dire revenge. 
 I charge thee to relent. Change — O change 
 Thy sanguine resolution ! lest, whene'er 
 Thou seek'st for mercy at the throne of heaven, 
 Thy prayT be spurn'd, and exil'd from the scenes 
 Of bliss on high, perdition be thy lot. 
 Pity poor Bradford, and assuage thine ire ! 
 
 [Ghost vanishes. 
 [M \ry smiling ret ires. \ 
 
 Newcasi 
 
 How suddenly 'tis vanish'd ! — and at once 
 My mind's unnerVd — my fortitude is gone ! 
 Oh, that some mortal would approach, and hear 
 The cause of all this horror and dismay ! 
 
 * 2d Ed. omits the first as: 
 
 Intent to melt thy adamantine scut, etc.
 
 374 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Enter Newport \in complete armour]. 
 
 Newport. 
 * My noble friend in arms ! — my rest is gone. 
 With trembling steps, by deepest horror shook, 
 I fled, and left a visionary form, 
 That with a noiseless hand my curtains drew, 
 As I upon my couch was laid in arms ; 
 Then, with a look that pierc'd my very soul, 
 Upon me fix'd its eyes, and faintly cried — 
 Pity the town of Bradford ! 
 
 Newcastle. 
 
 Enough, my friend ! 
 Such fearful sight, in an unearthly garb,f 
 Hath lately left me ; and, while present, 
 Charg'd me, by the dread secrets of eternity, 
 To pity the devoted town of Bradford. 
 See, Newport, how I shake with fear ! my limbs 
 Totter beneath their weight — and yet I cannot — 
 Upon my soul, I cannot think to spare 
 
 * 2d Ed. gives Newport's speech entirely different, e.g. : 
 I will not sleep ; — this steel-cas 'd head of mine 
 Shall press no pillow ; but my sword shall shine, 
 Faintly reflecting Cynthia's borrow' d light ; — 
 The spirit of my son haunts me to-night. 
 Would great Newcastle from his dreams awake, 
 The town should tremble, and yon tow V should shake 
 
 + 2d Ed. — Nraiport, my friend! 
 
 An awful form- in an unearthly garb.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 375 
 
 Such cruel rebels. What shall we do, my friend ? 
 Shall we retreat, and leave the town in arms, 
 Or, by a fierce attack, compel it to surrender ? 
 
 Newport. 
 Must it be said — two gen'rals, Royalists, 
 Have left a town unconquer'd, 'cause a thing, 
 Which some will deem a stratagem, appear'd ? 
 Let us away, and walk through all the camp, 
 To cheer our men ! Let no one know the fear 
 And terror which have seiz'd their leaders here. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A street in Bradford. 
 
 Enter Preston [Lister] and Soldiers. 
 
 I'reston [Lister]. 
 Gentlemen, friends, and honourable brethren ! 
 The day's arriVd, after repeated trials, 
 That stamps the rise or ruin of your town. 
 Upon ourselves we now must place dependence 
 For Fairfax, and his soldiers, all are gone. 
 
 If you be firm, and value liberty, 
 
 Enough of strength is left to see us conquer.
 
 376 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Enter Atkinson. 
 Wherefore dost thou, ferocious [murderer] Atkinson, 
 Appear, to taint our virtue with thy presence ? 
 Hence ! and in solitude repent thy crime. 
 
 Atkinson. 
 And is it possible a deed of valour 
 Can call such language from heroic Preston [Lister] ? 
 Was not the blow that brought young Newport down, 
 A stroke that aim'd to stab at slavery ? 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 And canst thou glory in the cruel deed ? 
 Art thou so lost to feeling and remorse — 
 Art thou so dead to shame, as not to know 
 That cruelty degrades the warrior's name, 
 And murder turns his laurels into snakes ? 
 Hateful he stands, even to those he fights for,* 
 Detested by his brother as his foe. 
 
 Atkinson. 
 f Am I awake ? What ! would you spare a viper, 
 And foolishly permit it to endanger 
 The very life and blood of its preserver ? 
 Again I boast young Newport fell by me ; 
 Again, if he were here, I'd strike him down ; 
 
 * 2d Ed. — Hateful he stands — his memory abhorred. 
 + 2d Ed. omits first three lines of Atkinson's reply.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 377 
 
 And make the sons of freedom boldly own 
 I'd done a deed that merited their love ! 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 Is reason and humanity within thee 
 So totally extinct, as not to comprehend 
 The act was foreign to our glorious aim ? 
 How can we hope to wear the palm of conquest, 
 If cruelty must stamp our first proceedings ? * 
 
 Atkinson. 
 My creed is— blood for blood ! I saw my friend 
 Fall to the earth beneath his infant arm : 
 Reason was lull'd to rest, and vengeance reign'd. 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 When thine own conscience speaks with awful voice, 
 In bitter language, fraught with horror, 
 Think, then, that Preston [Lister] us'd his utmost pow'r 
 To make thy bosom sensible of crime. 
 
 [Cannon fires. 
 Now to your posts — the work of death begins. 
 Station our fairest marksmen in the steeple, 
 While we proceed to meet the enemy.t 
 
 * 2d Ed. — ii Ungs stain t 
 
 t 2d Ed. — 
 
 And lay them lifde-ss in our native si, 
 temier, Sirs, etc.
 
 378 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Remember, sirs, your country is at stake, 
 And every man must try to win the game. 
 
 [A shout. 
 Hark ! we are call'd. Now boldly all advance, 
 And work your safety in the fall of foes.* 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — A Grove. 
 
 Enter Newcastle and Newport. 
 
 Newport. 
 The fortune of the day as yet is doubtful. 
 We cannot longer dare to save the church : 
 For, in the steeple, men of greatest skill 
 Their muskets level, with destructive fire. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 The artillery now begin to play, 
 And shouts of triumph swell the giddy breeze ; 
 Danger and glory animate the men 
 On either side, and slaughter is begun ! 
 
 Newport. 
 Distraction ! — see ! — our troops begin to fly ; 
 Mark ! how the rebels drive them from their posts ! 
 And, lo ! what deadly havoc they have made 
 
 * 2d Ed. adds — Think who have been the cause of all these woes.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 379 
 
 In yon battalion on the western side ! 
 See ! now the cannon dare not keep a fire, 
 Lest they destroy their friends as well as foes. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Again the fortune of the day seems ours : 
 For, see ! a cannon ball has struck the cords 
 That held the packs of wool against the church, 
 Now — now they shout ; confusion has begun, 
 And our brave men regain their wonted spirit ! 
 
 Newport. 
 Now is the time our presence is requir'd : 
 So shall advantage gain a double strength, 
 And Victory be forc'd to drop her wreath 
 Upon the brows of Royalty. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. 
 A general panic now has seiz'd our men, 
 And fifty of the foe before them drive 
 The troops of Colonel Goring. 
 
 Newcasi I I . 
 What ! do they fly? Why, there is witchcraft in it. 
 Let every trumpet tell the e< hum- air, 
 That it may hiss upon their cowardi
 
 380 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 What ! do the rebels put our troops to flight ? 
 
 By heav'n, it seems — nay, is — a miracle. 
 
 What ! can the peasants, with their knotted clubs, 
 
 O'ercome a thousand of our army's flower? 
 
 It cannot be, — my soul denies belief, 
 
 And mine own eyes must tell me of the truth. 
 
 Newport. 
 'Tis false— 'tis false ! Behold, the rebels fly ! 
 See Goring, mounted on his sable steed, 
 Resistless cuts his way, like fiery Mars, 
 Through the infatuated files of treason ! 
 Our men expect us — let us both away, 
 And, by a bold example, win the day ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 [2d Ed. Scene III.— The Talbot Inn, in Bradford. 
 
 Enter a Bard, who sings. 
 Hearken the guns ! the bells the wrong way ring,* 
 Down fall the banners, hark ! the soldiers sing — 
 See, from the steeple how the muskets flash, 
 Hark ! how the pikes against their armour clash, 
 The clubmen bend the laurels of the guns, 
 From right to left the deadly conflict runs. 
 
 * During the time of the civil war they rung the bells from 
 tenor to treble, in case of any alarm.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 381 
 
 Again, behold yon rapid well-aim'd ball 
 
 Has struck the cords, and now the wool sheets fall. 
 
 The murderer's fall'n — now Atkinson is dead — 
 
 Newport has found him, and he would have fled, 
 
 But 'twas in vain — he was to earth transfix'd, 
 
 His blood was with the running waters mix'd. 
 
 Now hand to hand the raging leaders fight, 
 
 Preston [Lister] has yielded unto Newport's might. 
 
 Bingley's brave youths like lions stand the fray, 
 
 And twice have turn'd the fortunes of the day — 
 
 Firm fighters are the sons of Halifax, 
 
 In one strong line they combat, backs to backs. 
 
 Lister rides boldly with his naked sword, 
 
 Mix'd with his men he boldly gives the word : 
 
 A thousand dangers he this day has brav'd, 
 
 His only wish the church may yet be sav'd. 
 
 All the dread horrors of contending fight 
 
 Have been since morning first awoke to light, 
 
 In every house has ruin put her seal, 
 
 The soldiers plunder, murder, rob and steal : 
 
 Ruin has stamp'd with terror every street, 
 
 Death has rode boldly on his sable ear, 
 
 And crush'd his victims ill this civil war. 
 
 All villains arc let loose, their harvest now, 
 
 Order destroy'd — authority laid low ; 
 
 And anarchy flics on her raven wings, 
 
 To revolution, and the death of kings.]
 
 382 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Scene III. [2d Ed. IV.]— Town of Bradford. 
 Guns firing, and alarum bells ringing — [* Clubmen and 
 soldiers fight — Clubmen drive off the soldiers — The 
 wool-packs fall from the steeple — Preston [Lister] 
 and Newcastle fight — Preston [Lister] is van- 
 quished — Atkinson and Newport fight, the former 
 of whom receives a wound, atid solicits quarter — The 
 clubmen now appear, retreating from the soldiers, and 
 the Royal party are victorious^ 
 
 Enter Preston [Lister]. 
 
 Preston [Lister]. 
 My lord of Newcastle, the day is yours. 
 Into your hands I now give up my sword ; 
 And hope you'll grant a pardon to the valiant menf 
 O'er whom you've gain'd no shameful victory. 
 Their prowess and their valour gild the wreath 
 Bestow'd on you, by Fortune, in her favour. 
 They were your foes before you conquer'd them ; 
 Be generous now, and make them all your friends. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Rest ye secure. I will not so disgrace 
 The victory that Heaven has bestow'd, 
 
 ' Omitted in 2d Ed. as being implied in the Song of the 
 Bard, not given in the 1st Ed. 
 + 2d Ed. — And hope yoii U grant a pardon to the brave.
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 383 
 
 As to perform an act which would emblot 
 And stain the page of future history. 
 
 Enter Lady Fairfax, guarded. 
 The lady Fairfax, too — and in my power ! 
 
 Lady Fairfax. 
 My lord ! a suppliant at your feet I crave 
 Your mercy. I know that if I flatter 
 So great a soul as yours, 'twill give offence, 
 And, far from bright'ning, only blast my hopes : 
 But I may plead — Have you a wife, and know* 
 What 'tis to love her with a zealous care ? 
 I need not make appeal more pow'rful, 
 To work the purpose of my anxious heart. 
 Behold ! the consort of great Fairfax sues 
 For that her husband never could deny, 
 If your far dearer half were in his pow'r : 
 At once, I know, he'd grant her liberty. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 That which you ask is freely granted : 
 For never shall I keep a lady prisoner. 
 When you are ready to depart, my guards, 
 My carriage, horses, all are at your service. 
 
 Lady Fairi w. 
 Most generous lord, receive my heart-felt thanks ! 
 * 2d Ed. — K>/< have a vn/e t andkt
 
 384 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 I hope the time will quickly come to all, 
 Which all desire — a time of glorious peace. 
 And may you with Lord Fairfax never meet, 
 Till civil broils are ended in the land. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Newcastle. 
 Justice has done her work, and Mercy now 
 Lifts up the veil that late obscur'd her brow. 
 Far be the hour when treason shall again 
 Erect its standard among Bradford men.* 
 Methinks I see its trade and commerce shine, 
 Spreading its name to every distant clime ; 
 Its children bless'd with industry and health, 
 The certain source of independent wealth. 
 
 \_Exeutit. 
 
 2d Ed. — Yorkshire men.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 AIREDALE IN ANCIENT TIMES. 
 
