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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LYRICAL 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 MINOR POEMS 
 
 ROBERT STORY, 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN JAMES, F. S.A., 
 
 Arrnon of the "history op Bradford;" "history of the 
 
 WORSTED MANUFACTURE IN ENGLAND;" "LIFE OF 
 NICHOLSON, THE AIREDALE POET," ETC. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, AND ROBERTS; 
 
 AND 
 
 HENRY GASKARTH, BRADFORD. 
 1861.
 
 BRADFORD : 
 HENRY GASKARTH, (l.ATE STANFIEU).)
 
 PR 
 
 TO THE MOST NOBLE 
 
 DUKE OF NOETHUMBEELAND, K.G. 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 My Lord Duke, 
 
 It is deemed most fitting by the biographer 
 and friends of Eobert Story — as it certainly would 
 have been the wish of the Bard himself — that this 
 Volume should be dedicated to your Grace. 
 
 Your Grace's warm symj^athy with every enter- 
 prise, whether literary or philanthropic, tending to 
 the honour or the welfare of Northumberland, is 
 known and proudly appreciated by all its inhabitants, 
 of whatever rank. 
 
 To one therefore, who like Story, had peculiar 
 claims to the distinction of Northumbria's Bard, you 
 liberally extended your patronage, and bestowed 
 upon him, at sundry times, many substantial marks 
 of your Grace's favour. To use his own expression — 
 the patronage of the Great Chief of his native county, 
 was the highest honour to which a Borderer woidd 
 dream of aspiring. To you he owed the publication, 
 at great expense, of his collected works, in a style 
 
 841977
 
 of beauty and magnificence, rarely if ever before 
 witnessed in the Provinces ; and lastly, to you he 
 owed the *' sunset gleam," which brightened and 
 gladdened his last days with hope and comfort. 
 
 Neither was Story unworthy of your Grace's 
 regard, — unquestionably his name will descend to 
 posterity associated with the beloved hills and glens 
 of his native county. Besides, his poetic effusions are, 
 though often full of gaiety and passion, remarkably 
 free from any moral taint. His muse was neither 
 licentious nor unprincipled, — on the contrary, she 
 scatters, in noble thoughts and pure sentiments, a 
 sweet perfume over all his poetry, justifying the 
 observation of your Grace: ''I hope it may find 
 its way into every Cottage and Farm House in 
 Northumberland." 
 
 In this edition, to which you have graciously 
 ticcorded encouragement and support — thus con- 
 tinuing to his widow, the kindness you evinced to 
 the Poet, — it is intended to carry out, to some extent, 
 the ■« ish of your Grace, by placing before the public, 
 in a chean and handsome form, some of Story's 
 choicest Lyi'ic'=', which cannot fail to exalt the souls 
 and touoii the hearts of his countrymen. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 My Lord Duke, 
 Yn- ■ Grace's most obedient Servant. 
 
 JOHN JAMES.
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 For upwards of twenty years Story and I were 
 upon most intimate terms of friendship. During the 
 many jjleasant seasons spent in his genial society, he 
 from time to time, narrated to me numerous passages 
 of his life, inserted in the following pages. There 
 was in truth, a kind of understanding, — half joke, 
 half earnest — that in case I siu-vived him, the task of 
 being his biographer would devolve upon me ; and 
 that perhaps induced him to be more communicative 
 to me relative to his personal history, than otherwise 
 he would have been. Besides he had, at various 
 periods up to the time of his departtu-e from Gargrave, 
 jotted do^vn many autobiographical memoranda, 
 evidently, however, not intended for the pubHc eye. 
 He had also preserved with care, a series of cor- 
 respondence, extending from the year 1813, to his 
 death ; many of the letters being the originals written 
 by himself, of which he had, by some means or other, 
 obtained possession in after years. These original 
 letters, the " outpourings of friendship," are highly 
 interesting, as they indicate the Poet's peculiar frame 
 and texture of mind, modes of thought, and special 
 train of circumstances, at critical periods, either when 
 youth was "purging itself by boiling o'er," or
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 manhood essayed "the steep ascent and slippery 
 way," leading to th"? Temple of Fame. The numerous 
 letters likeAvdse of his intimate correspondents throw 
 much light on these periods of his life. 
 
 From all these varied sources the following Memoir 
 has been drawn, and when the materials were so 
 copious, the main difficulty lay in selection. My 
 aim has been to po;u-tray, as truly as an undoubted 
 partiahty for my lamented friend would allow, the 
 principal events of his course ; and more especially 
 what may not inaptly be called his Poetic life. To 
 carry out effectively this primary object, I have, where 
 it seemed ehgible, and best exhibited his feelings and 
 sentiments, drawn largely in his own language, 
 from the letters and autobiographical jottings before 
 denoted. 
 
 Story died last summer, and owing to long con- 
 tinued domestic affliction and disapjjointment, had 
 not been able, out of his Hmited income, to make 
 any provision for his widow. Hence this collection 
 of his Minor Poems has been issued for the purpose 
 of raising a fund for her assistance. 
 
 Most grateful and sincere thanks are here tendered 
 to the numerous friends of the late Poet, who have 
 zealously contributed to the success of this "Work, and 
 thus conferred a substantial benefit, not soon to be 
 forgotten, on his mdow. 
 
 I. J. 
 
 Beadfoed, 
 31st July, 1861.
 
 LIFE OF EGBERT STORY. 
 
