P R 5708 W482 W3 1840 MAIN UC-NRLF B E fl3i a^b WAYSIDE FLOWERS, § By J. B. WALKER. LIBRARY UNIVERSirr OF CMiFOftNIA WAY-SIDE FLOWERS; OR, POEMS, LYRICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE. BY J. B. WALKER. LEEDS: A. PICKARD, PRINTER, CROSS-COURT, TOP OF BRIGGATE. M DCCC XL. LOAN STACK ■7729f fR S7oE pW-aJ PREFACE. Little have I to say, in offering my " Way-side Flowers ;" save, that I beg the forbearance of angry critics, who may feel disposed to trample upon, and crush them, sans ceremonie. The greater portion of the pieces I now present to my friends, have been written on my own humble hearth, with my children playing round me, after my hours of labour; and when I call to mind, the pleasure I have experienced in so doing, I must confess, I have in some measure, received my reward. To those Noblemen, Clergy- men, and Respected Friends, who have patronised the humble efforts of a working man, to one and all, I may be allowed to express my sincere thanks. J. B. W. December^ 1839. 487 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. TO ENGLAND : WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE. My heart rejoices as I roam the strand, With swelling pride I hail my native land, Till echo bears aloft the lonely sound Of rapture's voice, on ocean s rocky bound, — For O ! what blessings wait on land and sea. To make our Albion noble, great, and free. From sunless climes, and India's burning plains, From Afric's dreary waste, where terror reigns. From Alpine heights, that gelid snow-flakes press, From hidden mines, in nature's deep recess ; Some lustrous gem, or rich nutritious store, Some ripe nectareous fruit, or glittering ore ; To England's ports, the vent'rous seaman brings. And there, in plenty's lap, the harvest flings. Land of green meadows and immortal streams, Where glows the rainbow of my hopeful dreams ! Long may the radiance of thy greatness blaze. And distant empires woo its genial rays. With heel of adamant. Time's measured tread O'er fallen states and records of the dead, b WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. In its continuous course beholds thee rise, And spread thy charms to meet unruffled skies. Inventive talent, with expansive aim. That owns no rival on the lists of fame; Creative labour, with its roseate smile, And pleasing arts that weary cares beguile ; These, round thy towering strength a wreath to twine. The wondrous and the beautiful combine ; With bright perennial evergreens of joy. Whose native bloom no blighting gales destroy. When desolating war its thunders hurled. And human carnage smear d the frighted world ; Then British might, renowned o'er j&eld and wave. Disarmed the tyrant, and set free the slave. The roaring tempest of discordant powers. From Gallia's plains, to India's gleaming towers ; O'er prostrate thousands like a mildew passed. And kingdoms trembled in the withering blast ; — But England, calmly braving danger's flood. The polar star of wondering nations stood. Land of the patriot, o'er the moonlit sea. The sailor fills his bowl and drinks to thee ! A grateful ofl*ering, free as ocean's wave. The pure libation of the truly brave. Nor danger in its winding-sheet of woe. Nor fate's dim shadows flitting to and fro. Nor Time's rude billows, though they darkly roll, Can check that native incense of the soul ; The seaman's altar is the snow-white foam. His prayer is breath'd for England, Freedom's home. Inur'd to perils on the faithless deep. By duty call'd his midnight watch to keep ; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Where flashing meteors light him on his way, O'er lucid waters toss'd in angry spray, Ahove him, moans the spirit of the storm. The midnight gale breaks o'er his vigorous form,- But, dauntless still, in loneliness he smiles. And borne before the breeze to distant isles, He gazes on the ocean and the sky. But Albion s cliffs are mirror d in his eye. AN EPICEDIUM. T IS true ! 't is true ! that I chaunt no lay In memory of the dead ; T is true that I rarely bend my way To the green but lonely mound of clay, With the grey stone at its head. Yet oft, as affection s silent tear Steals on, in its secret flow ; And fleeting dreams of the past appear ; The departed shades will linger near. To renew each tender vow. Softly they come, in our midnight hours. At fancy's inviting call ; To roam with us o'er sleeping flowers, When the full moon shines o'er ruined towers. Or silvers the waterfall. Sweet time — to forget our earthly pride In memory's flood of tears ; As the dear lost forms before us glide With floating sounds like the ocean- tide The echo of by-gone years. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Say, have ye not seen the rose-leaves shed, 'Neath the balmy Autumn s sigh ; And the violet hang its drooping head, Impearl'd with dew o'er the narrow bed, Where slumbering relics lie ? Such fragrant offerings, by nature paid. When the yellow leaves appear ; Breathe deeper woes than the vain parade Of man, in his sable pomp arrayed. O'er luxury's splendid bier. When last I wandered the graves among, I stood by the waving tree. And a redbreast poured his simple song Unheeded by all the weeping throng. But its notes were joy to me. That melody — 't was wildly sweet Like strains from a purer clime ; Than the dirge of art, more nobly meet ; For the gentle pilgrim's last retreat, A requiem more sublime. TO MAY.~1838. I HAIL thee not in thy northern dress. But I look in vain for thy loveliness : I list for the music of thy voice, When the m3rriads of thy train rejoice, But hoarse winds murmur along the heath, I catch not the fragrance of thy breath. Thou com'st not in robes of green and gold. For thy forest- walks are bare and cold ; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. The primrose peers from its sheltered nook, Yet trembles to meet thy frigid look ; And that wandering elf, the honey bee, Would gladly rifle thy fragrancy,— But dark clouds are louring, And cold rain is pouring. The snow-drop lies weeping. The cowslip 's yet sleeping, The wild jay is screaming. No bright ray is beaming. To welcome the birth of the mountain flower. Or to cheer the blithe lark on his airy tour ; I fain would indulge in a happier lay. Come tell me, wild songsters, can this be May ? THE LIGHT OF FREEDOM. When fierce oppression stalks in might. Like tempest-clouds before us ; How cheering, then, is freedom's light. Just bursting brightly o'er us. Beneath that ray, life's varied maze Is ne'er bereft of pleasure. It prompts the minstrel's votive lays. To strains of dulcet measure. The iron power which tyrants sway To scatter death around them, Dissolves, and vassals burst away. And spurn the chains which bound them. 10 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. While bigotry, in quaint disguise, Its venom ill concealing. Back to its gloomy mansion flies, Its smothered brand revealing. Though costly pearls, in beauty bright, On England's shores were glowing, A richer boon is Freedom's light, Man s highest bliss bestowing. And what, with such benignant ray. Can pierce the dungeon s sadness. Or clear the fettered captive's way To social peace and gladness ? It sheds o'er nations sunk in gloom, The brilliant hues of morning, And smiles upon the patriot's tomb. The sacred spot adorning. THE PARTING GIFT. I HAVE got no costly jewels. To adorn thy silken hair ; I have got no robes of purple For my lassie blithe and fair. Wealthy lordlings might adore thee. For thy bright and matchless charms ; Cast their hoarded gold before thee, Gather pearls to grace thine arms. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 11 Princes might forget their station, Throw their splendid pomp away, Bend before that light of beauty. Radiant as the blush of May. If, sweet lassie, thou must leave me. Gentle creature, ere we part. All I own I freely give thee, Take, oh ! take. My Faithful Heart ! THE SAILOR'S WIDOW. Alas ! 't is she whom once I knew. With laughing eye, of deepest blue. With rosy cheek, and raven hair, Her aged mother s only care. No sorrow then sat on her brow O'er beauteous youth its shade to throw ; No cloud deformed life's opening May, But blithe, and innocently gay, I 've seen her range through balmy glades, The peerless queen of village maids. How blighted now, that wither d form, Unshelter d from the angry storm, She sits regardless of the gale. In tatter d clothes, and ghostly pale. Like some wan tenant of the grave, From pity's boon the mite to crave. Adversity, she drags thy chains. And struggles with thy dreadful pains. 