 [Tins is undoubtedly the best of Nicholson's lung poems in con- 
 ception, regularity of versification, and well-sustained energy. 
 The introduction is remarkably chaste, apt, and striking. After 
 the customary invocation of the Muse, the second paragraph 
 contains a thrilling description of the bold and romantic scenery 
 in the neighbourhood of Malham, the source of the river Aire. 
 The village of Malham is in the parish of Kirkby, and nearly in 
 the centre of Craven. [I iituated in a hollow formed by the 
 meeting of two valleys, almost surrounded by bli ;ed hills, 
 
 and is about eleven miles north-west from Skipton, and sue miles 
 from Settle. Gordali Si ur is first described by our author with 
 its ponderous overhanging masses, where "burst 
 assail tht ad " Grandeur revels in her j. "but 
 
 Tm Cove, an immense en cent-shaped limestone barrier, 
 feel in height, and is seen long 
 
 ire reaching the vi Bell Busk Rj 
 
 DALl Si vr suddenly bursts upon the-. the beholder 
 
 in awful sublimity, walk through a dreary valley, 
 
 where a feeder of the infant Aire pursues its winding course in 
 a rocky bed deeply strewn with large pi 
 
 limestone, which have been detached from the projecting rocks 
 
 2 B
 
 386 NOTES. 
 
 on each side of the deep ravine. " Bishop Pococke, who had 
 seen all that was great and terrible in the rocks of Judea and 
 Arabia, declared he had never seen any place comparable to 
 Gordale. " The orifice of the cascade was formed about a 
 hundred and fifty years ago during a thunderstorm by the pres- 
 sure of the accumulated water in the narrow rock-bound channel, 
 bursting a hole in the front of the barrier over which it had 
 previously flowed, and strewing the valley below with large pieces 
 of shattered limestone. 
 
 The Cove is characterised by quiet beauty, and when 
 seen on the descent from Otterburn to Airton, if the sun 
 shines, has "the resemblance of two large and magnificent 
 Castle Doors." But the most beautiful view of this almost per- 
 pendicular barrier of limestone is obtained from an eminence 
 called the Cove Park at a short distance on the west side of the 
 river, where, on a fine clay, the varied tints from the projecting 
 ledges interspersed with a few hardy shrubs produce a singularly 
 rich and imposing effect. Mr Hurtley says that the front 
 of this bold and lofty mass may be seen from the southern 
 hills, near Halifax ; and even with the naked eye from White 
 Moor, near Colne, in Lancashire. The river Aire emerges at 
 the foot of The Cove as a strong current of intensely cold and 
 clear water, after having traversed a subterranean course of more 
 than a mile from the place where it disappears on its way from 
 the Tarn. After a succession of rainy and stormy weather the 
 overflow from the Tarn is considerable, and runs rapidly clown 
 a slight depression and over the front of The Cove, forming a 
 cascade more than rivalling Niagara in height ; but when the 
 wind blows strongly from the south or south-west, the water is 
 driven against the rocks, and nearly lost in the form of a dense 
 mist whirling in the air above. 
 
 The Tarn, or Malham Water, is about a mile distant in 
 a high moorland hollow, and has been styled by Mr Gray, "a 
 lake embosomed in the cloud-capped mountains." In size it is 
 much less than the principal lakes of Westmoreland and Cumber- 
 land, and somewhat inferior in point of beauty. It is about three- 
 quarters of a mile across in every direction, of an irregular shape, 
 from three to five yards deep ; the water is remarkably clear, and 
 contains an abundance of excellent trout and perch ; and, on the
 
 NOTES. 387 
 
 whole, it is moderately sheltered by an extensive range of bare 
 limestone hills. The house was originally built as a "Shooting 
 Box," on a natural amphitheatre on the north end of the TARN, 
 and is partly screened by thriving plantations, and has been for 
 some years the residence of Walter Morrison, Esq. Game and 
 wild fowls abound in the neighbourhood, and some swans, geese, 
 ducks, and poultry are kept on the banks of this beautiful sheet 
 of water. Mr Morrison says, " The water from Malham Tarn, it 
 is believed, from experiments which have been made, but which 
 do not quite satisfy me, emerges at a place called Aire Head, 
 between Malham and Kirkby- Malham " (Letter, May 29th, 
 1876).] 
 
 1'age 3, lines 7-12. 
 
 Here the brave Perries, foremost in the chase, 
 Were foil >wed by the sons of Clifford's race : 
 Listers and Tempests, on the jocund morn, 
 Obeyed the cheerful summons of the horn ; 
 Ma/hams and Marions, on their hunters feet, 
 Scattered the moorland moss beneath their / 
 
 The knights of Craven were undoubtedly brave, bold, and 
 resolute followers <>f the chase ; they not only had the fox and 
 hare, but the wolf and wild boar were not extinct in Craven, at 
 the commencement <>f the fourteenth century. A hunter, to- 
 gether with hounds, was kept at Bolton. The knights "f 
 Craven, from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries, were Tem- 
 . Hammerton,* Pudsay, Lister, Marton, Malham, rlebden, 
 Hartlinton, Rilston, Middleton, and Eshton ; and imagination 
 them and their sons pursuing the chase with many of the 
 illustrious < lliffo 
 
 Page ;. lines 1. 2. 
 
 To meet rth. 
 
 ■■ \tter the fatal battle of Bannockburn, the S nan the 
 
 i ; and 1 abounding w 
 
 1 [Mr Mori n .t present this nam. . but ihc 
 
 tWO '"'s may be t tic- old form (Letter.
 
 388 NOTES. 
 
 the scene of their depredations. In the year 1316, and three or 
 four following ones, they often repeated their unwelcome visits. 
 In 1320, they so completely ruined the Priory of Bolton, that 
 the prior and canons dispersed. The next year, these marauders 
 paid a third visit, when the movables of Bolton were carried to 
 Skipton Castle. In one of these invasions, the men of Gar- 
 grave, near Skipton, met a party of the plunderers, on the north- 
 west side of Coniston Moor, at a place called Sweet Gap, and 
 were almost cut off to a man." 
 
 Page 4, line 5. 
 
 Death through Northumbrian s fields had marked their way. 
 
 "In the year 1138, while David, King of Scotland, was en- 
 gaged in the siege of Norham, he detached the Picts and part of 
 the Scottish army, under the command of William, son of Dun- 
 can, his nephew, into Yorkshire. There they laid waste the 
 possessions of a celebrated monastery, and the province called 
 Craffna (now Craven), with fire and sword. In this work of 
 devastation, no rank, nor age, nor sex was spared. Children 
 were butchered before the face of their parents, husbands in 
 sight of their wives, and wives in the presence of their husbands ; 
 matrons and virgins of rank were carried away indiscriminately 
 with other plunder ; they were stripped, bound together with 
 ropes, and goaded along like cattle, with the points of swords 
 and lances ! " 
 
 Page 4, line 8. 
 
 Their dwellings plundered, and their churches fired. 
 
 " Not content with plunder and death, the Scots set fire to 
 their churches, though they had dearly paid for their depreda- 
 tions at the Battle of the Standard, fought near North Allerton, 
 Yorkshire ; at which place, David, King of Scots, was completely 
 routed. The real standard was there displayed. This was a 
 huge chariot upon wheels, with a mast of prodigious height fixed 
 in it, on the top of which was a cross and underneath a banner. 
 This was a signal used only in the greatest expeditions, and was 
 looked upon as a sacred altar. "
 
 NOTES. 389 
 
 Page 5, line 26. 
 
 Led to the altar Cicily the fair. 
 
 The fee of Skipton, before the conquest, was the property of 
 the Earl Edwin, the son of Leofwine, and brother of Lcofric, 
 Earls of Mercia. After Edwin had forfeited the estates, the 
 family became possessed of them again, by the marriage of Wm. 
 de Meschines with [Cecilia, the daughter of Robert de Romille, 
 Eord of Skipton (Whitaker's Craven, p. 223).] The history of 
 the Eomilles, their founding Bolton Prioiy, and the untimely 
 fate of the Boy of Egremont, are so well known that they need 
 not be copied here. 
 
 Page 6, lines 11-13. 
 
 Banners, which waved when shields and helmets rung, 
 Were all to Skipton brought, and safely hung 
 High in the tow'r. 
 
 It was customary, in the days of chivalry, to deposit shie' 
 banners, helmets, etc., in the strong towers of castles. 
 
 Page 6, line 18. 
 And silvered robes the ancient Cliffords wore. 
 
 The rol f] Clifi 1 in 1525 were of crimson velvet and 
 ermine, I • '. the "chapfi" of his sword 
 
 silver gilt. 
 
 For an account of the splendour of their dresses, see l»i 
 Whitaker's Hist. Craven, p. 201, else,/. 
 
 The following is an enumeration ol the hangings ol 
 
 the Cliffords, copied by Dr Whitaker from an ancient MS.: 
 
 "One 1 1 tynsel and Mack velvet, with armes havinge 
 
 > mi. lines of sylke, with frynges. Item, one teaster <>f black 
 
 of silke, and fringes of silke 
 andgolde. One othei old te tei ol . pinked with gold 
 
 and tawny satten. Item, one old teaster of tinsel and Mack 
 tin, with dragon and the anglet 1 a 6-piece of hanginge 
 of destruction of Trove. Item, a tenth peice <>f the 
 David."
 
 390 NOTES. 
 
 Page 6, line 23. 
 Upoti each dish the dragon was portrayed. 
 
 See the valuation of the plate at Skipton Castle in Dr Whit- 
 aker's "Craven," from which the following is an extract: 
 
 "Item, XX silver plates, some with dragons, and the rest 
 with lyberds heads. One standyng cup, with a like image of 
 a boy standing upon three eagles." There were likewise other 
 pieces of plate, with the portcullis, etc., engraven upon them, of 
 which we can now form no conception. 
 
 Page 8, line 6. 
 
 The valley shone in robes of golden hue. 
 
 The wild ranunculus grows in such profusion in the valley 
 above and below Skipton, that it appears clothed in a beautiful 
 robe of yellow during the months of May and June. 
 
 Page 15, lines 23, 24. 
 
 Where winding Aire, enamoured of the place, 
 Moves on so slow, it seems to stop and gaze. 
 
 The fall in the course of the Aire, from Gargrave to Bingley, 
 is so little, that the river seems to labour with difficulty in pursu- 
 ing its course ; in many places creeping slowly in the opposite 
 direction, as if it wished to return to its source. This has a very 
 beautiful effect in a morning or evening, when the rays of the 
 sun are thrown upon it. The resplendent reflections are seen 
 in a variety of points, so as to make the valley appear as though 
 it was filled with various small lakes. 
 
 Page 16, line 12. 
 
 There once a castle stood, though lost to fa?ne. 
 
 Dods worth, who visited Bingley in 1621, says there was a 
 park there, and a castle on a hill called Bailey Hill, of which 
 nothing more than the name and tradition now remain 
 [Abridged from Whitaker's "Craven," p. 153].
 
 NOTES. 391 
 
 Page 1 6, line 22. 
 Since on its banks the ancient Druids ranged. 
 
 To give the history of the Druids would swell the volume 
 beyond its intended limits, and only be superfluous. They had 
 undoubtedly an altar west of Bingley. The rocks which still 
 retain the name of The Altar, situated upon a lofty eminence, 
 deeply marked with the fire of sacrifice ; the beautiful valley 
 beneath, favourable to the growth of the oak, and eligible for 
 their sacred groves, place it beyond all doubt that the valley 
 of Bingley was once the residence of the ancient priests of the 
 Britons. 
 
 [Speaking of the Druids, Mr Ferguson argues that there never 
 were any Druids in England ; but there is certainly the tradition 
 of them at Bingley. If there were Druids in these parts, Baildon 
 will be the "Hill of Baal," ''Dun" being British for "hill," 
 and we know lh. a I'.aal fires were lighted on Midsummer Evi 
 on hill-tops till a very recent period in Yorkshire (Communicated 
 by Walter Morrison, Esq., May 29th, 1S76).] 
 
 Page 16, line 23. 
 
 T/ie fords, which once the Roman cohort 
 
 These must have been, according to the line of the Roman 
 road, from Olicana to Mancunium (Ilkley and Manchester of 
 the present day), between Riddlesden Hall ami Marley, in the 
 parish of Bingley; as the two remaining fragments, one on 
 Rumlulil\ Moor, and the other near Cullingworth, are in that 
 direction. Portions of Roman roads are only to be found on 
 the uncultivated wastes ; they are long since destroyed in the 
 enclosures. 
 
 l8, line IS. 
 
 At though afar more dull 
 
 Few peals in the We I Riding of Yorkshire are placed ami 
 so many different that of] Astranger, 
 
 not seeing the tower >>i the church, would often be at a loss to 
 know from whence the sounds proceeded.
 
 392 NOTES. 
 
 Page 19, line 1. 
 
 The Church, establish 'd, is their favourite place. 
 