 Englaot) cUstinguislied as she is alike for arts and 
 arms, with, her commerce and civilization encircling the 
 earth, has ever believed that the glorious triumphs 
 of her Poets were the brightest and most unfading 
 gems in her eternal diadem. Beyond all other nations, 
 "whether of antiquity or modern times, she has paid 
 the highest honours to, and rewarded the most nobly, 
 her Sons of Song. From the days of Chaucer to Spen- 
 ser, from Spenser to Pope, and from Poj)e to Bp'on 
 and the present time, her Bards have been, with few 
 exceptions, the objects of high distinction. The English 
 Parnassus has, in truth, abounded in rich mines of 
 silver and gold, which have been worked \vith zeal 
 and success by the dwellers on its green slopes. And 
 its inhabitants have not only reaped wealth from their 
 poetic laboiu's, but honoui's of all kinds, and fi'om all 
 hands, have been heaped upon them in profusion. 
 Their society has been courted -ndth eagerness by the 
 most distinguished of the land ; and so widely has the 
 feeling in their favour spread, that to be a Poet has 
 become a passport to the admiration and reverence of
 
 VIU 
 
 all classes. To the poetic race, beyond all others, 
 Britannia has been indulgent in a high degree, deal- 
 ing leniently with theii* faults, cloaking their short- 
 comings, and treating them, as her spoiled but 
 favourite children, \Aith a tenderness and regard 
 which those eminent in other walis of literature, or 
 in the fields of science, may well envy, but in most 
 cases vainly attempt to obtain. 
 
 True, the Calamities of Poets have become a 
 stock theme, but these, in our own land, have arisen, 
 in the main, not from lack of Kberal encouragement 
 and sjTnpathy, but fi'om other causes, which need not 
 be discussed in these pages. 
 
 Were any example wanted of the encouragement 
 and patronage accorded to poetic merit, it may be 
 found in the life of Robert Story. Born in a humble cot 
 and subject in youth to all the privations of poverty, 
 we see him emerge from the lowly station of the shep- 
 herd boy on Lanton hills, the thresher in the barns of 
 Eeedsford, and the rustic reaper in the fields of 
 Roddam, to be praised, j)atronized, and rewarded, 
 by the nobles of the land — by the accomplished 
 EHesmere, the courtly Wharneliffe, and the Ducal 
 Chief of his native county. To use his own words — 
 Poetry " introduced me to circles where my birth and 
 breeding would, but for it, have excluded me, and it 
 made me hundreds of friends, whose fr-iendship has 
 been repeatedly proved by the most trying of aU 
 tests." Not least, it obtained for him a desk at
 
 IX. 
 
 Somerset House, which if it did not give hiin wealth, 
 at least afforded hini a moderate competency, and 
 allowed him ample leisiu'e to follow his favourite 
 poetic piu'suits. 
 
 Story was horn at Wark, a village lying in the 
 North- West Corner of Northumberland, near the 
 banks of the Tweed, on Sunday, the 17th day of 
 October, 1795. His father, a Northumbrian peasant, 
 married when young, Mary Hooliston, a Scotch 
 servant maid, from the neighbovu-hood of Lauder, 
 who bore to him nine children, of whom our Poet was 
 the youngest by seven years. She had at his birth 
 almost reached the age of fifty years, and her only 
 other son had grown to manhood. These circum- 
 stances exercised a powerful influence on the future 
 life of the Poet. He became his mother's hope, a 
 spoiled child, and hence sprung very many of the 
 troubles and indiscretions of his youth. Throughout 
 life he cherished for her a strong love, and often 
 remembered with emotion, how with aching fingers, 
 she toiled that he might eat of the best she could 
 afford ; and how with anxious, and often -with brimful 
 eye, she watched until her last breath, his various 
 fortunes. 
 
 O-wdng to the care of his father, he scarcely re- 
 membered the time when he could not read easy 
 
 h
 
 books. When very young lie especially deliglited to 
 pore over Solomon's Proverbs, though, it must be 
 confessed, without much apparent profit, as he never 
 at any time became distinguished for prudence. When 
 about five or six years of age, his parents, who then 
 resided at Wark Common, sent him to Wark School, 
 where, under the care of Mr. Kinton, he made rapid 
 progress in reading and wi'iting. He became a 
 favoiu'ite with this kind gentleman, who well under- 
 stood the boy's shy and sensitive natui'e, requii"ing 
 encouragement rather than coercion to develope its 
 powers. 
 
 Whilst he attended Wark School, a great famine 
 spread over England. This terrible \dsitation, which 
 is still remembered in the north of England by 
 the significant name of " Barley Time," pressed with 
 peculiar severity upon the home of Story's father. 
 His master became bankrupt and fled the coujitry. 
 The creditors seized the stock and grain, and refused 
 to pay the Poet's father a considerable arrear of wages 
 due to him. But such was his uprightness that being 
 intrusted with the care of a large quantity of this 
 grain, he resolutety refused to let his family touch any 
 portion thereof, though they were literally star\T[ng. 
 Story mentions the gladness vrith which he feasted 
 upon even a handfij.1 of raw peas. 
 
 Soon after his father went to reside at Old 
 Heaton, as servant to Mr. Grey. AVitliin a short 
 distance stands Twizel Castle — a fine Gothic pile
 
 XI. 
 
 surroimded by romantic woods. In his earliest boy-. 
 hood Story was strongly impressed with the beautiful 
 scenery which abounds in his beloved native county ; 
 he was accustomed, at this time, on Sundays, 
 and whenever else he could steal from home, to 
 wander along the banks of the Till. In after life he 
 writes, " Since I became a man I have often admired 
 the rich varied charms of the scenery of Twizel Castle, 
 but the impressions made by these latter views are all 
 dimmed and darkened by the more vivid colouring of 
 my boyish recollections. The splendid Castle — the 
 rugged precipice on which it is erected — the sullen 
 flow of the Till — the ancient Bridge — and the 
 hawthorn glades of ' Our Lady's Close' — still fre- 
 quently recur to me with the sun of my childhood 
 upon them, and accompanied even by the smell wafted 
 fi^om bud and blossom." 
 