12 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. When life's bright summer-hours are gone, And friends have left us, one by one, How bitter is thy cup of gall, Stern misery spreads its thickest pall, And mortals seem to shrink beneath. The cruel pains of lingering death. How piteous is thy captive's moan, As with a low sepulchral tone She tries to hush her infant's cries And dry its lovely tearful eyes. Sweet babe, to early sorrows born, No father hail'd thy natal morn, Surveyed each lineament with joy. Or fondly blest' his blue-eyed boy. Beneath the angry ocean- wave, Stem fate prepar d the seaman's grave ; His well-trimm'd bark, with fluttering sail. Flew fast before the favouring gale. And homeward bound from Afric's strand. He hail'd once more his native land. Bright hopes, in sight of home, how blest, Again, in thought, the wanderer press'd Young Mary to his faithful heart, And vow'd they ne'er again should part. But hark ! that moaning breeze, how loud, " There 's danger lurks in yonder cloud," And scarcely had the sailor's eye Glanc'd wildly on the louring sky. When bursting from their viewless caves, Like mountains rose the foaming waves, And soon the lightning's flash display d. Death, in terrific gloom array'd ! WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. i^ Dark hour of woe, all skill was vain, Convulsive yawn d the stormy main ; And as the tempest howFd its last, Just clinging to a shatter d mast One struggled hard to gain the shore, But, lost in that tremendous roar, The waters closed upon his form. And, save the hoarse expiring storm. No funeral dirge, no hallowed rite. In sorrow marked the spirit's flight ; But voiceless sounds swept o'er the sea Then, mingled with eternity. 'T is past, and Mary's hopes are gone. She wanders, weeps, and sighs alone. Save when those bright and cherub smiles, Her cheerless solitude beguiles, — She then breaks forth in frantic joy. To see her lost one in his boy. Still chas'd by sorrow's hurling blast. Each sad remembrance of the past Embitters all her present woes, Nor yields her mateless heart repose ; She dreams of home and early years, While yet unknown to sighs and tears, — She bloom'd within her native bower. The hamlet's sweet and modest flower. L. E. L. Poesy's immortal queen, Who hath not thy captive been ? B J 4 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS, Silken fetters thou hast laid, Through the dewy moonlit glade, In the fairy's ancient grot, In the palace and the cot, — All appears enchanted ground. Laughing cupids gather round ; Youth and age, and beauty's self, Come with many a gleesome elf, In the chariot of thy train. Caroling a happy strain. Through the merry hawthorn dell, Sweet, enchanting L. E. L. Canopied by cloudless skies List we to thy melodies, In soft dalliance borne along. Through each sunny land of song, — • Wander with thee where we will. Splendid visions charm us still : Still thou hold'st the magic wand Over ocean, over land. Wafting round us rich perfume From Italians orange bloom ; Lingering by the mazy Rhine, Or beneath the clustering vine. Or where fame and music met O'er the " Golden Yiolet." Soft, I hear a wailing sound. Thunder-clouds have gathered round, Voices float upon the air — Sorrow's ministers are there ; Fame a stainless laurel bears. Genius wets it with her tears : WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 15 Meteors glare along the sky, The winds howl mournfully : Sadly gazing o'er the deep, See, — Britannia turns to weep. Hark ! again that solemn knell. Breaking o'er the ocean s swell, Alas, alas, sweet L. E. L. EVENING. Calm peace be mine in that blissful hour. What time I stray to the leafy bower. By those towering elms that shade the brook, Or roam to the abbey's wildest nook. To the woodman's hut upon the heath, Or the ancient well the hills beneath. When the wild bee seeks its hidden cell,^ Enriched with the sweets of many a dell ; When I hear the peasant's evening song, The valleys and vending lanes among, And I hail once more pale Hesper s ray, Then dear to me is the close of day. Let others seek the fluttering crowd, Their pageants seem like yonder cloud All glowing in the western sky, — So gorgeous in its golden dye. That fancy deems it some bright isle, Stretch'd in the sun's eternal smile, But as we gaze, its glory fades. Evanishing in evening shades. 16 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS, But oh! 't is sweet to steal away. And wander in the twilight gray, For there 's a charm in that lonely hour. In its deep silence a mystic power, Like soft enchantment o'er me stealing. The stormy passions kindly healing, — And soaring fancy spreads its wings. In undisturbed imaginings. Then rushing streams, and gentle rills^, The valleys, and the giant hills. The rising breeze, that sweeps the sky. And every leaf that rustles by ; And evening's bright and gentle star, And all that glorious host afar ; "With wild and solemn music raise, Their voices in transporting lays, — And words of wondrous power belong. To that mysterious burst of song. NAPOLEON. He sleeps on a distant isle, In the rude Atlantic wave ; They have raised no costly pile, O'er the fallen exile's grave. But trees of a sombre hue, They bend o'er his place of rest ; And their leaves they yearly strew. For his monumental vest. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 17 Like the beacon s blaze, he stood Alone in the deeds of war ! And his path was traced in blood, But his fame was heard afar. And the mighty feared his frown, T was the thunder-cloud of night, Daring chiefs of high renown, Fell before him in the fight. But, the victor is no more. The shrill trumpet-note is past ; The loud cannon s startling roar. Hath died on the sweeping blast. Alone, in his high career. In that fierce unbending might ; As lonely, he slumbers there. On St. Helen s rocky height. THE OLD MOOT-HALL. There, in the centre of the spacious street. Where loaded dray and rolling chariot meet, — Like age in mourning garb, there stood the Hall, Enveloped in its dark and smoky pall. 'T was raised by those who valued freedom's cause, Their local rights. Old England, and its laws ;* In barbarous times, when shy distrust prevailed. And lawless bands the public peace assailed. ■* The Borough of Leeds was incorporated in the year 1626, by Charles I.; the first Mayor was Sir J. Savile, afterwards Lord Savile,-— " John Clayton, Esq., the first Recorder. — Whitaker's Thoresby, &3 18 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. There, Justice, with her sword and balance stood. To awe the vicious and protect the good. And there, when terror fanned the beacon s blaze, And lighted rumour s torches with its rays ; — When fierce invaders, threatened, though in vain, To rend the garb of peace on Albion s plain, — There, oft assembled English freemen bold, (Ere public principles were bought and sold ;) Our noble ancestors, a hardy race. Renowned in war, and foremost in the chase. Though time's eventful midnight veils the past. Like dim discovered land with gloom o'ercast ; Methinks I see th.e gathering hamlets rise. In native strength, that foreign might defies. Emerging from their green retreats, they come A dauntless throng, with timbrel, pipe, and drum. Their sunbright banners streaming in the wind. With hearts, that foreign foes could never bind, — The mail-clad heroes crowd the " Rulers Healle," For fight or council, at their country's call. 'T was there, in England's feudal days of crime. That wealthy baron of the olden time. Great Savile,* — sat in his official gown, A noble patron of the ancient town. Here, let the muse remember one bright name. Linked with its history, of unsullied fame ; — Who shone among the learned of his age. The philosophic scholar, and the sage. * Sir John Savile was made one of the Barons of the Exchequer- in 1598, and about the same time one of the Justices of Assize. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 19 But who, through cold neglect obscurely lies, Nor stately column pointing to the skies. Nor bust, nor sculptured lay, his tombstone bears. But the gray shadow of one hundred years. In death-like silence falls around the spot. Where Thoresby sleeps, unhonoured, and forgot. Obscure and dark is time's oblivious wave. There sinks at last, as in one common grave, — The proudest monuments of human toil, — And ruin mingles with its crumbling spoil. The last memorial of the owner s fame. The last faint record of the builder s name. And many a wintry storm had darkly thrown, Upon the " Rulers Healle" a gloomy frown ; Till, like a worn-out wretch, despised, and old. Who lives to deem his knell already tolled, To modem elegance offensive grown. This cumbrous relic of the ancient town. Aspiring wealth and commerce swept away, — So temples, thrones, and kingdoms, meet decay. SONG OF THE AERONAUT. The cords are loosed, and now we rise, We come, we come, ye fleecy skies. Above the spire and towering dome Through boundless fields of air to roam ; And crowds like ants beneath us lay. Their rapturous shout hath died away, Lone tenants of the air and sky — Our trackless path is wild and high. 20 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Away, o*er woods and streams we pass, The city seems a darkling mass, And every lessening spire is gone. Through floating clouds we journey on : We pass the soaring eagle by, Nor heed his strange and piercing cry. The gathering breezes round us play. With speed like theirs we glide away. But crimson streaks adorn the West, The wild bird seeks its rocky nest, And yonder bright and lovely star Which beams upon us from afar, As mindful of our daring flight Proclaims the fast approach of night ; And kindly bids us quit with care, The cloud-built palaces of air. LINES WRITTEN NOVEMBER 13, 1839, ON THE ADMISSION TICKET TO THE EXAMINATION OP FL'PILS FROM THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND; — EARL FITZWILLIAM, IN THE CHAIR. How pleasing, when the nobles of our land. Come