 [There is a slight hitch here as to fact, and the sense requires 
 the substitution of the word only for favourite, as the context 
 amply demonstrates. The previous line alludes to the time 
 when all the worshippers were of 
 
 "One creed, one doctrine, and one mind;" 
 
 and is immediately followed by a description of the lord of the 
 manor, with his household, tenants, and the neighbouring 
 peasantry flocking with sincere piety and zeal to the service at 
 Kirkstall Abbey, as is unmistakably proved by the poet's own 
 notes referring to the abbots, John de Birdsall and Turgesius. 
 Hence, whilst the above line may be cited as a proof of Nichol- 
 son's attachment to the Established Church after leaving the 
 Wesleyan community, it also shows his zeal sometimes betrayed 
 him into actual unfairness to other denominations through a 
 want of proper discrimination.] 
 
 Page 19, lines 15-20. 
 
 Your fathers met their Maker to adore, 
 Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er, 
 And from the priest words of affection floived — 
 He prayed, he wept — until the list'ning crowd 
 Melted to tears ; and tears that zvere not feigned, 
 Like crystal drops, from all the audience rained. 
 
 As an instance of the exceeding humility and unfeigned piety 
 of some of the abbots of Kirkstall in the thirteenth century, I 
 here insert a copy of a letter, written by John de Birdsall, 
 abbot, to the Prior and Convent of the Monastery of Kirkstall, 
 about the year 1300, from Dr Whitaker's " History of Craven " 
 [pp. 6 7) 68] : 
 
 " To his reverend brethren the Prior and Convent of the 
 Monastery of Kirkstall, John, styled abbot of the same, 
 wishes health and grace, and that they may labour more
 
 NOTES. 393 
 
 earnestly after the things which concern Religion, Peace, 
 and Charity. 
 
 " Beloved, we have written this letter in haste from Canter- 
 bury, knowing that an account of the success of our journey will 
 be pleasing to you. 
 
 " In the first place, our dear brother who was present will 
 inform you, that on the morrow of St Lawrence we were met 
 by letters from the king, in a very threatening style ; that we 
 were apprised of robbers who laid wait for us in the woods, 
 under a rock : and that we were bound, under the penalty of 
 forfeiting all our goods, to abide the king's pleasure. However, 
 having been at length dismissed from his presence with honour, 
 we proceeded on our way; and notwithstanding the delay in 
 London, arrived at Canterbury on Monday evening, ourselves, 
 our servants, and horses, being all well. "We are not without 
 hope, therefore, that our feeble beginnings will be followed by 
 better fortune. On Wednesday morning, the wind blowing fair, 
 we put the horses on board a ship. 
 
 " For the time to come we commend you, dear brethren, to 
 God, and our bodily safety to your prayers. But especially pray 
 for the salvation of our soul ; for we are not greatly solicitous if 
 this earthly part of us be delivered into the hand of the wicked 
 one, so that the spirit be saved in the day of the Lord, which we 
 hope for. through the assistance of your intercessions: yet we 
 should wish, if it be the will of God, to be committed to the 
 earth by your hands, wherever you shall dispose. 
 
 " Bui know assuredly, that if we return, whosoever appear- 
 to have l'« en most humble in conversation, and active in business, 
 during our absence, shall receive an ample measure of grace and 
 recompense from God, and shall every hour 1" affection- 
 
 ately regarded by us. 
 
 " We entreat and enjoin brother R. Eel ley to prepare him- 
 for the duty ol preaching on the Nativity of our Lord, unless 
 we return in the meantime . festival may not ; 
 
 without a sermon, a thing winch hath 
 by tin f God, evei shall do. 
 
 " We wrote unto certain persons, 'Abstain from every appear- 
 ance of evil, and avoid it beforehand, whatever is, or can be, 
 pretended in its behalf.'
 
 394 NOTES. 
 
 " God shall give you the knowledge of these things. 
 
 " We adjure you, brethren, by the bowels of mercy in Jesus 
 Christ, that, if ye hear of our departure, ye will pray for us 
 faithfully, remembering the labours and distresses which we en- 
 dured in the beginning of our creation, and of which ye are now 
 reaping the fruits in peace. 
 
 " We know, dearly beloved, that worldly occupations, such 
 as we have long been entangled in for your sakes, are not without 
 danger to the soul. But we derive great hopes from your com- 
 passion, seeing that we aim at no earthly advantage, nor con- 
 sume the revenues of the monastery without cause. 
 
 " Salute our dear friends : . and especially our dear- 
 
 est companion,* to whom we would have some one interpret 
 this letter. When he hears it, he will scarcely be able to re- 
 frain from tears, which he shed abundantly at our parting. 
 
 " We commend our poor mother to your compassion. 
 
 "The salutation of me, John, your minister, such as I am, 
 and studying to do everything in my power for your advantage 
 and honour. 
 
 " We commend you again and again to God, and the B. V. 
 
 " Writtcji at Canterbury, -with many tears." 
 
 Page 22, lines 3, 4. 
 
 And slowly as the clouds of incense roll, 
 
 The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole. 
 
 "The use of perfumes," says Dr Whitaker, "is a pleasing 
 and elegant part of the Catholic ritual ; which, if it could be 
 adopted in our congregations, without offending the bigotry of 
 Puritanism, might have a pleasing and wholesome effect in cor- 
 recting the effluvia arising from crowded congregations. 
 
 "The power of show in religion, the pomp and pageantry of 
 the Romish Church, steals insensibly upon the imagination, in 
 defiance of enlightened reason and Protestant principle ! How 
 easy then must it have been to bribe the senses of rustics, who 
 saw no other splendid scenes but those of earth and heaven, 
 heard little music but that of birds, and inhaled no other per- 
 
 * Some illiterate but affectionate friend, whom he does not name.
 
 NOTES. 395 
 
 fumes than those of the field, especially when it is considered 
 that natural charms can only be enjoyed by cultivated minds, 
 while the artificial and gorgeous strike with greater force upon 
 the rudest." 
 
 It is stated that Lord Bolingbroke, in defiance of his infidelity, 
 was highly affected by attending high mass. 
 
 Page 22, lines 7, S. 
 
 Beholds the Abbot in his robes arrayed, 
 The altar wet, -where once Turgesius prayed. 
 
 Turgesius was the fourth Abbot of Kirkstall. He was a severe 
 chastiser of his body ; constantly clad in hair-cloth, and frequently 
 repeating to himself, " Those who are clothed in soft raiment are 
 in kings' houses." His clothing was alike in all seasons, being 
 ..iily a tunic and a cowl. His body was so habituated to this 
 discipline, that he appeared equally insensible to the heat of 
 dog-days and the cold of January. In the severest weather, he 
 endured the night-watches without shoes ; and when his well- 
 clad brethren were almost stiff with frost, he gave himself to the 
 praises of God, and repelled the cold without by the heat of 
 devotion within. Vet none was more mild and affable than 
 Turgesius. His abstinence was extreme. He never tasted wine 
 nor flesh. Fish he permitted to be set before him fur his frii 
 not for himself. His compunctions knew no bounds; in a 
 mon conversation, he scarcely refrained from v. At the 
 
 altar he never celebrated without such a profusion of tears, that 
 his eyes might be said rather to rain than weep ; insomuch, 
 that the sacerdotal vestment he officiated in, could not be used 
 until it was dried. After nine years' presidency, lie retired to 
 Fountains' Abbey, where he died. 
 
 [This note is an extract from Dr Whitaker's "History of 
 Craven," p. 64, but i^ slightly altered in several places and 
 
 condensed. ] 
 
 I e 2 ;. 
 
 When ancient 
 
 Had it not hem foi the religious houses, whal would have be- 
 come of the works of antiquity, or even of the Scriptures them-
 
 396 NOTES. 
 
 selves ? Had they been in the hands of the illiterate in the dark 
 ages, scarce a line of the Greek and Roman authors would have 
 been now beheld ; and no doubt a great many valuable works 
 were destroyed at the dissolution of houses in this district, and 
 those that were founded by the Percies, Lacies, and Romilis, 
 viz., Sawley, by Percy; Kirkstall, by Lacy; and Bolton, by 
 Romili. 
 
 Page 25, lines 17, 18. 
 
 Such were the sons of Leeds when Towton's plain 
 Was crimsoned der with thirty thousand slain. 
 
 " The true English Pharsalia was between Caxton and Tow- 
 ton. Here was the greatest engagement, and the strongest army 
 that was ever seen in England ; no fewer than one hundred 
 thousand men, under the command of two daring and furious 
 generals, engaged here on Palm Sunday, in the year 146 1. The 
 victory continued for a long time doubtful, but at last the Lan- 
 castrians proved the weakest by being too strong, for their 
 numbers proved cumbersome and unwieldy, which first caused 
 disorder and then flight ; the York party pursuing them. The 
 fight was so bloody that thirty-six thousand men were cut off, 
 among whom were a great many of the nobility. " 
 
 THE LYRE OF EBOR. 
 
 Page 26, line 10. 
 
 All these are seen near Burdens ancient tower*. 
 
 " Bard en was so called, from Bar and Dene, the valley of the 
 wild boar, and was well adapted to the habits of that animal, 
 from the deep solitude of its woods, and the profusion of acorns 
 which they must have shed. The forest stretches near four miles 
 on the banks of the river Wharf, from the confines of Burnsall 
 to those of Bolton. The buildings of the inhabitants are thatched, 
 and generally supported on crooks, and carry back the imagina-
 
 NOTES. 397 
 
 tion at least three centuries. Barden, in the fourth of Edward 
 II., had six lodges for the accommodation of the keepers, and 
 protection of deer. These were often square towers, constructed 
 for defence, ami may be considered as a kind of minor castles ; 
 one of which, Henry, Lord Clifford, enlarged, preferring the re- 
 treat of Barden to the bustle of greater houses. It appears from 
 an old compotus, that in 1517, five years after the battle of 
 Flodden, wages at Barden were paid to more than fifty servants" 
 [Abridged from Whitaker's "Craven," pp. 236-238]. 
 
 Page 27, line 22. 
 
 And find the cavern of the furious boar. 
 
 From a passage of one of the earliest charters of Skipton, it 
 appears that the fore I of Craven were enclosed with a pale. 
 The Saxon forests, as far a-* is known, lay open, and the practice 
 of enclosing these immense tracts must have been introduced by 
 the Norman lords. The animals nourished in these enclosures 
 were the stag, the wild boar, and the fallow deer. 
 
 Page 29, line 25. 
 
 Then high o'er libber's hill, whose sable crest. 
 
 " The dark brown mountain of Hober, with its rivals, Barden 
 Fell and Simon Srat, are among the most noble features in the 
 beautiful scenery of Bolton; and close the landscapes with a 
 most noble barrier of majestic grandeur." 
 
 40, lines 19, 20. 
 
 Three times T.r ha-v seen the great . 
 P. tfroyea as a brand in the plun 
 
 " The cross was on< e regarded as an instrument of honor and 
 trumenl oi the most dreadful punishment, 
 and the vilesl of < riminals were only subje< t to it- ignominy. 
 
 "1 ibolished the ' among the Romans, 
 
 lie rescued it from an appropriation to purposes that rendered it 
 
 : oi aversion, and made it rev< 1 nd beloved. It 
 
 was carved on his military standards after he embraced Christi-
 
 398 NOTES. 
 
 anity, engraven on his banners, and esteemed as the noblest 
 ornament of his diadem. His veneration for this sacred trophy 
 is said to have had a miraculous origin. He was himself the 
 historian of the appearance, and he sanctioned the truth of his 
 narrative, with the solemnity of an oath. About mid-day he saw 
 in the heavens a luminous representation of the cross, placed 
 above the sun, and accompanied by an inscription in Latin, 'By 
 this I conquer.' He it was who first made the cross an object 
 of veneration ; and through centuries Christians have reverenced 
 it as a memorial of their faith" (Rhodes's Peak Scenery). 
 
 Crosses used to be placed in the centre of parishes, at which 
 places the people worshipped in the early periods of Christianity. 
 
 Page 42, line 1. 
 
 The blazing pitch on Penighent fell down. 
 
 " These four mighty hills, having a view of each other, would 
 undoubtedly be provided with beacons, to give warning of the 
 approach of the enemy ; and remains of such places are to be seen 
 on their summits." 
 
 Page 42, line 26. 
 
 The field, ere noon, was qnickly changed to red. 
 
 There can be little doubt, that independent of the followers, 
 tenants, and dependants of Plenry, Lord Clifford, which are 
 (.•numerated in the list belonging to Craven, many of the sur- 
 rounding knights with their followers would accompany them 
 in the defence of their families and property. 
 
 Page 44, line 9. 
 
 Old Scotland's army had inarched boldly forth. 
 
 Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, while King Henry VII I. 
 was in France, had the command of the English ; while James, 
 King of Scotland, attended with the Earls Lennox and Argyle, 
 marched with his army and met them at a little town called 
 Brankston, under Flodoun Hill. The battle being so well 
 known in history, will be remembered by almost every reader.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 :;:)'.i 
 
 Tage 45, line 21. 
 
 The eagles from Helvellyns craggy* height. 
 
 " Before the battaill black cloud es poured down upon them 
 store of funerall teares, enarching the ayre with a spatious raine- 
 bowe, and discharging sundry tyre and peale of thunder. The 
 sunne also would gladly have hid his face, by thrusting it under 
 a partial eclypse. At the same time also, sholes and cloudes i if 
 baleful ravens, and other birdes of prey and ravin, as foreshewing 
 the harvest of carcases, came flying over the hostes" (Old His- 
 tory of England, 1605). 
 
 Page.48, line 11. 
 
 I Fluid reds of names ivith care great Clifford kept. 
 
 This is literally true, as his household book testifies. These 
 curious manuscripts were in the possession of the late Rev. \Y. 
 Carr of Bolton Priory, whose kindness I have to acknowledge, in 
 being able to lay before my readers a list of the followers of 
 Henry, Lord Clifford, who, no doubt, were engaged with him 
 on Flodden field, and some of whose names are embodied in 
 the "Lyre of Ebor." 
 
 TAKEN 1 ROM THE HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF HENRY, 
 U >RD CLIFFORD, 
 
 Dated Anno Henr. Octavi Secundo, 
 
 M u: l>>\ I 1 IR MOSl I'.RS. 
 
 I t. Ri tidall, a bille. 
 
 Will-m Marton, a bowe, and 
 and harnes. 
 iles Symson, a bowe, able, 
 and horse and harm 
 Thomas Stokdall, a bille, and 
 
 horse and hai 
 Robt. Stokdall, 
 John Roberts, I >o. 
 
 Ric- Amald, a bowe also. 
 
 and harnessed at 
 
 Thomas M . p-sone, 
 
 and horse and harm 
 John Malham, al 
 \ 1 ■'.[". r S 
 
 JohnThomlj n 
 
 a bille. John Swyei Junior, able, and 
 Ric- Bulkok, a bowe, able, and in. 
 
 p-son. Will-m Robert, aide and p-son.
 
 400 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 GERSYNTON. 
 
 John Clerk, a bowe, able, and 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 John Wilkynson, a bowe also. 
 
 George Knolle, a bowe also. 
 Lennard Hibotson, a bowe also. 
 
 ADYNGHAM. 
 
 William Wade, able, horse and 
 
 harnes. 
 Henry Man, archer also. 
 Richard Cryer, archer also. 
 Richard Rylyley, archer also. 
 Richard Lofthouse, able, bille 
 
 also. 
 
 Thomas Stotte, archer also. 
 Christopher Swyre, archer also. 
 Thomas Barker, archer also. 
 John Grene, a bille also. 
 
 Horsed and harnessed on 
 towne cost. 
 
 the 
 
 HAWKYSWYK. 
 
 William Calvard, archer, able 
 in horse and harnes. 
 
 Arthur Redyman, archer, able 
 also. 
 
 FLASBY. 
 
 William Hesffeld, a man, able, 
 horse and harnes. 
 
 Rich. Lister, a bille also. 
 
 Will-m Blackborne, a bille also. 
 
 Stephen Proctor, to fynde one 
 able man, and horse and har- 
 nes. 
 
 Roger Proctor, a bille also. 
 Lyonell Whytfeld, a bille also. 
 Rauffe Procter, to fynde a man, 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Robt. Snelle, archer, horsed 
 
 and harnessed. 
 
 LYTTONDALL. 
 
 John Knolle, able, horse and 
 
 harnes, a bille. 
 Abrahme Knolle, a bille also. 
 Rich. Franklyn, a bowe also. 
 
 Rich. Fawcytt, a bowe also. 
 John Franklyn, a bowe also. 
 Jack Fylson, a bowe also. 
 
 ARNECLYFF. 
 
 John Knolle, a bowe, able, and 
 horse and harnes. 
 
 Oliver Knolle, a bowe also. 
 Robt. Fylson, a bille also. 
 
 LANGSTROTHDALE. 
 
 Rich. Tenant, a bowe, able, 
 
 and horse and harnes. 
 Geoffery Tenant, a bowe also. 
 John Tenant, a bowe also. 
 
 Thomas Slyngr. a bowe also. 
 William Tenant, also a bowe. 
 Lenard Jake, a bowe also.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 401 
 
 GYGRESWYCK. 
 
 Robt. Stakhouse, a bowe, able, James Carr, a bowe also. 
 
 and horse and harnes. , Thomas Browne, a bille also. 
 
 John Webster, a bowe also. | Jack Stakhouse, a bowe also. 
 Thomas Palay, a bowe also. 
 
 SETTYLL. 
 
 Rich. Browne, a bowe, able, 
 
 and horse and harries. 
 Will-m Talyr, a bowe also. 
 Oliver Foster, a bowe also. 
 Rich. Cokeson, a bowe also. 
 Will-m Knolle, a bille also. 
 
 Adam Browne, a bill also. 
 Rogr. Yveson, a bowe also. 
 Rawlyn Lawson, a bowe also. 
 Allen Proctor, a bille also. 
 I lenry Hoelson, a bowe also. 
 Rich. Carr, a bill also. 
 
 STONEFORD. 
 
 James Foster, a bowe, able, 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Adam Palay, a bowe also. 
 Robt Twisleton, a bowe also. 
 
 Rich. Franklyn, a bowe also. 
 Rich. Chew, a bowe also. 
 James Armisted, a bille also. 
 
 LANGCLY1T. 
 
 Rich. Browne, a bowe, able, I Rogr. Yveson, a bowe also, 
 horse and harnes. Henry Pacock, a bille also. 
 
 GI.OSEBORNK. 
 
 Will-m Mamond, a bowe, able, 
 horse and hai 
 
 Robt. Som-rscale, a bowe also. 
 
 I HOR] I BY. 
 
 Will-m Brochden, a bille, able, Robt. Burgeas, a bille also 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 
 Thorn i k, a bille also. 
 
 Thomas Alcoi k, :i bowe, able, 
 horse and hai aes. 
 
 Thomas Croft, a bow . 
 
 Will-m ( '.lie, of 1-1 y, a bille 
 
 also. 
 John Pety, "f Esby, a bowe also. 
 
 1 1 \ i r o n . 
 
 Robt. Hurley, a DOWe, 
 horse and hames. 
 
 I ran* is Shyres, a bowe also, 
 Will-m West, a bowe also, 
 
 ■
 
 402 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 STETON. 
 
 Rich. Garford, a bowe, able, 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 John Garford, a bowe also. 
 John Parkynson, a bille also. 
 John Whetakers, a bowe also. 
 Will-m Smyth, a bowe also. 
 
 Will-m Estburne, a bille also. 
 Stephen Tyllotson, a bowe, 
 
 able, horse and harness. 
 Thomas Smyth Junior, a bowe 
 
 also. 
 
 SUTTON. 
 
 John Blakay, a bowe, wt. horse 
 and harnes. 
 
 John Parkynson, a bowe also. 
 
 KYLDWYK. 
 
 John Garford, a bowe, wt. horse | Edward Garford, a bowe also, 
 and harnes. | Rich. Herreson, a bill also. 
 
 COLLYNG. 
 
 Pers. Tyllotson, abill.wt. horse 
 
 and harnes. 
 Xrofer Lakok, a bowe also. 
 
 Nicoles Starburgh, a bowe also. 
 Henry Waller, a bowe also. 
 
 BEAMESLEY. 
 
 John Holme, a bowe, able, 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Thomas Frankland, a bowe 
 
 also. 
 
 Ric. Shyers, a bille also. 
 Thomas Kendal, a bille, wt. 
 horse and harnes. 
 
 Henry Young, a bowe, able, 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Will-m Wat, a bowe also. 
 Will-m Hogg, a bille also. 
 
 APPLETREWYCK. 
 
 Thomas Preston, a bowe. 
 Robt. Elson, a bowe also. 
 Cuthbt. Wynterb-n, a bille also. 
 Henry Young, bille and bowe. 
 
 ESSETON. 
 Thomas Marton, a bowe, able, horse and harnes. 
 
 Will-m Smyth, a bowe, able, 
 
 horse, and harnes. 
 Th. Slys, a bowe also. 
 
 BRADLEY. 
 
 Th. Grenewood, a bowe also. 
 Xrist. Smyth, a bowe also.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 403 
 
 KARNHYLL 
 
 Henry Curror, a bowe, wt 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Edward Salley, a bowe also. 
 
 Robt. Bradley, a bowe also. 
 Will-m Wylson, a bowe also. 
 
 MORTON BANKES. 
 
 John Rogerson, a bowe, able, I Rich. Holynrake, a bowe also. 
 
 1 Will-m Woode, a bowe also. 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 
 KIGHELEY. 
 
 John Rawson, a bowe, wt. horse 
 
 and harnes. 
 Thomas Sowden, bille also. 
 Will-m Buterfeld, a bowe also. 
 Xrdfer Ruddyng, a bowe also. 
 John Shaw, a bowe also. 
 John Brigg, a bille also. 
 John Stott, a bowe also. 
 Thomas Lakok, a bille also. 
 John Cokroffte, a bowe also. 
 Robt. Wryght, a bowe also. 
 
 Robt. Wryght Junior, a bowe 
 
 also. 
 Will-m Hertley, a bowe also. 
 Will-m Estburne, a bille also. 
 Lawr. Amblar, able, a bowe 
 
 also. 
 Rich. Trittyll, a bowe also. 
 Robt. Hudson, a bowe also. 
 John Sugden, a bowe also. 
 Rich. Sharppe, a bowe also. 
 John Weddoppe, a bille also. 
 
 BOLTON IN BOLAND 
 
 Will-m Stott, a bow, able, horse 
 
 and harnes. 
 Henry Garnett, a bowe also. 
 
 Robt. Caly, a bowe also. 
 Ih. 1'ele, a bylle also. 
 
 Henry Brerelay, a bow 
 
 horse and harnes. 
 Henry Arthyngton, a bowe 
 
 RIMYNTON 
 
 able, 
 
 Tames I hldy, a bowe also. 
 
 John Kay, a bowe also. 
 
 Ili-.I.IITI I l» AND M W I' 'V 
 
 John Carr, a bowe, able, I 
 and harnes. 
 
 John Clark, a bylle also. 
 
 John Hardaker, a bowe also. 
 Th. Badsby, a bowe also. 
 
 CAR] 
 
 Robt. Temp-St, a bowe, able, 
 horse and harness. 
 
 Robt. Dawtree, a bowe al 
 
 Jolm Thomson, a bowe al 
 Henry Wattkynson, a bowe 
 also.
 
 404 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 LYTTONDALE. 
 
 Adam Langstroth, a bille. 
 James Knolle, a bille. 
 Rauffe Knolle, a bille. 
 Matthew Knolle, a bille. 
 Will-m Thorneton, a bille. 
 Jak. Ellison, a bille. 
 Thomas Ellison, a bille. 
 Rogr. Franklyn, a bow. 
 John Franklyn, a bow. 
 
 Robt. Stoneford, a bille. 
 Henry Bulkok, a bille. 
 Henry Franklyn, a bowe. 
 John Walker, a bowe. 
 Rogr. Tennant, a bowe. 
 Thomas Wederhirde, a bowe. 
 Jakob Tennant, a bill. 
 Henry Fylson, a bowe. 
 John Coward, a bille. 
 
 ARNECLYFF. 
 
 Will-m Fyrrth, a bowe. 
 Rich. Clebenger, a bille. 
 Ptr. Pras, a bille. 
 John Carlyll, also. 
 
 Rich. Atkynson, a bow. 
 John Wilson, a bow. 
 John Atkynson. 
 
 LANGSTROTH. 
 
 Rauffe Tennant, a bowe. 
 James Parker, a bowe. 
 Will-m Langstroth, a bowe. 
 Geffory Walker, a bowe. 
 Thomas Tennant, a bowe. 
 Will-m Tennant, a bowe. 
 
 Adam Wilkynson, bille. 
 John Faldshaw, bowe. 
 Xrofer Hogg, also. 
 Rich. Smith, also. 
 James Case, also. 
 Xrofer Slyng, a bille. 
 
 SETTYLL. 
 
 Rich. Tenant, bille. 
 Alan Proctor, also. 
 Edward Lawson, also. 
 Adam Browne, a bowe. 
 Oliver Taleyor, also. 
 Thomas Sume-skale, bille. 
 Will-m Symson, also. 
 Robt. Taleyor, also. 
 John Watkynson, also. 
 Will-m Lawson, also. 
 Will-m Carr, a bowe. 
 Nicoll Carr, bille. 
 