 Whilst at Heaton he went to Crookham School, 
 three miles distant, where, o^ing to the ill-judged 
 severity of the master, he often played truant, spend- 
 ing the day in the woods and fields, and returning 
 home with laggard step in the evening. "When he 
 visited the school he usually left his dinner wallet at 
 the cottage of a lame fiddler at Crookham, named 
 Doddy, otherwise George Johnstone. His manner 
 of getting a livelihood for himself and his aged 
 mother was pecidiar. The seed time of other people 
 was Doddy's harvest. According to an immemorial 
 custom descending probably fi'om the days of the
 
 Xll. 
 
 ancient Minstrels, the gentry and farmers of the 
 Scottish Border were accustomed to entertain at their 
 seed time all the fiddlers who visited them. Doddy, 
 who played the fiddle tolerably with the left hand, 
 regularly as the spring came round, bought an old 
 worn-out horse and set out accompanied by a boy — a 
 fiddler's callant, to take care of his horse and carry 
 the fiddle case. At every farmer's house which he 
 enlivened with his tunes, he was paid sixpence in 
 money, or an equivalent in corn ; and in his month's 
 wandering he usually returned with a good amount 
 of money, and as much barley and oats as sufiiced for 
 the sustenance of himseK and his mother throughout 
 a great part of the year. Doddy, by his highly 
 coloured description of his adventures, so excited the 
 mind of Story, that he resolved to accompany him as 
 his page next spring. Upon broaching the project 
 at home, it met with the most determined opposition 
 from his father, who was prosaic enough to consider 
 a fiddler's callant something similar to a beggar's 
 lacquey, and on no account would give his consent. 
 His mother was not so obdurate, as she was anxious 
 that her son should be instructed to play on the vioKn 
 by so able a performer as Doddy. The lad, however, 
 decided upon the adventure at all hazard ; and taking 
 his school satchel one morning went to Crookham by 
 appointment, where he found Doddy ready to start on 
 hisjoiu-ney. Doddy, a long spare fellow, mounted 
 his Kosinante, which was covered with sacks, and
 
 XUl. 
 
 behind liim rode Stoiy, a chubby lad (no bad minia- 
 ture Sancho Panza) with the fiddle-case strapx^ed to 
 his back. On the road Doddy gave him instructions 
 for his conduct, — among others never to refuse 
 money or meat when offered ; and he woiild wager 
 his fiddle-stick that the lad would get such a 
 flesh-coat on his back as would make his mother 
 jump for joy when he returned. To Story, who had 
 never been five miles from his father's cottage, the 
 novelties of the journey were exceedingly exciting. 
 When they reached the high grounds, the Cheviots 
 in all their majesty, appeared on the south; the 
 German ocean to the east; and on the north the 
 richly cultivated Merse, shaded with greenwoods, 
 gentlemen's seats, and fann houses, lay like a beauti- 
 fully coloured map before them. At night fall they 
 halted at the farm house of Lordinglaw. Disen- 
 cumbering Story of the fiddle-case, Doddy limped 
 away with it to the farm house, leaving his lacquey 
 to take care of the horse. With the assistance of the 
 farmer's daughter, Jessy, a girl of the same age as 
 himself, he soon found provender for the horse, when 
 she invited him "to gang wi' her into the ha' and 
 line his stomach wi' a gude bickerfu' o' sweens'." 
 On repamng to the farmer's hall, he found a long 
 deal table delicately scoured and furnished with the 
 kind of supper mentioned by Jessy. Two capacious 
 dishes filled with rich milk, each of them having a 
 small wooden divider, were placed on the table,
 
 XIV. 
 
 and around were arranged the master, mistress 
 and servants, besides two or three strangers, 
 (including Doddy) whom hospitality had made guests 
 for the night. After the 'gude' man of Lordinglaw 
 had finished grace, every one was served with a 
 portion of " sweens" or milk, in a wooden vessel, 
 called a hicher. After supper the dance commenced 
 in all its glee, and Story relates that he acquitted 
 himself with his partner Jessy, to his own satisfaction. 
 Next day at noon, Doddy and his Squire reached a 
 village on the Tweed, a little to the east of Lesudden, 
 and met there such a variety of characters as could be 
 found no where else. Here was a great gathering, as in 
 a focus, of Doddy' s musical brethren, who had arrived 
 from different quarters on the like errand as himself. 
 Their appearance would have formed a capital subject 
 for "Wilkie. There was blind Robbie of Coldstream, 
 mounted behind his boy on a horse, which had only 
 the use of three legs ; then Jethert Jock, (Jedburgh) 
 astride an ass, which a ragged youngster led by 
 a halter ; next, blind Jamie of Wooler, followed by 
 Selkirk Sandy, and Dunse Tam. They were all taken 
 into the farmer's kitchen and regaled with peas broth, 
 which Story and his master gulphed rather than sup- 
 ped, as it was his interest to be first at the next place. 
 In this manner, for about a month, they rambled 
 over the counties of Roxbiu-gh, Selkirk, and Berwick, 
 and were plenteously regaled on the plain fare of the 
 country, including large store of the favourite Scotch
 
 XVll. 
 
 devotional feelings. "These, however," he observed, 
 received additional stimuli by communion with the 
 si^irit of Watts. The life of a shepherd, too, is favour- 
 able to devotion : living amongst the lone hiUs he 
 seldom sees a human being, save those of his own 
 house ; and his occupation is of a nature so little en- 
 grossing, that his mind is for the most part at liberty 
 to feed on its own meditations — whether derived fi-om 
 his favourite Bible, or from the eternal hills which 
 every day unfolds to him, and which he contemplates 
 as the workmanship of his unseen but omnipresent 
 Creator. I never yet knew a shepherd who was a bad 
 man ! I was at this time a quiet, thoughtful, pious- 
 minded boy ; and when wandering on the green hill 
 tops in a starry spring morning, or reclining on a 
 sunny slope of Lanton Hills on a Sunday noon, with 
 the Beaumont winding along beneath me, and Newton 
 Chiu'ch yard, l^'ing distinct and still, on the farther 
 side, I experienced feelings and aspirations so entirely 
 holy and blissfid, as exceed my power of expression 
 to give an adequate idea of them. My poem of 
 'Beaumont Side,' and sundry passages in 'Gru.thrum,' 
 owe their foundation to my recollections of those 
 emotions and that scenery." That the life of a shepherd 
 is aHke congenial to devotion and poetry, has long been 
 observed. Poetry found Story, not unlike as it did 
 David, feeding his father's sheep on the hills of Beth- 
 lehem, and both caught on the mountain side the spirit 
 of poetry. Their situation and their feelings would,
 
 XVIU. 
 