forth to soothe the woes of human kind ; When Beauty joins the patriotic band. To wipe the tear of sorrow from the blind. Gould Milton wake from his unconscious sleep. How would this cause his sacred muse inspire ; liike sun-light flashing o'er the mighty deep, Tbe blind would catch his words of living fire» - WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 21 THE MOTHER. I SAW her — and her eye was bright, And joyously she smil'd, — With all a mother s fond delight, Upon her darling child. The cherub's tiny fingers play'd. Where raven tresses hung ; Like Spring, 't was all in smiles array'd, With music on its tongue. There, laughing in its mother s arms, She gaz'd upon those budding charms, And through the mist of hopes and fears She gather d round its future years The halo of domestic joy, — " Bless you," she cried, " my pretty boy.' I saw her — ^but a change had pass'd Across that mother s brow. So merry when I saw her last. But ah, how altered now. Joyless, upon her lonely hearth, Now silent as the tomb ; With not a sound of infant mirth. To dissipate the gloom. And where is he, that elfin boy ? The mother heav'd a sigh, — Her heart was with its treasur d joy, And tears had dimmed her eye. 22 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. A sadly mournful plaint I heard, As when a dirge is said ; For sorrow hung on every word, " Our little boy is dead." CONSTANTIUS.* What a mighty gathering ! still they come ! And the alarum drum, With the trumpet's loud and clamorous blast,- The mailed warrior calls, To old Ebor s walls. For the emperor s earthly days are past. The wild flowers bend to their martial tread,— By their chieftains led Come the dauntless legion, file on file ; And they shed no tear. But they proudly bear, Constantius to the funeral pile. And the king of birds with sable wing. In dread pomp they bring. To the awful pyre a captive bound ; And from Ebor s bowers. Each laden with flowers, A train of virgins have gathered round. * Constantius, father of Constantino the Great, died at the Prae- torian Palace, at York, "when the ceremony of deification was per- fbrmed with a great display of Roman pageantry. AV AY -SIDE FLOWERS. 23 Now brightly the hghted faggots burn, And a golden urn, in solemn pageant is borne along, — And wild is that lay, They chaunt on their way, For they claim his dust, that martial throng. Now the smoke ascends, they shout, and see ! The eagle is free ! And the Romans hail him as he flies ; — In token 't is said, Of the mighty dead He soars away to the sunny skies ! EDGAR'S TOMB.* Pilgrim of nature, linger here To shed thy tributary tear ; Approach with awe the lonely earth, T is sacred to departed worth. One moment on thy journey rest, The tranquil scene will soothe thy breast ; Life 's but a bright and bubbling wave, Stay, Pilgrim, this is Edgar s grave. Oh ! I have seen the buds of Spring In the dews of twilight withering, As fragrance caught their last farewell. And night-winds sighed a funeral knelL * Mr. C. F. Edgar was a young man of promising talent, a Poet, and Editor of the Yorkshire Literary Annual. 24 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. When thus the young bright blossoms fade, They 're on a leafy death-bed laid, And flowers with nightly dew-drops weep, In perfume round them as they sleep. Thou 'rt gathered to that short-liv'd throng. In death's cold slumber, Child of Song — Thus faded like those spring-time flowers, And passed away from earthly bowers. Nor lute's soft strain can charm thee back, Nor mortal thought thy pathway track ; A sunbeam, bright, and silently, Thus hastening to eternity. Ye Nymphs who live in blissful dreams. Ye Naiads of the haunted streams. No more the green- wood glades among, He pours to you the tide of song. Nor listen s to the gathering roar Along the breezy ocean shore, Nor seeks the glen from crowds away. To chaunt his sadly pensive lay. Nor climbs the rock, nor roams the woods, Nor gazes on the mountain floods. The silver sweetness of his song. Neglected by the heedless throng, Fell softly on the moaning blast, And echo caught it as she pass'd : But, silent now, the voice which bade Its numbers rouse the sylvan shade. And nerveless now, the hand which strung The lyre, — while raptur d spirits sung. Bring rose-buds wild, all bath'd in dew, With simple flowers of brightest hue, WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 25 To breatlie away their hour of bloom Around the youthful Poet's tomb ; For oft sweet flowers of beauty rare, That flourished in Elysian air, He gathered in that dazzling gleam That lights youth's early glorious dream, Then garlanded the blooming things Around his harp's melodious strings. And over hill, and over plain. When Hesper led the starry train. And when beneath the breath of morn. The Summer's infant sweets were bom, In festive bowers and valleys lone. Was heard that harp's deep melting tone ; 'T was nature's music warbled free. Divine, harmonious minstrelsy. PAULINE. Night's weary hours had slowly rolled away, And grateful birds proclaimed the break of day, When Pauline to the distant beach did stray, A poor bewildered maid ; A gentle creature, wild with anxious pain. Her heart was far away across the main, — Where Indian hunters range the desert plain. Her lover lowly laid. And onward came the lone heart-broken maid, A thing of solitude, a living shade. Her form was graceful, and she went arrayed In robes of green and white ; c 2S WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. And curious shells, fantastically strung, With Henri's portrait on her bosom hung,— - And oft a wild unmeasured lay she sung. Her dark eye flashing bright. The rude and shelving rocks she strayed among. Where love had tuned young Henri's parting song, Whose melody she fancied bore along. The howling waste of foam ; And in that dream she wandered far away. Watching Atlantis in its boisterous play. Still lingering at the close of day, Nor sought her mother s home. T was midnight, not a star illumed the sky, And ocean s awful waves were heaving high ; Amid the tempest rose a thrilling cry. Lights gleam'd along the shore ; And drooping age, upon its feeble knee. Bent o'er a prostrate form in agony. Cold was that rock, and dark that rolling sea, And PauHne was no more ! THE RUINS AT HOWLEY." Sweet solitude, companion of my way. To thee alone I frame my humble lay ; And while I linger in the evening hour, O'erspread the scene with all thy sombre power ■ * Howley Hall, called by Camden ^des Elegantissimas, was built by Sir John Savile. — See " Scatcherd's History of Morley." WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 23' With calm reflection gentle musings bring, And hasten fancy on her lightest wing ; While wrapt in pensive thought, I thus may learn. The kind memento of the broken urn. The shattered column, and the crumbling wall, Decaying relics of the ancient hall. Here, history says, in feudal days of yore. When civil warfare raged from shore to shore ; In lofty pride a splendid fabric stood. Encircled by a deep embowering wood. Such grand magnificence the Hall displayed. In eastern beauty tastefully arrayed ; — It seemed to mortal eye an earthly throne, Where virtue, peace, and love, might reign alone. And hither, often came the neighbouring poor, Nor][surly porter barred the massive door ; Nor taught the furious dog, to scare away. The needy wTetch whom want condemned to stray. The ample board an old domestic spread. Where many a gray-beard pilgrim daily fed ; And wandering misery cheered its w^asting frame. And there the aged widow yearly came. For Savile's gifts, and Christmas doles, in store To shield from want the aged and the poor. Thus hospitable wealth improved its day, And Savile held a magisterial sway ; Here spread the banquet or pursued the chase. While rank and beauty fluttered round the place. 'T was when fierce discord shook our frighted land. And hapless Charles essayed with trembling hand, — 28 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. To wield the sceptre and the state maintain, Then, armed troopers scoured the neighbouring plain. Those smiling fields, along the peaceful vale, Where now the rustic lover breathes his tale, — Were then invaded by besieging foes. And grandeur started from its soft repose. Each grateful hind, with native vigour brave. Arose in haste the honoured Hall to save ; The hardy peasant left the spade and plough, And rushed, indignant to repel the foe. Could hoary time depict the chequered scene. Each splendid fete, with factious broils between ; A source sublime the moralist might find. At once to please and elevate the mind ; To rouse ambition from her gaudy dream. And bid contention seek oblivion s stream. Now o'er these fragments of the stately pile, Stern desolation seems in scorn to smile ; And oft, at evening, as it wanders by, Methinks the zephyr leaves a mournful sigh ; The lonely dirge for those who sleep in peace. Where earthly pomp and jarring passions cease. THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Coldly still upon the gale Winter shakes his snowy locks ; Or descends in storms of hail, O'er the young and bleating flocks. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 29 Not a flower has dar d to peep, Laughing from its covert bed ; Flora's beauteous daughters sleep, Till the rude despoiler 's fled. But that whisper, as it falls Softly from the western sky, On the early primrose calls. Welcoming its golden eye. Fluttering through the mist of dawn, Now the sky-lark mounts to sing, Leaves his mate upon the lawn, — Tuneful messenger of Spring. From his cot below the hill, Cheerly as the woodman hies. Gliding past with yellow bill. See — the glossy blackbird flies. And within the holly bush. Or the tangled brake among. Sits the merry piping thrush, To rehearse her forest song. Flooding from the mountain heath. How the glancing waters flow. Trickling to the dale beneath. Gushing tears from virgin snow. Yet another chilling shower. Now a momentary gleam. Over wood and abbey tower. Fleeting as an infant's dream, c 3 30 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. A FRAGMENT. Pensive he seem'd, while yet a child, The tales he loved were strange and wild ; A truant oft, he stole away To gather flowers, by moss-grown towers. Or read some legendary lay. And few were those who shar d his joy. The simple, musing, light-haired boy ; For lonely as a hermit he. E'en in his earliest infancy. Dark sorrow chronicled his birth, The lovely vanished from the earth. For her task was done, And life's sands were run, And a piteous look she cast, — Then with filial care, Breath'd a fervent prayer, And that prayer was a mother s last. And a funeral knell, As the records tell. Was pealing loud and strong ; When with solemn grace, To its resting-place. The dead was borne along. And there did that weeping train, I guess, The child baptise in a mourning dress ; For sadly they went the tombs among, And luird the babe with a funeral song, And his Christian name with tears they gave, For they stood besides his mother s grave. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 31 THE FUGITIVE. The skies were yet bright with the sun s setting ray, When my ear caught in sadness a wanderer s lay ; By the way-side he lingered, weary and faint, And thus to humanity, murmured his plaint : — " From Erin s green isle I have wandered away. But, ah ! 't is not pleasure that tempts me to stray ; From home and its solace, unwillingly hurled. Thus sadly, thus lonely, I range the wide world. " Dejected, and friendless, expored to the blast, I sigh for the future, and mourn for the past ; And cold are the tears in my loneliness shed. But they fall for the honoured, the loved, the dead. The stillness of night comes the weary to bless. And sleep, gentle sleep, may assuage my distress ; Yet oft, from my slumber, half frenzied I start. As visions of home cast their blight o'er my heart. " I dream not of joy, with its sunlight and flowers, With beauty reclining in pleasure's gay bowers ; I dream not of quaffing rich goblets of wine, Where the wild-rose and woodbine lovingly twine. Ah ! no, but the anguish that lives in my breast. Keeps watch like a phantom to trouble my rest ; I hail not with gladness the bright blush of mom. But wander the victim of pityless scorn. " Oh Albion, thou far-famed domain of the free, May commerce and peace shed their blessings on thee, And ne'er may the foe and the stranger arise. To smile o'er thy thraldom, and mock at thy cries. 32 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. But oh, while the fame of thy glory is bright. And thy sons boast of freedom, splendour, and might, Forget not brave Erin, all shrouded in tears, Forget not her valour, — her fealty of years." NATURE S MORAL LESSON. See how Summer gems are dying, Thus our pleasures pass away ; Moments, hours, and days are flying, Life is but a flitting ray. Wafted from the heathy mountain, Yellow leaves and blue-bells fall; Those have flourished near the fountain, These, beneath the abbey wall. Many a wild-rose, pale and faded. Mingles in that rustling train ; Woodbines, from the bower that shaded Village nymph and rural swain. Strew'd along the river s border. Gathering thicker as we pass ; Scattered all in wild disorder, Lies the melancholy mass. Nature thus her page discloses. Written as the seasons move ; Paints our youth in blushing roses Laughing round the vocal grove. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 33 And, when Autumn winds are sighing, O'er the wither d and the dead ; Then the solemn truth applying, Nature mourns for beauty fled. AWAY TO THE HILLS. Away to the hills, For the mountain rills They are swollen by the Autumn rains ; And the tall pines shake. And the ruffled lake, It is flooding the marshy plains. Through the stormy night. As the stars shone bright, I have heard the continuous roar ; And the boughs of trees. In the fitful breeze. They went hurrying past my door. And methought I heard, Like a screaming bird. The storm-spirit ruling the blast ; T was wrapt in the shroud, Of a fleecy cloud. And the mountains groaned as it passed. And over the woods. And the rushing floods, Fell the moon s unclouded ray ; 34 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. But with casement wide, Like an anxious bride, Have I long d for the light of day. I go to the hills. Where the bursting rills From the knoll on the upland heath. Their bright waters throw. On the crags below. Like the gems of a crystal wreath. STANZAS. Ah ! no, this heart shall ne'er forget That splendid Summer s day. When far from noisy crowds we met In early love to stray. The winding lanes, the meadows sweet. The heath and rustic bower ; Still fancy's gaze doth often meet In her aerial tour, And oft she hears the shallow stream That wander d through the glade ; And paints again the fleeting dream. That o'er my bosom stray'd. Thus painful memory lingers o'er Some former gleams of joy ; — Till sorrow, whispering " they 're no more," Doth all their charms destroy. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 35 TO ANNE. Fancy whispers thou art near me, When the thoughtless crowd is gone ; And methinks thou coni st to cheer me, But, alas ! I am alone. And Time's icy chains hang round me Like a something vague and chill ; And fate's withering ties have bound me, But my hopes are with thee still. When the wild bird, homeward flying. Sweetly sings his evening lay ; And the night- winds, softly sighing 0*er the waters die away; And when Cynthia's smiles are playing Over mountain, vale, and rill, — T is to thee my thoughts are straying. For my hopes are with thee still. When the fragrant breath of morning Wanders o'er the dewy vale. And young flowers, the plains adorning, All their balmy sweets exhale ; — When the sun bursts forth in glory. As I climb the breezy hill, — Then a dream of home flies o'er me. And my hopes are with thee still. Though mine eye, by sorrow shaded. Drops the solitary tear. O'er remembered joys now faded To young love and rapture dear, — 36' WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Retrospection wakes a feeling, T is a momentary thrill, All the wounds of sorrow healing. For my hopes are with thee still. I have hid adieu to pleasure. With her giddy, fleeting train ; And her song of joyous measure I may never raise again : Yet I ne'er will droop in sadness. For in spite of every ill, I will sing in strains of gladness, That my hopes are with thee still. EPIGRAM EXTEMPORE. Dearest, why at life's crosses repine, I '11 e'en be content in my station ; For, still thorns would with roses entwine. Though I had the wealth of the nation. That gall-drops should mingle with honey. Why, I am not prepared to expound; If heaven could be purchased with money, Great bidders would easily be found. Thus far 't is the truth I have written. Though I scarcely know why I begun ; But the wealthiest lady in Britain, They declare is annoyed by a Dunn.* * Every one must have heard of the unpleasant annoyance offered by an Irish barrister, to a certain lady of rank and wealth. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 37 WHAT IS LOVE? Oh ! 't is light as Luna's ray, O'er the ocean s midnight wave ; Gentle as the opening May, Yet its fetters bind the brave. Half its dreams are never told, Hopeful visions, clear and bright, E'en its chains are links of gold. Circling all that 's pure and light, Roses bloom in rich array. But when chilly dews prevail, Pass they, witheringly away. Nature's fairy beauties frail. Love, is like a floweret too, Nurtured oft with secret sighs ; Born within that heaven of blue, In the depth of beauty's eyes. But in fortune's adverse breeze. Like a bright and fadeless flower,- When no other joy can please. Love beguiles the dreary hour. Mighty empires rise and fall. Time pursues its silent flight ; Love survives to smile o'er all, — ■ Cynosure of nature's night. B8 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. DESULTORY RHYMES. Lays from mountain, vale, and flood. Fancies gather'd in the wood. Wild weeds of untutor d thought. Tales by mountain breezes taught ; Biography of nature's flowers, Written oft in lonely hours. Come, let us roam, for young Flora brings, Her gems to the woodbine grove ; Like pearls they drop from her glittering wings, What emblems of peace and love ! Like clustering stars the wild beauties smile, Adorning the green lane side ; They are twining round the old broken stile. Where the wounded robin died : — The wild geranium of pink and white. With the violet's eye of blue ; And the gentle hyacinth, mingling bright. With flowerets of every hue. 