 Robt. Medoppe, a bille. 
 Rich. Londe, a bowe. 
 Rich. Jakson, also. 
 Rogr. Can-j also. 
 Hug. Carr, also. 
 Will-m Taleyor, also. 
 Gyles Kokeson, also. 
 George Kokeson, also. 
 John Kokeson, also. 
 John Holson, also. 
 Rich. Lawson, also. 
 
 GYGRESWYCK. 
 
 Rich. Brashay, a bowe. 
 Rich. Wylson, also. 
 Robt. Burton, a bille. 
 John Brashay, a bowe. 
 Thomas Taleyor, also. 
 Thomas Preston, also. 
 John Stakhouse, also. 
 
 Will-m Ryley, also. 
 Thomas Armested, also. 
 Henry Armested, also. 
 John Taleyor, also. 
 Henry Taleyor, also. 
 Thomas Newhouse, also. 
 Olivr. Stakhouse, also.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ID.", 
 
 STONE FORD. 
 
 Adam Palay, a bille. 
 Rogr. Lawson, also. 
 Rogr. Swaynson, a bo we. 
 Rich. Palay, also. 
 James Armested, a bille. 
 Tohn Kokeson, a bowe. 
 
 Olivr. Armested, also. 
 Henry Lawkland, also. 
 Will-m Foster, a bille. 
 John Yveson, also. 
 Roirr. Yveson, a bowe. 
 
 Robt. Kydson, bille. 
 Rich. Kyng, also. 
 Robt. Kydd, also. 
 
 LANGCLYFF. 
 
 Will-m Yveson, also. 
 John Stakhouse, a bill. 
 Rog. Browne, a bowe. 
 
 KYGHLEY. 
 
 Ellis Hall, bowe. 
 John Butt-feld, bille. 
 
 Rich. Rycroffte, also. 
 John Netherwode, also. 
 Edwarde Rawson, bowe. 
 Robt. Bothomly, also. 
 Rich. Shawe, also. 
 Thomas Stotte, also. 
 Rich. Jenkynson, also. 
 Will-m Dcnby, bille. 
 Will-m Sugdcn, also. 
 John Clough, also. 
 WUl-m Smyth, also. 
 
 Robt. Lupton, bille. 
 
 Flics Waddysworth, also. 
 Will-m Roper, also. 
 Will-m Farnell, also. 
 Robt. Stelle, also. 
 Will-m Jakson, a bowe. 
 John Hanson, also. 
 Robt. Rawson, also. 
 Rich. Shakylton, also. 
 Edward More, also. 
 James Proctor, bille. 
 Robt. Sugden, also. 
 [oh,, Oldfeld, also. 
 |ohn Weddopp, aNo. 
 1 [enry Beneland, bowe. 
 
 Will-m Rog-son, bowe 
 John Fuller, bille. 
 Will-m 1 .i-i lie, also. 
 John Leche, al i. 
 
 MORTON BANKS. 
 
 Will-m Sharppe, bowe. 
 Will-m Adamson, bille. 
 Edmond I tobson, 
 Adam Wodde, a! 
 
 noi/niN by bol \m<. 
 
 1 [um'ray Pykhard, a bowe. 
 Tli. Pykhard, a bow. 
 [olm Wyglesworth, a bowe. 
 |ohn ( rarnett, a l.yll. 
 Th. Burk, abyll. 
 
 Rich. ( '.ilmb i -, a bowe. 
 I h. Toot, a bowe. 
 Robt. Walbank. 
 Will-m Knott, a byll. 
 Will-m Catley, a bowe.
 
 406 NOTES. 
 
 RIMYNGTON. 
 
 Robt. Calmley, a bow. 
 Robt. Tatersall, a byll. 
 Robt. Calmley, Junr. a bow. 
 Th. Walar, a byll. 
 Rich. Hoghton, a bow. 
 Will-m Carr, a bow. 
 Gyles Loge, a bow. 
 
 Robt. Forte, a bow. 
 Christ. Pykhard, a bow. 
 Th. Land, a byll. 
 
 Rogr. . 
 
 Robt. Dansar, a bow. 
 Christ. Hornby, a bow. 
 Rich. Walar, a byll. 
 
 HELYFELD AND NEWTON. 
 
 Th. Wray, a bow. 
 Henry Carr, a bow. 
 "Will-m Forte, a byll. 
 
 Th. Hardakers, a byll. 
 Rog. Hardakers, a bo we. 
 
 CARLTON. 
 
 Rich. Scarburgh, a bowe. 
 Rich. Stapylton, a bow. 
 John Smyth, a bow. 
 Will-m Thorp, a bow. 
 
 Th. Medybrok, a bow. 
 James Smith, a bow. 
 John Rycroft, a bow. 
 
 Dr Whitaker, in the "History of Craven," makes the follow- 
 ing observation : 
 
 "The enumeration of Lord Clifford's followers, on this occa- 
 sion, in the old metrical history of Flodden field, is so local 
 and exact, that it would be unpardonable to omit it. 
 
 " ' From Penigent to Pendle Hill, 
 From Linton to Long Addingham, 
 And all that Craven coasts did till, 
 They with the lusty Clifford came ; 
 All Staincliffe hundred went with him, 
 With striplings strong from Wharledale, 
 And all that Hauton hills did climb, 
 With Longstroth eke and Litton Dale, 
 Whose milk-fed fellows, fleshy bred, 
 Well brown'd with sounding bows upbend ; 
 All such as Horton Fells had fed 
 On Clifford's banners did attend. ' 
 
 " He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 
 2 3> I 5 2 3> aged about seventy. By his last will he appointed 
 his body to be interred at Shap, if he died in Westmoreland ; 
 or at Bolton, if he died in Yorkshire."
 
 NOTES. 407 
 
 Page 49, lines 7, 8. 
 
 Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork, 
 To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork. 
 
 "In the civil wars of the seventeenth century, the village of 
 Broughton, situated between the hostile garrisons of Skipton and 
 Thornton, had its full share of devastation and misery. It was 
 a tradition at Broughton Hall, that the village had been so 
 completely pillaged of common utensils, that an old helmet 
 travelled in succession from house to house for the purpose of 
 boiling broth and pottage. And an ancient poet has hit upon 
 this very circumstance : 
 
 " ' In days of old our fathers went to war 
 Expecting sturdy blows and hardy fare, 
 Their beef they often in their murrions stewed, 
 And in their basket-hilts their beverage brewed.' ' 
 
 Page 53, line 12. 
 
 Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung. 
 
 Garlands were in some instances made of paper, and carried 
 at the funerals of young unmarried women, inscribed with the 
 age and name of the dei ea 1 ; which custom is followed at the 
 ■nt day, in Bolton, and most other churches of Wharfdale, 
 where garlands may be seen hung upon the lattice-work of the 
 choirs. 
 
 " A garland fresh and fair, 
 < X lillies there was made, 
 In sign of her virginitie, 
 And on her coffin laid." 
 
 —Dr Percy's Old Sot 
 
 I e no, lines 1.;. 1 \. 
 
 Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, '.cells, and air. 
 Can cure the nervous, trembHn tairl 
 
 Asa place where health is likely to Improve, none is better 
 situated than this rural and romantic village. There are . n'.i 
 quities, a river, mountains, rocks, and one of the finest wells in
 
 408 NOTES. 
 
 the kingdom, independent of its vicinity to the beautiful ruins of 
 Bolton, and the enchanting scenes of fifteen miles in one of the 
 most beautiful valleys of the north ; and where real rural plea- 
 sure and purity of air, with everything reasonable that can 
 strengthen the weak and delicate, are the objects, Ilkley claims 
 the precedence of every other watering-place. 
 
 Page 61, lines 5, 6. 
 
 Denton, thou rural village, little known, 
 
 Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne. 
 
 The family of the Fairfaxes resided here, but their history 
 being so well known to every reader, I will only mention the 
 great and last decisive battle of Marston Moor. After which 
 the countrymen who were ordered to bury the dead, gave out 
 that they interred 4150, two-thirds of whom were gentlemen and 
 persons of quality. 
 
 At Marston Grange are many hundreds of cannon and musket 
 balls, which have been found in the fields within these last forty 
 years. 
 
 Page 61, lines 7, 8. 
 
 When Fairfax, with a patriot feeling strong, 
 Was led by false designing Cromwell wrong. 
 
 [The poet's statement here is wholly unsupported by evidence, 
 or reference to the Royalist historians ; and to say the least of it, 
 extremely improbable, for at this time Cromwell was only Col- 
 onel in the Parliamentary army, and his influence over the 
 Commander-in-chief, Sir Thomas Fairfax, must have been next 
 to nothing. Hence the above sweeping assertion is simply un- 
 tenable. And the base charges and insinuations against him 
 for his conduct and actions during the battle are unworthy of 
 refutation. Besides, it is generally admitted that his own per- 
 sonal bravery, at the head of five thousand men, decided the 
 victory for the Parliamentary army after the Scots and Sir 
 Thomas Fairfax had been utterly routed (see Life of Colonel 
 Hutchinson, pp. 229, 230, Bohn's edition, London, 1854). 
 
 The following account of the battle of Marston Moor is both
 
 NOTES. 409 
 
 graphic and apparently impartial, having been drawn up from 
 really authentic records, and forms part of Appendix iii. to 
 Hartley's "Malham," pp. 52-59, published 1786: "During 
 his march from Latham Prince Rupert had received a letter 
 from the king which he understood as a peremptory command 
 to fight. Accordingly, on his arrival [before York, which was 
 then besieged by the Parliamentarians], he immediately ordered 
 the garrison under arms, and marching out took possession of a 
 height, the most advantageous ground on Marston Moor, on the 
 evening of Tuesday the 2d of July. . . . Fifty thousand 
 l'.ritish troops or more were now led out to mutual slaughter, 
 the forces on each side being nearly ecmal in numbers. Both 
 armies were in sight of each other, and it was late in the even- 
 ing before the arrangements for action were completed. The 
 Parliamentary forces were drawn up on a corn hill on the south 
 side of the moor, extending their front from Marston to Top- 
 with, as well as the straightness of the fields and other local dis- 
 advantages would permit. Their right wing, consisting altogether 
 of cavalry, was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax and Colonel 
 Lambert. The left, by the Fail of Manchester and Colonel 
 Cromwell. One brigade of the infantry by the Scottish general, 
 the Farl of Leven ; and the other, consisting of the main body 
 of the army, by the Commander-in-chief, Lord Fairfax. The 
 right wing of the prince's army, which was of course opposed to 
 Lord Manchester and Cromwell, was commanded by the Mar- 
 quis of Newcastle. The left wing, opposed to Sir Thomas 
 Fairfax and Lambert, by the prince himself; and his main 
 body by General Goring, Sir Charles Lucas, and Major-General 
 Porter. The ordnance on both sides began playing about three 
 o'clock, but without doing any considerable execution mi either 
 part ; and both armies having completed the disposition of their 
 forces about five, there was an awful silence on each side, 
 
 pecting who should begin the charge, there being a ditch and a 
 
 bank between them. In this posture they continued some lime, 
 but at length the Parliamentary generals, notwithstanding the 
 evident disadvantage and disorder whichever party had to en- 
 counter win. In 4 made the pass, resolved upon the attack ; and 
 advancing in a running inarch SOOD made their way over the 
 ditch— the wings dressing to the main body ; the front divisions
 
 410 NOTES. 
 
 of the whole line mutually, and at the same instant, charged their 
 respective opposites. The battle was most obstinately disputed. 
 Mr Lambert distinguished himself greatly. Withfive or six troops 
 Sir Thomas Fairfax and he charged the prince's left wing with 
 great fury — broke and cut their way through his division, and 
 transported by the ardour of pursuit, soon reached their victorious 
 friends, Manchester and Cromwell, who, like themselves, had 
 driven through and dispersed their enemy. The main body of 
 the army, however, as well as the other squadrons of the right 
 wing, after a most desperate combat, seemed to wear a doubtful 
 if not a different aspect, and the Parliamentary infantry were 
 broken and disordered. The Scots especially who were charged 
 by a party of the king's horse were totally routed and defeated ; 
 and giving up the battle for lost, fled for many miles together. 
 Indeed, one of their generals, Lesly, was taken prisoner by a 
 constable at ten miles distance, from whose report news was 
 immediately despatched to the king at Oxford, that the battle 
 was decided in the royal favour. At this moment also, Sir 
 Charles Lucas with great heroism and dexterity turned his force 
 upon the Parliamentary cavalry dispersed in the enthusiasm of a 
 victorious pursuit ; and having made a courageous and in some 
 measure a successful attack upon them, was aiming directly at 
 the carriages and baggage of the whole army. Their vigilant 
 and undaunted officers, however, perceiving the manoeuvre and 
 appearances of things in this quarter, rallied instantly their 
 troops, and immediately formed and fronted them to the enemy. 
 Thus both sides were compelled to renew a combat for that 
 victory which each of them thought they already had obtained. 
 The front of the battle was now exactly counterchanged, and 
 each army occupied the ground which had been possessed by 
 the enemy at the beginning of the day. The second battle was 
 equally furious and desperate as the first ; but after the utmost 
 efforts of courage by both parties, victory wholly turned to the 
 side of the Parliament. Their cavalry, who at the outset of the 
 business were arranged at each extremity of the army, now 
 falling unitedly upon the prince's right wing, where the Mar- 
 quis of Newcastle was, after a firm and magnanimous resist- 
 ance, totally routed and overcame them. The marquis's own 
 regiment, resolute to conquer or to perish, obstinately kept
 
 NOTES. 411 
 
 their ground, and maintained by their dead bodies the same 
 order in which they had at first been ranged. The whole Parlia- 
 mentary army now fell together upon the divided bodies of 
 General Goring and Prince Rupert, and dispersed and van- 
 quished them in every quarter. Four thousand of the king's 
 forces were slain in this engagement ; fifteen hundred taken 
 prisoners ; twenty-five pieces of ordnance ; forty-seven colours, 
 with the prince's own standard, and the arms of the Palatinate ; 
 ten thousand arms ; two waggons of carbines and pistols ; one 
 hundred and thirty barrels of powder, and all their baggage. 
 