 ■whilst foUo^Ying' the same occupation, be similar ; and 
 it is pleasing to reflect that the compositions of the 
 Shepherd Psalmist were, to some extent, sources of 
 inspii-ation to Story. He writes thus : — " The Scotch 
 Metrical version of the Psalms of David (I speak it 
 with reverence) divided my veneration with the 
 Hymns of Dr. AVatts. I had a pocket edition of it, 
 which I seldom went to the hills without carrjdng 
 with me, and which I read in the loneliest places, my 
 heart burning with the sweet devotion inspired by 
 the sweet singer of Israel. I was already a poet in 
 heart and imagination, and the scenery amidst which 
 I experienced these raptures, for they were little else, 
 is still hallowed in my recollections." Beaumont 
 Side was indeed the sunniest spot of his early years, 
 and with perhaps the single exception of Eoddam, it 
 ever continued the locality on which his fancy most 
 loved to linger. 
 
 Let us now go over the ground on which he kept 
 sheep on Beaumont Side, and which, in his "Love 
 and Literature," he has so forcibly described : — 
 
 "Observe," Rewrites: "that bridge whose single arch, spans the Beaumont. 
 I once looked on that bridge as a miracle of architecture, and the stream it 
 spans as a very considerable river. Now the river has sunk into a mere burn 
 or beck, and the bridge is rude, palti-y, and smaU. It is called if I remember 
 rightly, Langholm Bridge. I have spent entire days — nay, weeks, about it, 
 running along its battlements, shouting beneath its mouldy echoing arch, or 
 making mimic streams in the channel of the Beaumont, and calling them by 
 the names of the Tweed, Till, and Glen. Let us go down this plain, following 
 the windings of the stream. We are now at Thorningtox Haugh. You 
 see that herd of cattle, and here is the herd boy. He is clad in a tattered
 
 XIX. 
 
 jacket, his trousers are out at knees, and as for stockings and shoes, why, • 
 he would not be encumbered with them for a week's wages,— no, he has to be 
 here, there, and everywhere. He has often to cross the Beaumont — on his 
 own errands, to be sure ; but what of that, and he will teU you he'd na' 
 be fashed to be always stripping shoes and stockings to wade ; besides, he is 
 cooler and lighter without them. He is just now making himself a cap of 
 rushes, — observe what a grand knot there is at the top, and now he has got 
 it on, with what an air he wears it ! He has a rush sword too, depend upon 
 it he is dreaming of battles ! See how the buttercups fall before him ! "If 
 these were French, now, what havoc I should make !" His little dog with a 
 ring of white round his neck, and his tail curled conceitedly upon his back 
 seems as happy as his master. These now are two real friends. The boy 
 would rather that anybody behaved ill to himself than that his dog should 
 receive an injury, and the dog on the other hand loves him with unaffected 
 love, executes his orders with cheerfulness, and receives his reward with 
 gratitude. It would be a treat to see them at dinner, for they dine together. 
 The boy sits him down on a flowery bank, the dog a little below him on the 
 slope, eyes every mouthful with a cunning glance, and jimips up or aside to 
 catch the morsels that are every now and then flung towards him. The 
 bottle of morning milk, creamed at the top, is now finished. A drowsiness 
 comes over him. He throws himself back on the sward and watches the 
 lark that carols over him till he can watch it no longer. Ho is asleep, and 
 the dog would sleep too, but for the flies which he keeps snapping at. Oh ! 
 to be a herd boy again ! * * * Do you see that little hiU on the south 
 bank of the Beaumont ! It is called the Thorny Knowe. It is now sadly 
 changed. Then it was entirely covered with briers, thorns, and broom in 
 scattered tufts. What a variety and a profusion of bloom did the Spring 
 awaken there ; and when the bloom departed and the fruit came, what a 
 feast ! The hip and the haw, and even the sulky sloe, as Hogg terms it, 
 were delicious. Many a thorn have I got into my naked feet in gathering 
 those fruits. Mark that deep pool in the stream — that is the very spot 
 where I fiist practised swimming. 
 
 The Beaumont here divides into two streams, which meet again about 
 fifty yards below, forming an island called Willow Island, from being 
 covered with that shrub. On this bank, it was that my old father and I sat one 
 Sunday afternoon. He had taken that leisure hour to come from Reedsford, 
 to see me. He talked to me about my duty to my employer ; cautioned me 
 against negligence ; told me that in being careless in performing my duty 
 I offended the Almighty as well as injured man. " My boy," he said, 
 " you know that there is a God. You see his works around you. These hills
 
 XX. 
 
 were brought forth at his word ; the Beaumont first flowed at his command. 
 He made all these flowers to gladden our eyes, and herhs for the use of man. 
 He gives us everything here, and if we obey his laws, he will render ub 
 happy for ever hereafter." 
 
 His father's end now fast approaclied. Worn 
 out with toil and anxiety, he died when in middle 
 age. On Sunday, the 7th May, 1809, the father, 
 (accompanied by Story) went to Grindon to see his 
 eldest son and brother, who both resided there. 
 The latter had been for some time ill, and to visit 
 him was the chief object of the jom-ney. On that 
 day week the father was a corpse. On Satui'day 
 mornins: he fell ill after a week of severe toil in 
 threshing, assisted by Story, and passing that day and 
 the next night in great agony, expired the following 
 morning, 14th May, 1809, a day the anniversary of 
 which the Foet never allowed to pass without its 
 moments of chastened sorrow. Story often dwelt 
 with pleasure on the character for goodness and up- 
 rightness which his father possessed among his 
 neighbours. He loved his children, by whom he was 
 tenderly loved in return ; and if any thing disturbed 
 his last moments, it was the circumstance that not 
 one of them was at his bed side ; for they all, except 
 Story, resided at a distance, and he had been sent off 
 with the dawn to acquaint his brother and sisters of 
 the impending danger, and before his return all was 
 over. A touching anecdote is related by him of his 
 father. Whilst he lay in his coffin — with flowers
 
 XXI. 
 
 strewn over liim, a neigliboimng farmer's wife gazed 
 on it, and laying her hand on his breast exclaimed, 
 in the presence of a little knot of spectators, " Here 
 lies honest Robin Story." — Praise worth more than 
 most of the Eloges of the French Academy ! 
 