'T is beauty s birth, and the honey-bee. Goes forth on her balmy tour ; Over daisied meads her path is free. To the starry jasmine flower. And what merry strain like that which comes, On the fragrant breath of dawn, — When birds rejoice in their sylvan homes, Or sport on the dewy lawn ? WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 39t The gleeful swallow^is on the plain, It has crossed the ocean s foam, — And blithely returns to lodge again, In its rude ancestral home. As that rural queen, the milkmaid, strays. She is culling azure bells ; And cheerly carols her rustic lays. Through the winding primrose dells. The green earth smiles in its vernal dress. Like a bride in beauty gay, — Ere the gentle light of loveliness. From her cheek hath passed away. O come and see in the blooming Spring, A picture of earlier days ; When young Hope caught from a cheruVs wing, A vest of ethereal rays. 'T is a blissful hour to rove among. The delicious sweets of June ; And I envy not the gorgeous throng, Who bask in the glare of noon. These aged oaks that skirt the glade. And yonder crumbling pillars laid Around St. Anne's secluded well, — Are all that now remain to tell. Where once the Norman stranger came, His rich baronial lands to claim. The lark hath built its lowly nest. Where grandeur reared its towering crest. 40 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. And there the furze its blossom throws, And there the modest violet grows, And wild bees roam the thymy mound, Where Lacey's hoary turrets frown d. A strict ascetic, Hubert, own d The hall, the park, and valleys round : — With dark and misanthropic pride. The haughty baron turned aside, From all that others might engage, The varied scenes from youth to age. If e'er he left his father's hall, 'T was not to city feast or ball, — In gloomy'scom he seem'd to stray. Despising all that cross'd his way, — With meagre form and piercing glance, None dared to break his moody trance. A wasting wreck of pride and war, His cheek displayed a hideous scar ; With faded plume and rusty blade, Alone, in sullen pomp he strayed ; His hair fell like December s snow, Upon a dark and wrinkled brow ; Unmov d he seemed, by calm or storm, Those features kept their marble form, Save once, upon a lovely child, T was whispered round that he had smil'd. Let Albion s isle with gladness ring, Sweet Freedom's morn is beaming ; Your cheerful flutes and trumpets bring. With banner s brightly streaming. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS, 41 'T is not to boast of warlike deeds, Renowned in martial story ; For us no panting hero bleeds, We claim a stainless glory. Through dark oppression s midnight veil, The eye of hope is peering ; And bounding hearts the prospect hail. Each noble patriot cheering. Come forth, ye British youths, unite With hardy veterans hoary ; Arise, and join the moral fight, Which long shall live in story. Ne'er shall dissension s chilly breath. United hearts dissever ; O'er British rights we '11 twine a wreath, To bud and bloom for ever. The sunny smiles of Spring were past. The summer flowers were fading fast. And Autumn's gales began to creep, Like broken sighs o'er beauty's sleep, — When o'er the hill, and through the glade. Alone, in pensive mood I strayed. And linger'd till the latest ray Of sunlight took its western way; And night approached, in sombre vest. To lull the weary world to rest,— And beauteous stars all twinkling sheen, Illumed again the dusky scene. D 3 42 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. And now the abbey's ruin d height, Seen dimly through the shades of night, Like some lone mourner seem'd to say, " Here human grandeur wastes away." I wandered round the moss-grown pile, Now lighted by the moon s faint smile, — No venerable abbot there, Arous'd the monks to evening prayer ; No lovely nun, with taper pale. Sung vespers in seclusion s veil ; No deep-toned bell from lanthorn tower. Proclaimed the evening's sacred hour ; No drowsy hum of solemn rite. Was heard upon that stilly night, As on a crumbling mass I stood. And gazed on Aire's deep winding flood, — But, wandering in the moon s pale ray, Methought I heard a deep voice say, " List, mortal, list, here friends and foes. Unnoticed and unwept, repose ; Their names, their deeds, their hopes, their fears, Slumbering in the abyss of years." 'T WAS love and nature's holiday, The young, the beautiful, the gay. Led off the dance with sportive bound, To music's wild enlivening sound. One sat the blushing flowers among^ And rais'd her voice in tuneful song; Another climb'd above the rest, Where oft the wild-bird forms its nest, WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 43 The dark rocks echoed with his strain, The Orpheus of the youthful train. The blissful hour flew swiftly by, And pleasure beam'd from beauty's eye. To such young hearts, in such an hour. Time seems to scatter many a flower, And laughing joy, in reckless glee. Roams like the wanton zephyr free. Alas ! that sorrow's gloom should blight Life's fairest sweets, so pure, so bright. Some gaily drain the sparkling bowl, To chase life's midnight fropi the soul, Nor dream that in the ruby flood, There mantles sorrow's darkling bud ; That mortal cares, like blighting storms, Infest Time's devious river, — Wh^ere pleasure's most alluring forms. Are wrecked and sink for ever. The gaudy sun-light hath its flies. They glitter 'neath the clear blue skies. Frail creatures of a noon-tide beam, That frolic o'er the sleeping stream, — Till evening comes, with fatal breath. And quickly scatters them in death. Tell me not of bloomy flowers, Nor recall those happy hours, Lost on memory's waste for aye, Fled with hope's illusive ray. Pleasure's gleesome eyes are bright, As May morning's dawning light, 44 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Mine, alas ! no brightness wears, Save, those coldly glistening tears. Tell me not how wild-birds sing, In the merry months of Spring ; Let my bursting sorrows flow, To the plaintive notes of woe ; Let me roam the ocean shore. Hear the tempest's midnight roar, — Dwelling in the rocky caves. Singing with the mournful waves. Tell me not of village bells. Rural sports and fairy dells ; Those no longer charm mine ear, These, can only prompt a tear. Rosy children pass me by. Friendship's glance is cold and shy ; Fancy twines no wreath for me. All — ^is dull reality. Tell me not that others stray. Culling roses on their way ; Howling storms exhaust their wrath, 0*er my dark and thorny path. Leave me to my cup of gall. Drinking it unseen by all ; Leave me to my living tomb, — Self-interr'd in pensive gloom. Come, pale grief, with sunken eye. Come and view the morning sky, WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 45 When the first bright orient ray Ushers in the blooming May, — When the woods and valleys round, Listen to the wondrous sound Of that eternal voice, which calls Drooping nature back to life ; — Till e'en the rushing waterfalls Murmur in their bubbling strife. Tones of solemn music wild, — Then, I am again a child. Haste we to the primrose glade, There does rosy pleasure linger, In a rural garb arrayed, Pointing, with inviting finger. Where with flowers beneath their feet, Sparkling health and beauty meet, — Twining lovely wreaths to throw Over Care's pale wrinkled brow ; Ever as the green woods ring. Welcoming the laughing Spring. THE DEEP AND MOONLIT SEA. In crowded halls, where beauty smil'd, I Ve led the fairy band ; I Ve roam'd thy dales o'er flowerets wild, My own dear native land. Life's social hours of love and song, I 've spent in festive glee ; Though far away, I float along The deep and moonlit sea. 46 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. I 've gather d sweets from many a bower, In Summer's golden time ; When youth was like a careless flower, Rejoicing in its prime. Those happy scenes of home are gone, Like shadows o'er the lea ; And far away I glide upon The deep and moonlit sea. Speed on my bark, to India's shore, T is night upon the deep ; The hollow wind shall loudly roar, Its music o'er my sleep. The tempest* comes on ocean's foam. To hold its revels free ; Yet far away I cheerly roam. The deep and moonlit sea. COME TO THE ABBEY. Come to the abbey at eventide, I love thee to wander at my side. On Aire's green banks at the close of day. When the wild-bird's song hath died away. The violet grows like a hermit flower, Under the shade of the lanthorn tower ; On that lone spot, in the twilight dim. Oh, there will we chaunt our evening hymn. Come to the abbey at eventide. Like an angel sent to be my guide ; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 4? The mouldering pile shall our temple be, And the heavens our glorious canopy. How tranquil the moon s saluting smile, When silence reigns in the roofless aisle. And the ivy's trembling leaf on high, Seems to commune with the quiet sky. Come to the abbey at eventide. When calmly the Aire's deep waters glide ; When the past its mournful story reads, Clad in a mantle of moss and weeds : But soon as the glistening night-dew falls, Like clustering pearls on the abbey walls. We '11 bid adieu to the