 " The event of this battle, so deeply lamented by the royal 
 historians as a fatal blow to the king's interests, is universally 
 attributed to the exploits and intrepidity of the Parliamentary 
 cavalry. Indeed, the dragoons on both sides are said to have 
 behaved with the most determined bravery and ardour. Hav- 
 ing discharged their pistols, they flung them at each other's head, 
 and 'fell to it with the sword.' " 
 
 The rank of Cromwell in the Parliamentary army at this 
 period is somewhat differently given by historians; e.g., Mac- 
 aulay says that Lord Fairfax " was the nominal lord-general of 
 the forces, but Cromwell was their real head " (History of Eng- 
 land, vol. i., p. 57, People's edition). And the writer of the 
 " History of England" in Lardner's "Cabinet Encyclopaedia" 
 (vol. v., p. 339), styles Cromwell, the Earl of Manchester's "lieu- 
 tenant-general, and commander of the cavalry." Further, that 
 the Parliamentary forces had raised th( ■ t York, and were 
 
 in full march towards Tadcaster when they were rashly pursued 
 by Prince Rupert, contrary to the advice of the Marquis of New- 
 castle, on which they immediately wheeled round, and drew up 
 in order of battle on Marston Moor, where the result was so 
 
 disastrous to the Royalists.] 
 
 P (■-. line i.v 
 Then with near thirty wound* bra 
 
 " Sir Richard Graham oi NortonConyei ,averj active officer 
 
 on the side of loyalty, after receiving twenty-six wounds in this 
 battle, fled, when all was lost, toward his own house, which he 
 
 reached that night, and expired about an hour after his arrival."
 
 412 NOTES. 
 
 Page 69, lines n, 12. 
 
 Then well to sup he galloped off the ground, 
 Felt not the pain, for he received no wound. 
 
 [This is a mistake, for both Fairfax and Cromwell were 
 wounded in this terrible and sanguinary fight (History of Eng- 
 land, vol. v., p. 340, Lardner's Cabinet Encyclopaedia; Ap- 
 pendix to Hurtley's Malham, etc., p. 60).] 
 
 Page 71, lines 25, 26. 
 
 that the day would dawn that brings to thee, 
 Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty! 
 
 [The independence of Greece was finally effected through the 
 active interference of England, France, and Russia, whose com- 
 bined fleet nearly annihilated the Turkish navy in the Bay of 
 Navarino, on the 20th of October 1827. During the prolonged 
 struggle the Greeks had held out heroically, and at times de- 
 feated large divisions of their oppressors ; whilst fearful atrocities 
 had been committed on both sides. But the Turks frequently 
 displayed the sheerest wantonness in the destruction of property, 
 and barbarous massacre of the inhabitants of the towns and 
 villages which had been bravely defended by the Greeks. The 
 battle of Navarino so completely crippled the power of the 
 Turks, that Ibrahim Pasha at once saw the necessity of evacuat- 
 ing the Morea, and about the middle of the following December, 
 took the opportunity of sending "his remaining ships to Egypt 
 with the sick and wounded, and women and children connected 
 with the expedition. Along with these he shipped a good 
 number of the Greeks for slaves " (Keightley's History of the 
 War in Greece, vol. ii., p. 371). But he remained in the country 
 with an army of 27,000 men, and in possession of the principal 
 fortresses, till the following October, when the French Govern- 
 ment sent a force under Marshal Maison to the assistance of the 
 Greeks, and compelled him to evacuate the Morea ; and the 
 fortresses were surrendered almost without any show of resist- 
 ance. The independence of Greece was formally acknowledged 
 by the Sultan Mahmood, in September 1829.]
 
 NOTES. 413 
 
 Page 77, lines II, 12. 
 
 Vaived from his monarch he would never part, 
 Then plunged the weapon to his charger s heart. 
 
 "After Lord Clifford had overcome Fitzwalter at Ferrybridge, 
 the Earl of Warwick mounted his courser, and riding up to King 
 Edward, said, I pray God have mercy on their soules which in 
 the beginning have lost their lives ; I see no succour in the world 
 but God, to whom I remit the vengeance. And so alighting 
 from his horse, slew him with his sword, saying, Let him fiie 
 that flie will, I will tarrie with him that will tarrie with me : and 
 confirmed his words by kissing the cross of his sword." 
 
 Page 77, lines 23, 24. 
 
 Whoever shall such trembling dastard slay, 
 Shall be promoted when we gain the day. 
 
 "The next day more fatall for Englands bloud, was celebrated 
 with speares instead of palmes, usually borne on that Saboth of 
 Lent, in whose dawning, the Lord Fauconbridge, who com- 
 manded the foreward (the Duke of Norfolke being sicke), tooke 
 the field on a plaine, betwixt the townes of Towton and Saxton, 
 where King Edward joining his whole forces (being forty-eight 
 thousand, and six hundreth sixty persons, a- King Henries were 
 also threescore thousand) caused proclamation to bee made, that 
 hee who feared to fight, might forthwith depart, but if any 
 Souldier abiding, should seek to (lie or turn backe, hee should 
 bee slaine by his next fellow, and the -layer to receiue a great 
 reward, besides the stipend of a double pay." 
 
 I re S.j, line S. 
 
 . In i dm i ■ rs of tin- ine. 
 
 "After the battle "f Towton, the knightes as if it had been 
 a daye of myrthe and sporte, spent the night in theire castilles 
 talking of amies and amoures."
 
 414 NOTES. 
 
 THE POACHER. 
 
 Page 91, lines 5, 6. 
 
 They act such deeds as make e'en barons swear, 
 Break down their fine park walls and take the deer. 
 
 The poachers in the southern parts of Craven, a few centuries 
 ago, seem not to have meddled with the hare, pheasant, grouse, 
 etc., but to have stolen the deer out of the parks, and nothing 
 seems to have given the lords greater offence. 
 
 [Our author's poetry and prose are here at fault, and require 
 considerable limitation. For, whatever truth there might be in 
 poachers stealing the deer — " a few centuries ago" — the state- 
 ment was inapplicable to the period of the poet's own lifetime, 
 when game only was taken.] 
 
 Page 92, line 12. 
 
 A better workman seldom took the field. 
 
 [As most of Nicholson's characters were pictures from real 
 life, and not ideal creations, the statements as to the skill and 
 ability of the person here alluded to may have been strictly cor- 
 rect ; but the note on this line is anything but true of most 
 poachers, viz., that there "are very few abler or better work- 
 men." It is readily admitted that this is a generally received 
 opinion ; but it is utterly opposed to fact, as poaching is seldom 
 resorted to except by lazy or unskilful persons as an easy mode 
 of obtaining a livelihood.] 
 
 Page 102, lines 17, 18. 
 
 How oft have I, with exultation great, 
 Stood listening to the singing ofi his feet. 
 
 Some dogs never bark when in pursuit of game, and can only 
 be heard by the noise which they make with running, styled by 
 poachers — Singing at the feet.
 
 NOTES. 415 
 
 Page 103, lines 25, 26. 
 
 A r ot to the ale-house did the group retire, 
 
 But drank and smoked around the poacher s fire. 
 
 It is well known that there are two distinct classes of poachers, 
 one of a desperate description, who, having been fined or im- 
 prisoned several times, are determined to be revenged, knowing 
 that if they again be taken, they need not expect anything else 
 but a heavier penalty or a longer imprisonment. The other 
 class are those who are afraid of every bush, and will fly even at 
 their own shadow. These, in general, commit their depreda- 
 tions in their own neighbourhood ; while the other range perhaps 
 in a circuit of twenty miles — to whom rivers are no obstacle, nor 
 are they hindered by the most stormy nights ; they can obtain 
 game in such quantities, that they have sometimes even a super- 
 fluity of money, which they spend in the poacher's lonely cot. 
 It not unfrequently happens, that to make money, the veteran 
 poachers sell their tackling to the junior ones at much above 
 what they really cost, and, in the character of gamekeepers, 
 take them from them the next night. 
 
 Page 107, lines 15-18. 
 
 Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied, 
 And there my game across the river ride, 
 Then I the bridge securely travel o'er, 
 . 1 >id none take oath that murdered game I lore. 
 
 Suppose three are in a gang, who are going into a gentleman's 
 grounds, between them and which there is a river which cannot 
 be forded, and they have to pass overa bridge which is guarded. 
 Being provided with a large oil-case, and a string which will go 
 
 three times over the river, they tie a leaden hall to tile end of it, 
 and throw it over the Stream. Their implements are then put 
 into the oil-case, and fastened to the cord, while one goes over 
 the bridge to the place where the ball is thrown, and draws the 
 oil-case over, containing shot, powder, net-, etc., which, by 
 this means, are all kept perfectly dry. In the same inanii' 
 all the game they get drawn over, though the river should he
 
 416 NOTES. 
 
 swollen to a great degree. In passing the bridge, should they 
 be searched, nothing suspicious is found upon them. 
 
 I had once intended to have written more notes explanatory 
 of the poacher ; but, when I considered that it would be only 
 throwing light on practices already too much known, I thought 
 it best to desist. 
 
 GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 Page 137, line 6. 
 Upon the mighty rocks where Goothefell. 
 
 An amiable and interesting Welsh youth, of the name of 
 Charles Goothe, falling from the top or rocky sides of Helvellyn, 
 perished there in 1805. His untimely end excited the deep 
 commiseration of the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 [The name is altered in the previous edition to Charles Gough, 
 which was probably the correct name ; but it was accidentally 
 overlooked when Sheet I. was in the printer's hands. The 
 name and note have, therefore, been left as written by Nicholson.] 
 
 LINES ON AN OLD OAK TREE. 
 
 Page 191, line 12. 
 
 And kept the tree while Bradford keeps its crest, etc. 
 
 There is a tradition that some centuries ago, the wood which 
 then surrounded the church at Bradford was infested with a 
 furious wild boar, which was the terror of the neighbourhood. 
 A reward was offered by the Government for the head or tongue 
 of this animal ; and it is asserted that it was shot while in the 
 act of drinking at a well, near an oak tree, which was, not long
 
 NOTES. 417 
 
 since, standing. The hero who accomplished the feat stationed 
 himself behind this identical tree, and as soon as he had de- 
 spatched the monster, he proceeded to cut out its tongue, with 
 which he hastened to receive the reward. In the meantime the 
 animal was found dead by another person, who immediately cut 
 off its head, and would have succeeded in obtaining the reward, 
 had not the hero who actually killed the animal arrived with its 
 tongue. From this circumstance it is supposed the arms of 
 Bradford originated, the crest of which is a boar's head. 
 
 LINES ON "LONG TOM." 
 
 ! e 287, lines 1, 2, etc. 
 
 great Long Tom! when thou with foam art crown'd, 
 Thou stretchest care and anguish on the ground, etc. 
 
 [" The clever lines on Long Tom," as Nicholson's biographer 
 was pleased to style them, arc open to very serious objection on 
 the ground of their attributing too much virtue in every sense of 
 the word to "Tom's soul." They are simply a Bacchanalian 
 effusion inspired by a draught, almost amounting to worship, 
 and sadly wanting in discrimination. For " f/om's soul " would 
 rand invigorate nun ami birds! In the storm and cold "I 
 winter, the Poet confidently declares that he would "taki 
 harm" by being out, as "Tom's soul" would keep him "warm." 
 And in spring, it would make the ploughman "sing so loud," 
 that the larks "would stop to listen in the cloud." Further, if 
 the "mellow thrush"could only sip, "how strong" his notes 
 would be "upon the topmost bush." And as a climax, 
 
 //</ Nature's songsters drin . t, /'row thee, 
 
 The) xrmony. 
 