 And now commences what may be termed the 
 second epoch in Story's life — his entrance into the 
 world. The death of his father rendered it impera- 
 tively needful that he should take steps for a liveli- 
 hood. Accordingiy, he began to work as a labourer 
 in the fields, but this was a destiny to which his 
 mother was averse, for she conceived that he had 
 received a great education. Having heard that a 
 schoolmaster was wanted at Humbleton, she went 
 thither and took a dwelling and school-house, at a 
 rent of £4 a year ; and although little more than 
 fourteen, he commenced schoolmaster in June, 1810. 
 His acquirements were confined to reading, writing, 
 and a partial acquaintance with arithmetic. He 
 wrote a tolerable hand for a boy of foiu'teen. In the 
 first six months his school became a wonderfully 
 successful speculation. His pupils were young, and 
 under his care made rapid progi-ess in such parts of 
 knowledge as he could communicate to them. Un- 
 fortunately, a company of itinerant players visited the
 
 XXII. 
 
 neighbouring town of Wooler, and Story took the 
 whole of his scholars to Avitness their performances. 
 
 Fond of display even in these early years, he 
 marched his pupils, numbering some forty or &£tj, 
 into the town in procession. After witnessing the 
 performance, a mimic mania seized the whole school, 
 including the youthful master. At first their imi- 
 tations were confined to the noon hour, but soon their 
 enthusiasm increased, and began to encroach upon 
 the duties of the school. The parents naturally took 
 offence at these disorderly proceedings, and gradually 
 the scholars dwindled away, so that this his first 
 attempt as schoolmaster signally failed. 
 
 During his stay at Humbleton, he became ac- 
 quainted with John Smith, a youth not much older 
 than himself, but distinguished for quickness of parts 
 and knowledge beyond his years. Being the nephew 
 of the principal farmer in the village, he had 
 received a superior education, and improved it by 
 reading. He, too, lilve Story, wrote poetry, and 
 soon a lasting, friendship sprung up between them, 
 which ended only with poor Smith's death. He died 
 a maniac. The lines — " There's a dark hour coming," 
 were suggested by his sad fate, and the elegy — " The 
 Wild Thyme still blossoms on green Homilheugh," is 
 a tribute to his memory. The walks of these two 
 young friends, whom enthusiasm leavened to one 
 soul, were usually upon green Homilheugh, and up 
 where "the moors spread and the rocks are piled."
 
 xxm. 
 
 There they rambled, talking of books and poetry, 
 long after the 8un had gone down over the lone 
 Cheviots. 
 
 A volume of Scottish poetry, wi'itten by Andrew 
 Scott, a laboiu-ing man, near Melrose, fell into Story's 
 hands at this period, and its humour and descriptions 
 of country life suiting his taste, he read it so often 
 that he could repeat the whole book by memory, and 
 at last he began to compose imitations of its contents, 
 like as he had in former years copied the style of 
 Watts' Songs. At their evening conferences these 
 imitations were submitted to Smith, whose corrections 
 and criticisms assisted greatly in moulding Story's 
 taste and judgment 
 
 He also, when residing at Humbleton, became 
 intimate with his landlord, an eccentric man, whose 
 knowledge, like his Library, was extensive but odd, 
 crude and ill arranged. He lent Story books, and in 
 some respects his companionship was advantageous 
 to Story, but in others proved of the most baneful 
 description. This man, strong-minded and seK- 
 educated, possessed great powers of conversation and 
 argument, and unfortunately, being a scejitic of the 
 deepest dye, imprinted upon Story's young and 
 plastic mind habits of thinking, not eradicated until 
 his marriage. It must not, however, be conceived 
 that at any period of his life he held, with any 
 decision, loose thoughts on religion. Prone to 
 extremes, he almost daily swayed between fanaticism
 
 XXIV. 
 
 on the one hand, and doubt on the other, without a 
 settled belief. 
 
 Soon after the failure of his school at Humbleton, 
 he removed to the neighbouring village of Akeld, 
 where a kind-hearted person, named Andrew Smaills, 
 allowed him rent-free, the use of part of his house as 
 a school. This act was never forgotten. ^\Tienever 
 Story visited in after life that part of Northumberland, 
 he never failed to call upon this friend, and the mutual 
 good feeling between them only ended with Story's 
 death. He had taught school at Akeld not more than 
 half a year, and mustered a considerable number of 
 scholars, when he was attacked by a violent fever, 
 and compelled to rehnquish his school, and return 
 home. The fever left him prostrated in strength, 
 and with all the sjTnptoms of a decline, so that death 
 in his eyes appeared inevitable. Then all his scepti- 
 cal notions vanished for a time. After several weeks 
 confinement, however, he slowly raUied. 
 
 On his recovery he commenced school at a place 
 called Presson Hill. With health the spirit of poetry 
 returned to him, but changed in character. He com- 
 posed only devotional pieces. He wrote several in the 
 turgid style, in imitation of Hervey ; but fortunately, 
 the prose hymns of Mrs. Barbauld caught his 
 attention, and he devoted much time to versifjdng 
 them. From this exercise he derived the greatest 
 benefit, for he thereby gained a freedom of style and 
 command of imagery, which never afterwards forsook
 
 XXV. 
 
 him. Wlien not engaged in school he preferred to 
 walk alone in secluded places, musing on poetic 
 themes : — 
 
 "Ten thousand glorious systems would ho build ; 
 Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind." 
 