ruin'd towers. And wander home over dewy flowers. AN EPISTLE TO H- FORMERLY OF LEEDS, NOW A RESIDENT OF LILLE, IN FRANCE. My dear Harry, 't is almost an age. Since my pen was in service before. And I rarely have written a page, — For I vow'd I would scribble no more. But I think it my duty to send. Some account of our doings in Leeds, For too oft have I thought it, my friend. But an overgrown garden of weeds. You know, sir, I 'm no politician ; Though I frequently send you the News, I write of no local transition In connection with Yellows or Bltiesu 48 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. But my story 's as round as a ball, On our town and its comical people ; For they Ve taken down old Cabbage Hall, And the Trinity's tottering steeple. St. Greorge's is built on Mount Pleasant ; We have a Catholic Church with a spire ; We have Inns, sir, for noble or peasant, And more than some people desire. We have Roe-ites who rival the goat^ Their likeness I think is a true one ; I must also remember to note, The Old Church will soon be a new one. Now Ripon, I am told, is a city ; And to York we can travel by steam ; Perhaps you will say 't was a pity. That the Odd-Fellows Hall was a dream. The Victoria Nev7 Bridge is complete. With a house for collecting the toll ; The Zoological seems to want feet^ They have got neither monkey nor owl. The feats of Old Wild, they are done; Andfthe Theatre is now out of date ; Yet, we Ve horse-riders CooKE-ing their fun. And Mazeppa exposed — ^to his fate. We have had a Grand Concert ; and then. Sir, What was worth a jaunt over from France, A Prize Show^ our chairman. Earl Spencer, But I can only afford you a glance. Oh ! such horses, and oxen, and pigs; A French horse that stood twenty hands high ; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 49 With such John Bulls in carts and in gigs, And such crowding to see them pass by. The pranks of the " best breed of asses," You will say is no business of ours ; I must add, that next day the young lasses Came to revel and feast among flowers. And next, your attention I call, To a novel display of great worth ; We have got in the Leeds Music-Hall, The bright beauties and wonders of earth. Every country hath furnished its mite. Here Correggio's famed labours are seen ; And the Hall is besieged day and night, To see Hayter s sketch of the Queen. With rich paintings the walls are alive, There are birds from all parts of the world ; The mechanic has made it his hive, 'T is the standard of genius unfurled. There are castings, and models, and swords. Air-pumps, blow-pipes, and thermometers, Antique sculpture, ancient deeds, and hoards Of clocks, telescopes, and barometers. There are microscopes, minerals, and shells, And a world for the curious in cases, — Such as old coins, and musical bells. Alabaster groups, and silver vases. Specimens of spinning, weaving, and dyeing ; There's an elephant's skull like a mountain ! A canal too, where steam-boats are plying, A diving-bell, basin, and fountain. E '^0 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. The sword of great Fairfax is there too. The Cromwellian relics among ; His autograph, portrait, and chair too, But the detail were tedious and long. For the present I '11 bid you farewell. Every story at last has an end. And trusting that you 're hearty and well, I remain, your affectionate friend. September^ 1839. NIDDERDALE.~A DEAMATIC SKETCH. SCENE, A GARDEN. TIME, SUNRISE. (Two Peasants^ Brownlow and Laton^ conversing. Colonel Liddon in the hack ground.) Enter Laton singing, I envy not the rich man s lot. Contented in my humble cot. Health deals out my scanty fare. Nature's bounty is my share, — Happy, when returning Spring Brings upon her golden wing. Flowerets red, and pied, and blue. Dropped like pearls in morning dew. BROWNLOW. — ( With a nosegay in his hand,) Good morrow, neighbour, the warm airs of Junc' Are now loaded with perfume of gay flowers ; The moss-rose and the jasmine are in bloom, With violets, lilies, and a thousand sweets. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 51 Inviting us to linger morn and eve. I never wandered far from Nidderdale, Nor felt a wish to visit foreign parts, But think you, neighbour, does our English court Possess so fair a sight as the spring- flowers, Blushing in their loveliness ? — Ah! methinks T were vain to seek for aught more fair on earth. I have heard the Colonel's lady bless them, — And call them her earthly stars, her bright gems, And tenderly she nurs'd each opening bud : She, as you know, had lived at court ; herself A beauty, yet withal so kind and good. The humblest peasant who could talk of woods. And streams, and flowers, to him she would relate The story of her youth ; her birds, her plants. Her love of nature, virtue, peace, and truth. BROWNLOW. I never heard my lady's voice, save once, It was that fearful night, when down the vale We ran to rescue the poor idiot boy. Who narrowly escap'd a watery grave. Down to the river s bank that night she came, Pressing with eagerness to see the child ; — And kindly begged permission to assist. With all a lady's courtesy. LATON. In truth, She made us happy while she lived, and when The summons came for her departure hence. 52 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. The autumn-flowers died with her, then, Laton, Our hfe's sweet summer with its sunlight fled. These wild geraniums, her favourite flowers, I have preserved ; and when her lovely girl Sickened and died, I strewed the church-yard path, And scattered in her early grave, young flowers, — But see ! Here comes the Colonel, my poor old master, — He rises with the sun to mourn his loss, — Disturb we not his pensive weight of thought. BROWNLOW. That heart were cold that did not pity him. But, Laton, tell me, has he not a son ? LATON. He has, a Captain of Hussars. *T is said The brave Colonel sorrows for the living As the dead. But he comes, farewell. BROWNLOW. Farewell. Exit both. Enter Colonel Liddon^ looking alternately at two miniature portraits. COLONEL. All I could preserve, — the heart is human, — In vain cold reason bids me to control Those dreamy visits of my long-lost child, — The day returns, on which my Rose, my own Sweet Rose — died. Her mother, gentle creature, Like an angel, ministering to my wants .WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 53 On many a dreary march, tenderly watch' d O'er my couch, — ^the dying and the dead Around her ; there attended to my wounds,^ — And through the midnight hours of sickness, With tales of home, of honour, peace, and love. My drooping spirits cheered. An halo bright Of chastity and love was on her brow; These eyes ne'er look'd upon a form like hers ; Her voice, sweet as celestial harps, amid The din and roar of war, the last kind words Pronounced, to soothe the dying soldier. 'T was, When peace returned with laurels for the brave. My dear Lucretia gave unto my arms. Our first, and lovely babe, — My son ! my son ! Promotion, love, and honour crown'd me then ; My path was strewn with flowers. My gentle Rose Came next, with infant smiles and breath of Spring, To lisp her words of artless innocence ; To bind my heart more closely in the bonds Of wedded love and pure domestic joys. Alas ! alas ! that I have lived to see My loved ones die away, — (Enter a Servant in great Tia^te.) How ! how is this ! Ralph, speak man, say, what has afirighted you ! With fear your lips are white, and on your brow Long life to your honour, 't was but just now. And sure I can hardly spake yet, I said To ould Betty the housemaid (A man discovered in the distance,) Och ! Murther ! He comes ! fly for the life of ye, masther dear. — E 3 54f WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. By the powers, he runs ! Poor old Ralph Doolan And your honour 's safe once more,— - COLONEL. Why, what means The fugitive ? And then, your frenzied looks ; — No longer with suspense distract my brain : — Pray, what of this same stranger do you know ? I could but see the figure of a man, Gliding away down to the river s bank. Why thin, an plase your honour, the big door Of the court-yard was open ; there stood I, If myself it was, for to ould Ireland My heart had wander d like a vagrant child, — 'T was then he passed, with giant stride and slow ; His form and look were soldier-like ; he paus'd. An faith, I saw his dark and lowering brow, — I saw him firmly grasp a shining blade, — Then, by the powers ! I fled the murtherous baste. Softly, softly, 't were well that ye escaped The wandering maniac's rage ; for such, I guess, May be the strangers malady; leave me. And let no merriment be heard this day, No song, but that of birds; the sacred hours Are wing'd with piercing arrows to my heart, I cannot listen to a maniac s part. JEJa^t both. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 55 SCENE II. TIME, MIDNIGHT. (Mervin^ Walter^ Slacks and Dunning^ seated round a Gaming Tahle^ with their hooks^ making up accounts^ the floor strewn thick with Cards. SLACK. Yes, the Count is minus a cool thousand. And then the bridal jewels too, fine game. ( Yawns,) WALTER. T is now past eleven, the night wears on. And Captain Liddon s honour is at stake. A more honourable man does not exist, — His name, — ^good as the Queen s gold any where. Not so fast, young man, the Great St. Leger And his last night's play, may fret his purse-string. DUNNING. Harkee, Tom, the old Colonel I have heard Is yet immensely rich ; what have we here ? As I live, a letter from the Captain ! (Beads,) " Incarnate fiends, my reputation fair. My wealth, my all is gone ; a floating wreck Upon the tide of time, bids you farewell, — Ye drain d my heart's best treasure, and my blood Was frozen in your icy bonds, for gold : 56 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. An outcast and a wanderer forth I go, — And peace, sweet peace, this heart shall never know/ A madman s cursed slang, — ^burn the letter, Ne'er let the world's day-light dawn upon it. WALTER. 'T is well I made secure old Nidderdale ; I have the deeds, besides my lady's ring, So richly set with brilliants. (Exit.) SCENE III. THE BANKS OF THE RIVER NIDD. TIME, SUNSET. (Captain Liddon alone., wrapped in a dark Military Cloak^ speaking.) Another weary day is past, and still I live, If life it is, — when like a torrent's roar, The anguish of my soul makes deaf mine ear To all that is with happiness allied. The daylight fades, so fade my hopes on earth, I only know one midnight, dark and cold. The humble peasant, cheerly on his way In honest truth is free, and bears his head Erect, but I, trembling with hideous fears. Abhor the curious glance of every eye. Thou home of my childhood, oh, that I had died, Ere I had left thy rural haunts of ease ; Oh! burden insupportable, to live Engendering dark thoughts, vile and unearthly; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 57 For like a stagnant pool, my brain is rife With loathsome vermin ; and my senses feel To swim beneath the choking pressure. I Have roam'd this valley in my boyhood's pride, Ah ! then there glow'd a rainbow o'er me, lit With glory ; and within its brilliant span Was honour undefil'd, and dauntless truth. Oh! that I had liv'd unknown, a hermit In my native vale, sportive as a fawn By Nidd's calm peaceful wave. 'T is past, 't is past ! Methinks I hear my father s breaking heart ! I see the shade of her who gave me birth ! And, oh ! I hear that voice ! " degenerate son," — Dark night be thou my shroud, alas, I (Stabs himself.) SCENE IV. (Colonel Liddon and attendants^ wit\ torches^ examining a corpse on the hanks of the river.) COLONEL. T were better that ye bear the body hence, And strict enquiry shall be made of all. Concerning the poor man s untimely death. LATON. Alas ! methinks ere now that face hath been Familiar to my ken ; and tears steal down My cheek, I scarce know why, — COLONEL. Thou mov'st me much. 58 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. With this thy sympathy, kind soul ; we must With due solemnity those cold remains Convey to a more fitting place ; mine eyes, Already dim with sorrow, covet not To see the tortur'd features of the dead. Here is a deadly weapon stain d v^ith blood, Among the tangled weeds we found it. (Produces the dagger,) COLONEL. A dagger ! Oh Heavens 1 it is my son ! LUCY S LOSS. Have you heard poor Lucy s case ? She, that sung the merriest lay At our Easter holiday : — Wandering homeward from the race, Over the heath and down the green, Gliding away like a village queen ; The golden sun was sinking fast. And many a happy pair she pass'd. I know not but her heart was light, Yet once she breath'd a sigh that night. As she passed the gate to her mother s door. With her beauteous eye glancing over the moor, And the evening star and her wild eye met. She smird through a tear, but could not forget : " Mother,'* said she, " as the heath I crossed, I found that my last new Boa was lost." WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 59 PICTURES FROM LIFE. With speechless curiosity I stood, For wonder fix'd its silence on my lips ; A thronging multitude were pressing round, Drinking with eagerness a poisonous draught Prepared for them with demoniac skill. In sacred Freedom's desecrated name. The Firebrand scattered treason to his dupes, — His every word was in itself a blaze. Where ignorance could light its midnight torch : Whole kingdoms tottered in his iron grasp, Still would he garnish every murderous threat With " knowledge, unity, and lasting peace." In specious guise, he led the reckless mass Through dreams of rapine and equality^ — Their shouts and hideous yells proclaimed assent. While thus he madly pour d his lava forth. Two scribes there sat recording bloody schemes. Whose pens seem'd forked lightning : Oh ! methought The very air polluted by his breath : — Disgust and pity held alternate sway. And homeward through, the fields I took my way. Now bloomed on every hedge the sweet wild rose, The lambs disported on the river s bank. And birds were singing their untutor d lays. Beneath an ehn tree's shade a stranger sat. And weary with fatigue, enquired if still His widow'd mother liv'd upon the heath ; For he had wander d from his native land 60 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. And pass'd the prime of life in sultry climes ; — But down the sailor s cheek fell sudden tears, For she, whom most he long'd to see on earth. Like ripe fruit had been gather d; not one remained Of all his kindred to give him welcome home. Yet one there was whose lamp of life bum*d dim, Her hopes were with him o'er the stormy deep, — And many a Winter s night she dream'd away, Robeing the future from her fever d brain : Oh, that the grave should claim life's sweetest flowers. T was in the twilight hour the lovers met. She gaz'd, and wild delirium shook her frame — Then, like the breath of eve she died away: The village maidens sung her funeral hymn, And planted flowers o*er sweet Letitia's grave. Close by the woodland gate, one dewy mom. The daisy and the azure bell were clad In glistening tears, the lark his matin sung. And from the East the glorious sun looked forth Upon the varied hues of hill and dale. Sauntering away, the pilgrim of the woods, Letitia's father, found the bereaved one Reclining on a bed of weeping flowers, — Oft had it been Letitia's lone retreat : Wild-birds sung o'er him, and the breath of dawn Play d lightly o'er his wasted cheek ; he slept, — But all so chilly and so wet with dew. So motionless and stone-like seem'd his form, — The aged woodman called aloud his name. The forest hills re-echoed back the sound ; His hand he laid upon the wanderer's breast, Alas, there, all was still, and cold in death. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 61 THE HERB GATHERER. Time has wrinkled his brow, And his hair is like snow, But^a hearty old man is he ; Though I tell not his worth, Not a king upon earth, More cheerful and happy can be. Though his Mendships are few, Yet he 's faithful and true. He heeds not the world and its pride ; Though he owns no estate, He ne'er envies the great. As he roams by the green wood side. And blithe as the lark. Over moorland and park, He travels in search of his store ; And when herbs are in bloom, Then he lives in perfume. And want never enters his door. When the wintry winds blow. And the mountain streams flow. His fire it bums cheerly and bright ; And he dreams of the woods. Of the fields, and the floods. Through the howl of the Winter s night. Not a plant but he knows. And the spot where it grows, From the plain to the twisted brake ; F 62 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. His old cot is hung round, With the fruits of the ground, On the banks of the peaceful lake. When the maids young and gay. Twine their garlands for May, He culls them wild roses of Spring ; And they crown him with flowers. From his own forest bowers, And they dance round their sylvan king. LIFE'S CHANGES. The daisied earth, and the starry skies. The birds and the golden butterflies. The circling year with its varied charms, My own sweet babe in its mother s arms, The lightning that flits o'er oceans wave. The flowers that bloom o'er a patriot's grave, The smile of heaven o'er mountain and wood. The laurell'd wreath for the wise and good, Loveliness, sealing its vows of truth. The smile of old age, the song of youth. The peasant's lay and the hunter's horn. The wild -flowers' birth on a summer's morn. Friendship and virtue, genius and worth, — These spread a charm o'er the things of earth. Oh, that we ever should find a shade, With life in its sunny robes array'd ; WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 63 Tears dim the brightest, the loveliest eye, Our dear young flowers they sicken and die. On the brow of youth sits wrinkled care. The virtuous perish in dark despair, Serpents are hid in the laurelled wreath, Poverty dies on the snow-clad heath, — The patriot mourns in a dungeon s gloom. And genius wends to its early tomb, — And wretched want, in its hovel weeps, When pleasure its midnight orgies keeps. Vile slavery hath stain'd our history's page. Democracy thirsts to glut its rage, — These are the weeds on life's pathway green. And the good man longs for a happier scene. EASY TRAVELLING. My friend is good humoured, and hearty, and gay. The careless and easy John Bull of his day ; For no trouble sits long 'neath his broad-brimm'd hat. He keeps up the adage of " laugh and grow fat." He rolls like a porpoise, and seldom leaves home. But one day he felt a slight itcMng to roam ; Said he, "I will take the first coach to the races," Even then, if you please, he considered his ease. And order d his man to secure him two places. Now with old English fare he treated his Mends, Ate little himself, but made ample amends With his favourite bottle of stout : Said his faithful man John, with complaisant grace, "An please your honour, there 's but one inside place. So I Ve book'd you, one in, and one out." 64 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. THE YINE.