 Next, in summer it would refresh and n the weary and 
 
 thirsty traveller ; and in autumn, under its genial influence, the 
 sportsman would "Letter hit his mark." I a ' . . in winter it 
 would "kill the frost," besides enabling our soldiei :or.-> 
 
 J 1 1
 
 418 NOTES. 
 
 in the event of war to "vanquish their foes, however fierce and 
 strong. " The circumstances under which the lines were written, 
 place them beyond the pale of strict criticism. They were 
 undoubtedly the outpouring of a grateful heart, for the generous 
 hospitality so often accorded to the Poet by George Lane Fox, 
 Esq., at Bramham Park, but show throughout'the extravagance 
 of poetic licence, in praising a favourite beverage. Nicholson 
 was a firm believer in the beneficial effects of "good October," 
 "sparkling on the board" of the feudal lords and our modern 
 gentry — and home-brewed ale "around the malt-kiln fire" — 
 which sufficiently account for his excessive admiration and 
 praise. ] 
 
 ENGLAND'S LAMENT. 
 
 Page 318, lines 3-6. 
 
 No more of England' 's glory let us sing, 
 Let Nelson rest, nor touch the vocal string ; 
 Let patriots' tears in torrents flow like rain, 
 For all is lost our fathers fought to gain. 
 
 [The Poet's sentiments at the time were largely shared by 
 thousands of educated persons throughout the country, who 
 looked upon the Catholic Disabilities Bill with pious horror — 
 the setting of the sun of England's glory. But as the predicted 
 evils and the downfall of the country belong to the future, and 
 we trust, a very distant future, the " Lament of England for the 
 Loss of her Constitution," may be considered the prelude to 
 Macaulay's New Zealander sketching the ruins of St Paul's from 
 one of the broken arches of London Bridge. This poem was 
 dedicated and sent to the Earl of Eldon, who, in a letter to the 
 Author, highly complimented him on its merits.]
 
 NOTES. 419 
 
 OWEN'S NEW MORAL WORLD. 
 
 Page 332, line 21. 
 
 Go on, great Brindley, and expose their wiles, etc. 
 
 [The gentleman here alluded to was Mr John Brindley, one 
 of the ablest and earliest advocates (if Christianity in opposition 
 to Socialism, who held a public discussion with Mr Robert 
 Owen in Bristol, on the evenings of January 5th, 6th, and 7th, 
 1841, and also with many of the Socialist missionaries through- 
 out the country. Mr Brindley also gave lectures upon the 
 subject in Leeds, Bradford, etc., and by his keen logical acumen 
 and eloquence, beat down all his opponents, and was every where 
 received with unbounded applause. Bradford at this time was 
 one of the stronghold-, of infidelity; and intelligenl working men 
 in vast numbers took opposite sides with great energy and 
 determination in the numerous discussions which followed. 'I he 
 flourish of trumpets by the champions of the " \< v. Moral 
 World " had been long and loud, and the onslaughts on Chris- 
 tianity fiercely carried on by them, till Mr Brindley and a feu- 
 others boldly accepted the challenges to public tournaments or 
 discu nd fairly vanquished their opponents by legitimate 
 
 argument, showing the hollov nd inherent rottennes 
 
 li-m. The Poet attended some of th cussions, and 
 
 1 his own deep reli;., and pn 
 
 irded Mr Brindle) 11 oi • Iwenism as complete, and 
 
 the defence ol Christianity most triumphant.] 
 
 ON \ 
 YOUNG l.\l>\ DROWNED l\ THE STRID. 
 
 1 
 
 [The 1 ua Hart, B.A., \ . in a lecture 
 
 re the Mechanii ' Institute, entitled "Our '• has
 
 420 NOTES. 
 
 given an interesting account of this melancholy accident, as 
 related to him by the Rev. W. Carr, the highly esteemed rector 
 of Bolton for many years. The unfortunate lady was the 
 only daughter of Mr Poole, a London solicitor, who had gone 
 with a wedding party to enjoy the delightful scenery in the 
 neighbourhood of Bolton Abbey, and whilst at the Strid, fell in 
 and was drowned ; but her body was not recovered till the 
 following day near the fatal spot. This sad event happened 
 in 1S22, and is, perhaps, the only case of drowning on record 
 besides that of young Romille. After the first wild tumult of 
 sorrow, in the case of Miss Poole, the bridal party found their 
 way to the quiet parsonage, where the Rev. W. Carr endeavoured 
 to soothe them by the consolations of religion. The fate of 
 " The Boy of Egremont " had previously led to the founding of 
 "Bolton Priory," which was translated from Embsay in 1 154, 
 in memory of the former event.] 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 Page 344, line 9, etc. 
 
 Of all the various volumes in the land, etc. 
 
 [These ten lines occur at p. 327, in the " Strictures on Owen's 
 New Moral World," and were the only portion of the poem 
 inserted in Mr James's edition, p. 18S, published in 1844; an d as 
 the poem was entirely left out of the fourth edition, and is now 
 very little known, it has been given in full with only the necessary 
 correction of a few words.] 
 
 THE SIEGE OF BRADFORD. 
 
 Page 348, line 1. 
 
 The terms we offer d are rejected. 
 
 In the year 1642, a body of troops, in the king's service, were 
 quartered at Bradford, intended to suppress any revolt of the
 
 NOTES. 421 
 
 people that might have occurred ; but it appears, that no dis- 
 turbance happening, they were ordered to quit Bradford for 
 some other place. During the absence of this military force, the 
 inhabitants vigorously prepared for the defence of their town ; 
 blocked up every avenue leading to it, and sent out spies, to 
 watch the motions of the Royalists, a party of whom lay at 
 Leeds, who, hearing of the designs of the inhabitants of Bradford, 
 despatched a considerable number of troops to the latter place. 
 They encamped on that part of the common called Undercliff, 
 and prepared to storm the town, which they did with great 
 vigour, but were beaten off by the inhabitants, who had pre- 
 viously armed themselves with such weapons as the emergency 
 of their situation would allow them time to make and procure. 
 
 ["The Earl of Newcastle," says General Fairfax, "now lay 
 betwixt us and our friends in the West Riding; but, to assist and 
 encourage them, I was sen! with about three hundred foot, three- 
 troops of horse, and some arms, to Bradford. I was to inarch 
 by way of Ferrybridge; but, on better intelligence how the 
 enemy lay, with the same number as before, I marched in the 
 night by several towns where they lay, and came the next day 
 to Bradford, a town very untenable ; but for their good affection 
 to us, deserving all we could hazard for them. ( lur first work 
 then, was to fortify ourselves; for we could not but expect 
 an assault. Then lay at Lei in hundred of the enemy, 
 
 and twelve hundred at Wakefield, neither place above six or 
 seven miles distant from us.* They visited us every day with 
 their horse, ours not going far from the town, being very unequal 
 in number; yel the enemy seldom returned without loss, till at 
 last our lew men grew so bold, and theirs so disheartened, that 
 theydursl nol stir a mile bom their garrisons. " 2d Ed.] 
 
 ( in the iSth of Deo ms, however, 
 
 that another visit to the town ol Bradford was made by a Royal 
 party from Leeds, where the Ear] of Newcastle then was. 
 Tibs body was commanded by Colonel Goring, Sir William 
 Saville [2d 1 i ptain Lister and Captain Nowell of Meak- 
 lej |, etc. I'heir first n the church, 
 
 which w.is really the forties-, of the town. But, in this second 
 
 • The actual distance I ceils being ten 
 
 miles and Wakefield thirti
 
 422 NOTES. 
 
 attempt, the Royalists were again repulsed, and obliged to retire 
 to Leeds, and soon after Fairfax took possession of the town in 
 person. Newcastle's quarters seem now to have been removed 
 to Wakefield, in the direction of which Fairfax marched out, 
 and offered him battle. This brought on the action of Adwalton 
 Moor, in which both Fairfaxes, father and son, were totally- 
 routed. The old lord fled to Bradford, Sir Thomas took the 
 road of Halifax, but finding the way open, returned on the day 
 following with the remains of his division to Bradford, when 
 Newcastle, whose headquarters were at Bowling Hall, prepared 
 to besiege them in form. It was about this crisis of affairs that 
 Newcastle is supposed to have made the speech which com- 
 mences " The Siege of Bradford." 
 
 Page 350, line 6. 
 Against the church, which most they will defend. 
 
 The inhabitants found the church steeple convenient for their 
 marksmen, who were stationed there. 
 
 [As a piece of architecture the tower of Bradford Church ap- 
 pears the strongest and best built of any in the West Riding ; 
 and the inhabitants in the hour of fear and danger would un- 
 doubtedly avail themselves of its strength, as the fire from its 
 battlements would be both annoying and destructive, and the 
 narrow staircase would be easily defended, the artillery of those 
 days having neither the power nor skill of the present. — 2d Ed.] 
 
 Page 350, line 11. 
 From the surrounding villages they come. 
 
 The neighbouring hamlets, at this period, furnished all their 
 strength ; and no- doubt they would cut a very grotesque appear- 
 ance, from the accounts given of them. 
 
 [ ' ' Again we called in fresh aid from Halifax, Bingley, and their 
 adjacent villages, and they came speedily to assist us. We also 
 got a captain from Halifax, a man of military skill, who in- 
 structed us in the best manner possible. Our captain mustered 
 all his men ; the greatest part of these he placed in the church, 
 and upon the steeple ; the rest were armed with clubs, scythes,
 
 NOTES. 423 
 
 spits, halberts, sickles, laid in long poles, and such like rustic 
 weapons ; these he placed in such a manner as best to prevent 
 the enemy from entering the town, or taking possession of the 
 church" (See Lister s account of the Siege of Bradford). — 2d Ed.] 
 
 Page 350, line 15. 
 Fairfax will lead them. 
 
 Sir T. Fairfax was the general who was so successful in the 
 cause of the Parliament, and was almost considered invincible 
 by his party. 
 
 Page 351, line 7. 
 
 / //a:'c descried a spot, called Goodmansend. 
 
 The cannon of the Royalists was actually planted at Good- 
 mansend, perhaps the most advantageous situation for the purpose 
 the vicinity of the town affords [omitted in 2d Ed.]. 
 
 Page 351. 
 
 Act I. — Scene II. 
 
 In this scene I have introduced an ecclesiastic, who, on 
 account of sacred function, is permitted, even in the rebel 
 council, t" pour forth for -nine time the effusions of a loyal heart. 
 \\ hatever impropriety there may be in the circumstance, or 
 however unnatural the supposition, I could not refrain from 
 introducing sentiments, which a better writer would have clothed 
 in flowery langua 
 
 [Surely he had more right than the usurper Cromwell, who 
 
 hypocritically could write to his brother-in-law, ( lolonel Valentine 
 Walton, directly after the battle ol M Moor, such letters 
 
 as the two following, extracted from Mr Ellis's "Historical l 
 
 lection : " 
 
 " I'M It's our duly to sympathize in all men'. 
 
 that wee praise the Lord together in chastisements or tryalls, 
 that sue wee may sorrowe together. Truly England and the 
 Church of God hath had a great favour from the Lord in this
 
 424 NOTES. 
 
 great victorie given unto us. Such as the like was never since 
 this war begunn. It had all the evidences of an absolute vic- 
 torie obtained by the Lord's blessinge upon the Godly partye 
 principally. Wee never charged, but we routed the enemy. 
 The left winge, which I commanded, being our own horse, 
 saving a few Scotts in our reere, beat all [the] Prince's horse. 
 God made them as stubble to our swords. Wee charged their 
 regiments of foot with our horse, and routed all wee charged. 
 The particulars I cannot relate now. But I believe of 20,000, 
 the Prince hath not 4000 left. 
 