 The desire of fame at this time, if it did not as a 
 passion commence, grew uncontrollably strong within 
 him. Here are his words, speaking in middle age of 
 this period: — "I remember kneeling on the green- 
 sward and prajdng to Grod that he would make me a 
 great Poet. Half of that prayer has, I may venture 
 to say, been answered. I am a Poet, — minus the 
 great, and that is something." 
 
 Afterwards he removed to the pleasant village of 
 Eoddam, and there succeeded in obtaining forty ur 
 fifty pupils, averaging four shillings each quarter. 
 His evenings were spent in reading, and his conduct 
 on the whole became exemplary. At this juncture he 
 received a letter from a friend, named Mossman, who 
 had been his predecessor at Eoddam, and now held 
 a situation as assistant in Warley Academy, near 
 Halifax. He informed Story that he was about to 
 leave Warley, and could get him the appointment. 
 Story accepted the oifer without hesitation, and 
 having borrowed two pounds, commenced his journey 
 to Warlej'^,- on the 2nd February, 1815, aeeomi^anied 
 some distance on the road by his fi-iend Smith. His 
 new master, a pompous and exacting person, soon 
 became dissatisfied with Story, for Mossinan had 
 
 d
 
 XXVI. 
 
 declared that Story could teach. Latin, but his know- 
 ledge of that language was very limited. Neither 
 did he know much of English grammar, though in 
 three weeks of his stay at Warley, he endeavoured 
 to supply this deficiency by committing to memory 
 Lindley Murray's S^oitax. The unfeeling master, 
 notwithstanding his dihgence, soon found occasion to 
 quarrel with and dismiss him. This was a terrible 
 blow, and utterly shattered all his hopes and pro- 
 spects. After remaining a week at Halifax with 
 Mossman, he bent his steps towards home. Obser\dng 
 an advertisement for an assistant in a boarding sch<jol 
 at Castleton Lodge, near Leeds, kej)t by Mr. Sander- 
 son, he applied for the situation and was successful. 
 This was a joyful event, but the pleasure was of short 
 duration. The scholars at Castleton Lodge were of 
 a much superior class to those at Warley, and the 
 rough Northumberland vernacular, and unpolished 
 manners of the new assistant, which had been of 
 great disadvantage to him at the latter place, were 
 now sources of continual ridicule to the pupils. He was 
 so disheartened and dissatisfied that he determined 
 to return home ; and in truth a strong home-sickness 
 had already seized him. The desire to see his native 
 hills had been greatly increased by reading Currie's 
 edition of Burns, which he first met with whilst in 
 Yorkshire, and the songs and verses of the AjTshire 
 Bard, in praise of the glens and streams of the north, 
 touched a chord in his breast of exquisite sensibiHty.
 
 XXVll. 
 
 He determined to be a plougliman, and emulate the 
 fame of Burns ; and vanity already whispered the 
 title of ' The Biu'ns of Beaumont Side.' 
 
 He left Castleton Lodge on the 21st June, 1815, 
 with the good wishes of the master, with whom, in 
 after life, he was intimate, and walked to North- 
 allerton, intending to perform the Avhole joui-ney on 
 foot ; but on entering that town, his eagerness to 
 reach home became so great that he spent his last 
 money in coach fare to AVooler, and entered his 
 mother's house penniless, but as happy as an escaped 
 slave. 
 
 He stdl desired to be a ploughman, but his services 
 in that capacity were not accepted. Turnip hoeing 
 and hay-making formed his employment until harvest 
 time, when he returned to Roddam and resumed the 
 sickle among his old companions in labour. His 
 wages, two pounds, were of no benefit to him, as he 
 gladly repaid the money he had borrowed for his 
 Yorkshu'e journey. At the conclusion of harvest, he 
 repaired to Wooler statutes or fair, and stood with a 
 sprig of thorn in his hat, a symbol of the rude service 
 in which he wished in vain to be engaged. None of 
 the farmers liked his appearance, which was about as 
 dissimilar to that of a ploughman, as it had previously 
 been to a sailor. He was therefore, reluctantly com- 
 pelled to commence again as schoolmaster. The 
 school at Eoddam was occupied ; but -with all his 
 shortcomings he had ever been a favourite with the
 
 XXVIU. 
 
 people of tliat place, and they encouraged him to 
 commence at Ilderton Moor, in the immediate neigh- 
 hourhood, where he soon obtained about sixty boys 
 and gu'ls. Here he began a long poem, entitled 
 ' Harvest,' of -which Margaret or Maggie Richardson, 
 a fellow reaper in the fields of Eoddam, was the 
 heroine. In the following spring he removed to his 
 old school-house at that village, and still continued 
 to labour at his poem of ' Harvest.' Autumn, (1816), 
 again found him reaping in the fields of Eoddam, 
 with Peggy by his side ! Her ascendancy over him 
 was now doomed to be overthrown, by the superior 
 attractions of Anne Boer, a lady's maid, who had 
 accompanied her mistress from Shropshire, on a visit 
 to Greneral Orde, of Eoddam Hall. The departure of 
 his Dulcinea, after a few weeks stay, crushed all 
 his hopes ; but the imj)ression she left on his mind 
 was deep and endui-ing. In less than two years she 
 died of consumption. Several pieces in the following 
 pages were written on this amiable young woman. 
 