— AN ALLEGORY. Fresh from their Creator s hand, The blooming forest trees, Adorning the green land. And waving in the breeze. They stood in nature's pride, Wild beauties, side by side, — And spread their beauteous foliage to the skies, Untrained by man, — And there, exulting in earth's Paradise, They thus began : — " I boast," said the lofty cedar tree, " Of my firmness, strength, and fragrancy;" " To me," said the spreading palm, " is given The favour d glance of approving heaven ;" And the dark pine shouted through the glade, " The birds rejoice in my cooling shade ;" Like beauteous youth the wild apple spake, Round its branches coiled the gilded snake ; And the elm, and the giant oak were there, And the myrtle scented the ambient air ; The fig and the olive bough were twining Their wild uncultur d bloom ; And the Vine alone was heard repining. From its neglected gloom. For the feeble Vine, Had ne'er dar d to twine. With the forest's beauteous trees ; Obscurely creeping. Its tendrils weeping, 'T was the sport of every breeze. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 65 But ere long the husbandman passed by, And he heard its lowly plaintive cry ; To the humble Vine 't was a happy hour, For kindly he train d it round his bower ; The neglected plant, now green and gay, Its blossoms spread to the sunny ray ; Nectareous juice its buds contained, No longer now the Vine complained. The proicd trees envied the feeble shoot ^ Now rich in its ripe and clustering fruit. Then ne'er do thou, lonely one, despair, Nor yield thine heart to consuming care ; But with steadfast hope thy course pursue, When scorn's proud arrow would pierce thee through, — The sun of prosperity yet may shine, When thou shalt flourish like the fruitful Vine. THE PAST. Oh ! the Past with its world of delights. The poor way-faring minstrel invites. To live in the dreamy glance of its rays. And converse with the men of ancient days. Oh, he prizes that vision more dear than gold, For he lists to the mighty harps of old, — As he sits by the pleasant streams, among The inspired, the children of sacred song. Yes, dear to him is the awful Past, — He rides alone on the whirling blast. When time in his anger sweeps away. Earth's gilded temples to dark decay, F 3 66 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Some relic he brings, From the wreck of kings, Some pearl from the crumbling kingdom's vast,- Then its beauty renews, And its gorgeous hues. He gives to the ever wondrous Past. THE DEW-DROP. A BEAUTIFUL child. In her father s bower. So gentle and mild. Like a spring-born flower, — Sat watching the dew-drops there ; Till the eastern ray, Exhal'd them away. And they fled on the balmy air : Like her, they were bright. And she mourn d their flight. Not a pearly tear remain d behind, " Come, tell me," cried she, " my father kind. Why vanished the glistening gems so soon, Why linger d they not, 't is long ere noon ?" " Behold," said he, " the rainbow's hues. Earth's dew-drops there their charms diffuse, Yes, there the radiant pearls are set. In heaven's own glorious coronet. 'T is thus the virtuous pass away. Though ' long ere noon* they meet decay, And thus, my lovely child, 't is given. What fades on earth shall bloom in heaven." WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. TO Henry, thou hast in English hearts a home, Enshrined in love thy peaceful glories are ; Nor can the chroniclers of Greece and Rome, Reveal the beaming of so bright a star, — Yea, Freedom's sons have hail'd its rays afar. Light of an intellectual galaxy Of statesmen great, and worthies known to fame ; Rise in thy brightness o'er the stormy sea. Day-star, come forth, and blazing truths proclaim. Bards raise the song, to tell what wondrous deeds Renowned heroes have achieved in war : Of scenes of carnage, where the mighty bleeds Unnoticed, laid beneath destruction s car. Go, strike your harps to chaunt a patriot's praise ; Have ye a nobler theme for earthly song ? A name that aye shall live in Freedom's lays. May Time the record of such worth prolong. LINES WRITTEN ON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1839. The Winter s wind blows o'er the lea, The short days pass by drearily, And like the ice-bound stream, our trade In mystic gloom is dormant laid. The merry Christmas carol seems The echo of remembered dreams ; And the festive mirth to young and old, Like a fairy tale to children told. 68 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. Invention s wondrous powers arc vain, Like summer-flowers that droop for rain, Industry listless must remain ; And misery, want, and dark despair. Crowd each public thoroughfare, Till commerce spread her golden wings, And labour for her children brings. Oh, England, where is now thy glory ? Land of my fathers ! Methinks 't is a forgotten story. Where darkness gathers. Thy rulers boast of lasting peace. But strife, and want, and woe increase. If plenty deigns to bless our shores. We hail the bright summer gleam ; But soon the wintry tempest roars ; With poverty shivering at our doors. We wake from the fleeting dream. O ye whom fortune's smiles have bless'd. In splendid luxury caress'd, Let kind humanity prevail. Nor turn aside from misery's tale. We all are creatures of a day. Though fanned in pleasure's noontide ray; We all one common parent own. Then ne'er upon your brethren frown ; A while forget the song of mirth. To hear the cries of suffering worth. In pity leave stern grandeur s doom, And seek industry's wretched home. There soothe the starving labourer s fears, Relieve his wants, and dry his tears. WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. 69 For charity 's a gentle flame, That never courts the breath of fame, And yields an undiminished ray. When grandeur s blaze hath passed away. Land of the Briton ! while inventions flourish. Millions, obscurely born, ignobly perish ; — My heart dictates, I call thee, land of slaves, Let others sing " Britannia rules the waves ;" Thy rivals laugh at this thy impious boast, — Like cormorants they crowd thy fertile coast. And boldly bear away with swelling sails. Thy commerce to their transatlantic vales. No hostile armies sound the blast of war. Thy peaceful ensign flutters from afar ; No dread Napoleon lights the ire of France, No Washington for independence burns ; More stealthily thine ancient foes advance, And rule thy palsied energy by turns. Low, selfish principles of trade. The bulwarks of thy strength invade ; Productive power, monopoly maintains. Productive labour, in the street complains ; And " Albion s sons, the noble, great, and free," By millions starve in wretched poverty. Art, is the golden idol of the age. And veils the characters on nature's page ; Base competition marks its onward stride. With gross cupidity, and low-born pride. Those arts that should the labourer bless. They yearly make his comforts less ; And now the craving sons of gain, Record it as a blighting stain. 70 WAY-SIDE FLOWERS. That injur d labour dares complain, And speak aloud its wrongs ; A Briton s independence now, No longer sits on labour's brow, To none who guide the loom or plough, That ancient badge belongs. And man a mere automaton becomes, To flying wheels and whirling drums, Till kind humanity and love depart, And Avarice reigns sole mistress of the heart. Oh, for a wreath by fancy twin d, In blissful hours, by hope designed. Desponding hearts to cheer, — To brighten dark futurity, And through its dim obscurity, To hail The Coming Year ; Of England's happier days to sing, And gather all the sweets of Spring, To form a joyous crown, — And plant it o'er industry's brow, There should the fadeless laurel throw. Its trophies of renown. December, 1839. INDEX. PAGE. Aeronaut, Song of the 19 Allegory, 64 Away to the hills, 33 Come to the Abbey, 46 Constantius, 22 Deep and Moonlit Sea, 45 Dew-Drop, the 66 Easy Travelling, 63 Edgar's Tomb, 23 Epicedium, 7 Epigram Extempore, 36 Epistle, 47 Evening, 15 Fragment, 30 Freedom, the Light of 9 Fugitive, the 31 Herb Gatherer, 61 Howley, the Ruins at 26 L.E. L 13 Life's Changes, 62 Lines written on the CloBe of the Year 1839, 67 Lines written on an Admission Ticket, 20 Lucy's Loss, 58 Moot-Hall, the Old 17 Mother, the 21 72 PAGE. Napoleon, 16 Nature's Moral Lesson, 32 Nidderdale, a Dramatic Sketch, 50 Parting Gift, the 10 Past, the 65 Pauline, 25 Pictures from Life, 59 Rhymes, Desultory 38 Sailor's Widow, 11 Spring, the Approach of 28 Stanzas, 34 To , 67 To Anne, 35 To England, 5 To May, 1838, 8 What is Love? 37 A. PICKARD, PRINTER, CROSS-COURT, TOP OF BRIGGATE, LEEDS. SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. EARL OF MEXBRO', Methley Park. LORD HOWDEN, Grimston Park. 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