 " ' Give glory, all the glory to God.' " 
 
 This seems to have been written on the field of battle, and in 
 a few days after the following : 
 
 " Deere Sir, — God hath taken away your eldest son by a 
 cannon shott. Itt brake his Legge. Wee were necessitated to 
 have itt taken off, whereof he died. Sir, you know my tryalls 
 this way, but the Lord supported mee with this. That the 
 Lord took him into all happiness wee all pant after, and live 
 for. There is your precious child, full of glory, to know sinn 
 nor sorrow any more. He was a gallant younge man, exceeding 
 gracious. God gave you his comfort. Before his death hee 
 was soe full of comfort, that to Frank Russell and myselfe he 
 could not express itt, itt was soe great above his paine. This 
 he said to us. Indeed itt was admirable. A little after, he 
 said one thing lay upon his spirits. I asked him what that was. 
 Hee told mee that itt was that God had not suffered him to be 
 no more the executioner of his enemies. Att his fall, his horse 
 being killed with the bullett, and, as I am informed, three horses 
 more,' I am told he bid them open right and left, that he might 
 see the rogues runn. Truly he was exceedinglye beloved in the 
 armie, of all that knew him. — But few knew him, for he was a 
 precious younge man, fitt for God. You have cause to bless the 
 Lord. He is a glorious saint in Heaven, wherein you ought exceed- 
 inglye to rejoyce. Let this drink up your sorrowe, seeinge theise 
 are not fayned words to comfort you, but the thinge is soe real 
 and undoubted a truth, you may doe all things by the strength 
 of Christ. Seeke that, and you shall easily beare your tryall.
 
 NOTES. 425 
 
 Lett this publike mercy to the Church of God make you forgett 
 
 your private sorrowe. The Lord be your strength, so prayes — 
 
 Your truly faythfull and lovinge brother, 
 
 "Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 "Julyyh, 1644. 
 
 " My love to your daughter, and my cousin Perceval, Sister 
 Desbrowe, and all friends with you." — 2d I 
 
 Page 357. 
 
 Act I. —Sane III. 
 
 In this scene Lady Fairfax is introduced. She was, at the 
 time referred to, undoubtedly at Bradford, as stated in Fairfax's 
 Memoirs, where we are told that she rude behind a Captain 
 Hill, ever willing to share the danger of her lord, rather than 
 suffer the anxiety of being at a distance, while he was on the 
 field. 
 
 Page 358, line 5. 
 
 I am commanded, on the instant, hence. 
 
 Fairfax left Bradford only a very short time before it was in 
 n of the king's troops. 
 
 ■ 360, line I. 
 
 My lord, word, that A port's son, etc. 
 
 A young officer, said t<> be the Earl of Newpi . headed 
 
 a company of foot, and. under cover <>f a thick hedge, intended 
 tof<>: 1 through a house, and then surprise the church ; 
 
 but, rushing on too far before lii^ nun, he was met bj f the 
 
 townsmen ; and, seeing no w for quarter. 
 
 Il< v. answered by a townsman (of the name <f Atkin 
 " I will 1 Bradford quarter!" upon which, he imnn 
 
 ately slew him. Preston was the name of a captain who came 
 from 1 lilif.ix, who was appointed the leader of the townsmen.
 
 426 NOTES. 
 
 Page 360, lines iS, 19. 
 
 Your soldiers 'wait for you to lead them hence, 
 Under the cover of this gloomy night. 
 
 In the night-time, Sir T. Fairfax called a council of war, when 
 it was resolved that every man should force his way through the 
 enemy, sword in hand, or perish in the desperate attempt, which 
 was put into execution, and achieved with the greatest bravery ; 
 and though the Royal party defended their passes with uncommon 
 courage, the forces of the Parliament made their way through 
 them, with the loss of comparatively few men. 
 
 [The remains of this great warrior lie interred in the church 
 of Bilbrough, about six miles south-west of York. — 2d Ed.] 
 
 Page 363, line 1. 
 
 Behold what gatli ring clouds obscure the town. 
 
 During the expectation of an awful event, the mind very 
 naturally associates objects together which appear most in unison 
 with it. Trifling things on these occasions wear an ominous 
 appearance ; and I believe there are very few who possess suffi- 
 cient strength of mind entirely to disregard them at the moment, 
 however they may afterwards despise the idea. 
 
 Page 364. 
 Act II. — Scene II. 
 
 I have here introduced a Robber and Miser, in order, if 
 possible, to excite a smile ; but perhaps my readers may be serious 
 in this place, and laugh through all the other pages. 
 
 Page 373, line 15. 
 Pity poor Bradford, and assuage thine ire. 
 
 The following is Lister's account of the reason for a forbear- 
 ance little expected ; and, as he was a spectator of the events of
 
 NOTES. 427 
 
 those times, some credit may be attached to his narration : 
 That in the preceding night, Newcastle, while in bed at Bowling 
 Hall, was accosted by an apparition of a female form, which 
 implored him lo save the town, and either affrighted or melted 
 him into compliance. If there were any foundation for the story, 
 cither a strong impression may have been made upon his mind 
 by a dream, or a real female, adventurous and patriotic, may 
 have assumed the voice and disguise of a ghost, in order to work 
 the more powerfully on the feelings of an exasperated conqueror. 
 At all events, the lives of the unarmed inhabitants were spared, 
 and the place became a garrison for the king. 
 
 Fage 379, lines 5, 6. 
 
 For, see! a cannon ball has struck the cords 
 That held the paths of wool against the church. 
 
 The principal care of our pious ancestors was to preserve their 
 church. They therefore su pended wool-packs on that side the 
 Steeple facing the enemy's battery, so near the roof of the church, 
 that it was almost impossible to penetrate it. 
 
 1'age 3^3. li»cs 16, 17. 
 
 That which you ask is freely granted : 
 I r never shall I keep a . >;cr. 
 
 In a sally, near the summit of a hill, on the way from Bradford 
 to Leeds, Lady Fairfax, who had bravely accompanied her 
 husband I taken prisoner on horseback, 
 
 but was generously sent back with an escort by Newcastle in his 
 
 own coach. 
 
 [The Editor intended originally to have added several note- to 
 •• ilic Siege of Bradford," but upon mature deliberation, as the 
 volume ha already extended at least sixty pages more than was 
 
 expected by the insertion of the separate pieces now exceedingly 
 rare, and which have never appeared in any other collection of
 
 428 NOTES. 
 
 Nicholson's Poems, he feels compelled to decline doing so. Be- 
 sides, to many readers, the notes now given will be considered 
 amply sufficient, and others who are particularly interested in the 
 subject may find nearly all that is known very concisely related 
 in Mr Abraham Holroyd's "Collectanea Bradfordiana," a work 
 of considerable research and perfectly trustworthy. ' ' The Siege 
 of Bradford " is the only thing our Author ever attempted to im- 
 prove or modify ; and as ten years elapsed between the publica- 
 tion of the first and second editions, and some of the alterations 
 are important, the whole have been incorporated by insertion in 
 the text in square brackets or footnotes, so that the reader may 
 see at a glance Nicholson's own additions and corrections. The 
 Editor would only add in conclusion, that, in his opinion, the 
 charges of cowardice and hypocrisy against Cromwell at this 
 time, are utterly unfounded, and may call forth an indignant 
 protest from some of his admirers. Captain the Hon. Robert 
 Neville Lawley, in an able lecture on "The Battle of Marston 
 Moor," delivered in the schoolroom at Marston in 1865, bears 
 the following testimony to Cromwell's bravery : " All accounts 
 of those engaged in the battle agree in praising Cromwell and 
 the Ironsides " (p. 55). And afterwards : " I have spoken of him 
 merely as a soldier and cavalry general ; and in this character he 
 stands to this day almost unrivalled. I question whether there 
 ever was a greater ; and his soldiers were the terror of all Europe 
 till his death in 1658. Carlyle says he was the greatest English- 
 man that ever lived " (p. 55). The letters of Cromwell, cited by 
 the poet as proof of his hypocrisy, cannot be fairly judged by our 
 present modes of expression. They are full of that stern sense of 
 devotion and duty which animated Fairfax and other Parliament- 
 ary generals. They contain, indeed, the canting phrases of the 
 period, but these only illustrate his religious enthusiasm for the 
 national welfare. He was sincerely engaged in what he considered 
 a righteous cause, and thought no sacrifices or exertions too great ; 
 in short, what Heaven required was freely offered. This was 
 the real secret of his fervour and success.]
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Ah ! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine, 
 
 Allowed to walk into the sail retreat, 
 
 All the joys of months and years, . 
 
 A olemn scene was here ! 
 
 At Marley stood the rural cot, 
 
 Banish the wealthless virgin from thy thoughts 
 
 Behold th' a-semhled myriads near, . 
 
 Behold the place, ye youths and virgins, see, 
 
 Beneath this stone lies Harry Kinder, 
 
 Blest may my children he, 
 
 th and Disease my solemn musi 
 
 I lid my i tal tend for miles around, 
 From times of ancient Greece, the fair, 
 Genius of Music! whom, as pouts say, 
 
 I I ,il, glorious ' !omn >f our isle 
 
 1 [ail, thou S' 1 rural spot, . 
 
 1 1,,.-. bootl -..nil, though ev'ry drop, 
 
 III. wean a sinner dare t<> sing the pra 
 
 How little looks the world u> him in pain 
 
 I [ ( ,,•. oft I morning broke, 
 
 I low thoughtful oft 1 sit a' 
 
 I'll sing no more ••( < heerful things, . 
 
 In vain the youth- and rosy maids, . 
 
 I ,■ iming has many a rhymer made, 
 
 243 
 192 
 2S9 
 
 2/7 
 185 
 256 
 
 —3 
 190 
 
 2S5 
 295 
 
 131 
 284 
 
 209 
 300 
 
 25S 
 
 197 
 3;: 
 21 ; 
 3 13 
 278 
 281 
 
 241
 
 430 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Let Northern poets sing of Highland glens, 
 
 Let us trip in airy dances, 
 
 Let verse, in wild, harmonious numbers flow, 
 
 Lovely darlings ! can you dry ? 
 
 My life wastes away, o'erburden'd with care, 
 
 Now bleak winter on the mountains, 
 
 Of all the various volumes in the land, . 
 
 O great Long Tom ! when thou with foam art crown 'd, 
 
 On the heath- vestur'd hills, where I courted my Sally, 
 
 O Thou, whose name, with trembling, angels use, 
 
 Poets in varied verse may sing, 
 
 Praise ye the Lord ! let songs of praise, . 
 
 Pretty little modest gem, .... 
 
 Sat down by my wee rusted lyre, . 
 
 See the nymphs in May-day dresses, 
 
 Soft ! behold in the shade the dark abbey appearing, 
 
 Softly sighing will I mourn, .... 
 
 Stars through rolling centuries shine, 
 
 Swift-winged and pleasing harbinger of spring, 
 
 The Ball Room emulates the light of day, 
 
 The beams of day retire o'er western hills, 
 
 The birks may wave, the heath may bloom, 
 
 The brave band of Mina's no more, 
 
 The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is uprearing, 
 
 The crest of dark Skiddaw was misty and dreary, 
 
 The face of Henry faded fast, . 
 
 The greatest bard is fall'n that ever strung, 
 
 The love how true — the love how sweet, . 
 
 The lovely group adorn'd with ev'ry grace, 
 
 The night is calm, the cygnet's down, 
 
 The terms we offer'd are rejected, . 
 
 The Tragic Muse, in sable mantle dress'd, 
 
 PAGE 
 26 
 
 I 7 8 
 
 3l6 
 
 283 
 
 239 
 179 
 
 344 
 287 
 
 244 
 345 
 173 
 235 
 196 
 
 346 
 182 
 211 
 250 
 208 
 218 
 310 
 30S 
 210 
 273 
 183 
 188 
 
 251 
 
 274 
 
 245 
 340 
 255 
 348 
 293
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 WW 
 
 This subject wants no Muse the breast t' inspire, . . 90 
 
 Though greatest bards have sung most earthly things, . 1 
 
 Thus spoke Israel's God, — "Earth's inhabitants tell," . 169 
 Thy beauties, Bingley! never have been sung, . . .176 
 
 To combat error in each varied form, .... 327 
 
 To some gloomy cave will I wander away, . . . 254 
 Weep, all ye birds, ye bowers ! . . . . .291 
 
 Welcome with thy monotone, . ..... 181 
 
 Well may the tears of overwhelming woe, . . . 290 
 
 What means it though the poet's cot ? . . . 292 
 
 What temples various, since old Time began, . . . 215 
 
 When friends who loved from infant years, . . . 194 
 
 When from proud Egypt's cruel land, .... 234 
 
 When gentle breezes kiss the tide, ..... 29S 
 
 When in the temple of his God, ..... 232 
 
 When oaks arc brown and birches bare, . . . 315 
 When upon the heather bloom, . . . . .249 
 
 When York and Lancaster, enrage 1. . . . .112 
 
 Where is the ink so sable in its hue? .... 167 
 
 Where's my harp, my soul to cheer ? .... 286 
 
 While others love the concert, m k, or ball, . . . 231 
 
 While the larks mount up in spriri ..... 248 
 
 Wild's the night, my love, my Mary, .... 
 
 With harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along, . 280 
 With my limbs in the deep, ...... 
 
 Why does nol nl mind ? . 199 
 
 u ith the nerves unstrung, 
 
 Ye woods, in Ri verdant vale, ... 206 

 
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