 Whilst he was momming the dejiarture of Anne 
 Boer fi'om Eoddam, he gained one of his trustiest 
 friends in William Grourley, in many respects an extra- 
 ordinary man. He had been a ploughman until his 
 twentieth year, when, having a taste for science, he 
 determined to expend the little money he had saved 
 in acquiring sufficient knowledge to fit him for a 
 schoolmaster. On his money being spent, he opened 
 a school at Akeld, and ventured on marriage. Story
 
 XXIX. 
 
 met him during the honeymoon, and found him 
 studjang the use of the globes in a most primitive 
 manner, his apparatus consisting of a large turnip, 
 with a wooden skewer through the middle, to re- 
 present the poles, the lines of latitude and longi- 
 tude being indicated by thread. With such rude 
 means, aided by intense application, he raised himself 
 to a respectable position as a mathematician, and 
 superintended the mathematical department of the 
 Newcastle Magazine, when such men as Atkinson, 
 Riddle, and Woolliouse, contributed to it. The 
 warmth of heart, and manhness of character, native 
 to William Grourley, rendered a correspondence with 
 him of many years duration, one of Story's greatest 
 pleasures. Gourley, for a long period, conducted an 
 endowed school at Morpeth, and died there in 1845. 
 Before the end of 1816, he had finished his 
 ' Harvest,' and submitted it to some of his literary 
 friends, who praised it extravagantly. The Poem 
 was written in close imitation of Scott's Poetical 
 Romances, which, through the fi-iendship of Smith, 
 he had been enabled to procure. In thus imitating 
 Scott's manner, and appljdng it to subjects unsuited 
 to it, he committed a grave error, and the Poem had, 
 in consequence, all the air of a parody. This faidt 
 he, however, did not perceive ; but with all the un- 
 diseerning love for a first born, sent it to the press at 
 Berwick-upon-Tweed. The first sheets were received 
 and corrected on the harvest field, in the Autumn 
 of 1817.
 
 XXX. 
 
 On the suggestion of Mr. Hall, a Dissenting 
 Minister at Crookham, and a warm admirer of 
 ' Harvest,' which he had seen in manuscript. Story 
 removed in the Autumn of 1817, to a school at AVest 
 Allardean, to be in the neighbourhood of Mr. Hall, 
 who expressed an excessive fondness for his society. 
 But after he had been at Allardean two months, Mr. 
 Hall obtained for him the more congenial situation 
 of private tutor in the family of Mr. Wilson, an 
 opulent farmer at Camp Hill, at a salary of twenty 
 pounds a year, with board, washing, and lodgings. 
 During his residence at Camp Hill, his Poem was 
 published at half a crown, and about three hundred 
 subscribers were supplied with copies. Notwithstand- 
 ins: numerous defects, there were sufficient indications 
 of high poetical ability scattered through this unpre- 
 tending little volume ; but though Story gained by it 
 much local celebrity, no other reward accrued to him 
 than the gift of twenty- six copies. His stay at Camp 
 Hill was unfortunately of short duration, for some of 
 his pupils having caught the hooping cough, he was 
 rather unceremoniously dismissed, and found himself 
 once more out of a situation and penniless. AH the 
 poor tutor's salary had been absorbed in paying 
 tailors' debts, contracted to enable him to fill, what 
 he considered, the high x^ost he had attained. 
 
 " Up, son of Cheviot!" he exclaimed, and rej)aired 
 to Eoddam, just as the harvest of 1818 was com- 
 mencing. Most of his old acquaintances had again
 
 XXXI. 
 
 gattered together, and they welcomed him to the 
 harvest field with a shout of joy, which compensated 
 him for the loss of the comforts of Camp Hill. He 
 says : " My breast has not since tlu'obhed higher than 
 it throbbed at that shout." His joy was somewhat 
 abated by the thought that his old partner, Maggie 
 Richardson, had died of consumption: "that black 
 eye beaming bright," *' that angel motion, sprightly, 
 free," no longer gave a charm to his rustic labour. 
 The verses printed at page 72, were written in 
 remembrance of this graceful " Flower of Calder," 
 as he described her in the poem of ' Harvest.' "WTien 
 the last handful of corn had been cut, and carried 
 amid shouts of ' I^arnie Ho !' he received two pounds 
 for wages, with which he again ungrudgingty dis- 
 charged a debt. 
 
 On finisliing his laboiu's in the harvest field, he 
 resumed his school duties at Roddam, loderino: as 
 before in the school-house. One of its windows 
 overlooked the gardens of Greneral Orde, who had 
 now a fresh bevy of female servants. One day three 
 or four of these were strolling in the garden, 
 gathering cherries, when one of the handsomest of the 
 girls approached the open window, through which he 
 was gazing at them, and presented to him a branch 
 of fruit. This blooming as it looked, was a fatal 
 gift to both of them, and the source of much misery. 
 An attachment sprung up between them, which 
 resulted in the girl shelving signs of soon becoming
 
 XXXll. 
 
 a mother. Not long after, he discovered that she 
 had before been in a similar condition, and this, in 
 his eye, formed an insuperable bar to their marriage. 
 Eemorse lite a ghoul preyed upon his heart ; and he 
 determined to fly from a spot where he no longer en- 
 joyed happiness, but on the contrary, hourly feared the 
 vengeance of the parish law. Another circumstance 
 also rendered his stay at Eoddam very unpleasant, if 
 not impossible. He had long been disliked by Greneral 
 Orde, and for very good reasons. Story was con- 
 tinually prowling about the Greneral' s house and 
 grounds, at all times of night, unless, as was often 
 the case, the house was deserted, and the servants 
 had assembled for a merry-making in the school 
 house, where the dance continued until the approach 
 of morning. On these occasions Stor}^, a tolerable 
 performer on the violin, acted as musician and master 
 of the ceremonies. An altercation he had with the 
 Greneral, ended in an open ruj)ture ; and the latter 
 exerted himself with effect to get rid of so troublesome 
 a neighbour. Story, never disposed to submit with 
 meekness to what he considered an attack, resolved 
 to retaliate with a satire on his opponent. There was 
 some difficulty in fijiding any one to undertake the 
 risk of putting in print this satirical effusion ; but, at 
 last, a broken down printer at Morpeth was induced 
 to run the hazard for half a sovereign. Story fiddled 
 at Ilderton Moor for a night to raise the money ; and 
 in the Christmas of 1819, the Satire was published,
 
 XXXlll. 
 
 and clandestinely circulated, making- a great noise in 
 the neighbourhood. Though a very harmless squib, 
 it certainly was a hit. One of the Greneral's sons 
 laughed heartily on seeing the piece, and remarked : — 
 " The author is a clever fellow. This is my father, 
 every inch." 
 
 The General's rage must now be quickly avoided. 
 The school also did not, owing to adverse influences, 
 realize thirty pounds a year, and flight became a 
 stern necessity. Accordingly, on the evening of the 
 30th of March, 1820, Story set out with a heavy 
 heart from Eoddam, the scene of much sorrow and 
 joy to him. The full moon was just rising over 
 the heights of Be^vWck, as he cast a last look on 
 Eoddam. On reaching Newcastle, he copied and sent 
 to the Tyne Mercury^ a * Farewell,' beginning : — ' The 
 pang of remorse in my heart, the tear of regret in my 
 eye,' and in its whole tone exhibiting the deepest 
 suffering. At first he intended to proceed to London 
 and ■v\Tite for the press ; then he indulged a whim 
 of making a pilgrimage to the grave of Anna Boer, 
 in Shropshire, but at last resolved to visit his friend 
 Mossman, who kept a school at Skipton. After 
 remaining a fortnight, and seeing no chance of 
 employment, he had thoughts of exjDending the small 
 remains of his money in buying a fiddle, and making 
 his way with its help across the country. His Muse 
 had, in fact, as was her wont on departing from a 
 place, taken leave of Craven and its beauties, iu 
 
 e
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 the Knes, commencing : — ' On Sldpton's vales and 
 mountains play,' when it was intimated to him that 
 an attentive schoolmaster was wanted at Grargrave, a 
 lovely village, four miles to the west of Skipton, and 
 surrounded by charming scenery. The following is 
 a vivid and faithful description of Grargrave from his 
 pen : — ' In the north of England, there is not a sweeter 
 village than the one I have in my eye, and which I 
 shall take the liberty to call Grlengowan. It is situated 
 in the very centre of a district remarkable for its roman- 
 tic beauty, and celebrated on account of the natiu*al 
 curiosities it contains. A bridge, rather elegant for 
 the place, and somewhat large for the stream it be- 
 strides, connects the two parts of the village, which 
 would otherwise be separated by the river. On the 
 south side of the river stands the church, the square 
 and tall steeple of which is seen above the trees that 
 surround the quiet burial groimd. Along the north 
 side, the principal part of the village extends : some 
 of the cottages with clean white-washed fronts, — some 
 covered with ivy or other evergreens, and some again 
 with flowering shrubs. A branch of the Queen's 
 highway passes through this part of the village, and 
 thus whilst it detracts something from the seclusion, 
 is the means of making its charms more widely 
 known.' 
 
 To Gargrave Story went in the month of April, 
 1820, with thii'teen shillings in his pocket, and opened
 
 XXXV, 
 
 a scliool, to which several of the most inlluential 
 gentlemen of the place afforded encouragement. With 
 his removal to this village, commences what may not 
 inaptly be styled the second great epoch of his life. 
 He resided there for the long period of twenty-three 
 years, there married, there all his children were 
 born, and there he established his fame as a local 
 poet, and wrote some of his best pieces. 
 
 For the first year after removing to Gargrave, he 
 suffered many privations, and with the utmost 
 economy was barely enabled to obtain a subsistence. 
 His finances were so low, that even with oatmeal por- 
 ridge for breakfast, bread and mill^ for dinner, and 
 the Barmecide supper of roasted potatoes when it 
 could be obtained, his outgoings exceeded his income. 
 The latter for a considerable time only amounted 
 to about five shillings a week, out of which he 
 paid two shillings for lodgings. To add to his 
 difficulties, an order was made against him of five 
 shillings a week, for the maintenance of his illegiti- 
 mate child ; but this exorbitant sum was afterwards 
 reduced by a friendly hand, to two shillings and 
 sixpence a week. Misfortune and privation, how- 
 ever, had a healing effect on Story's distempered 
 mind, and acted like the troubled waters of Bethesda 
 upon the sick. He was steady and attentive to the 
 duties of his school ; his fame, as a teacher, spread ; the 
 number of his pupils increased, and he began to gain 
 confidence in his position. But during the season of
 
 XX XVI. 
 
 suspense and trial passed tlii'ougli in the first few 
 months of his Kfe at Gargrave, he had often thoughts 
 of leaving a place, where he was only involving 
 himself in debt. Home sickness too, seized him. 
 The great grey hills of Craven had, in his sight, no 
 charms compared with those of Northumberland, 
 which his fancy painted as beautiful as the hills of 
 Beulah. He wrote under these feelings his song : — 
 * these are not mine own hills.' Whilst in this 
 desponding mood, a friend at Wooler sent him two 
 pounds, and two gentlemen of Grargrave advanced him 
 other two pounds, and thus enabled him to pay his 
 most urgent creditors. He was so overjoyed with this 
 occasion of good luck, that going one day to pay off 
 a debt, he found his eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 After the first year at Gargrave, his prospects 
 began to improve wonderfully. Not only had his 
 scholars increased in number, but more liberal terms 
 per quarter were offered by the chief inhabitants, 
 to induce him to remain among them. He soon 
 had the best school in the district, and devoted 
 himself most assiduously to its duties. All his leisure 
 hours were likewise applied by him to the task of 
 improving and extending his own acquirements, 
 wliich, at this period, were scanty, and scarcely 
 sufficient for his position. Among his pupils, several 
 wished to learn either Latin, French, or Navi- 
 gation. Many years before, he had as previously 
 noticed, been taught the rudiments of Latin ; and
 
 xxxvu. 
 
 whilst at Camp Hill, had acqviired sufficient French 
 to enable him to carry on with his friend Smith, 
 a short correspondence in that language. He revived 
 his knowledge of Latin and French by unwearied 
 application at night, and was thereby enabled to 
 teach to his pupils the next day, the lesson just 
 learnt by himself. By means of literal translations, he 
 made himself familiar with the Pastorals of Virgil, 
 a few of 0\dd's Metamorphoses, and also gained 
 a Httle of Cfesar and Sallust. Diu-ing Story's sea 
 mania, he had gone through Moore's Navigation, but 
 it seems very imperfectly, for he had not retained any 
 accurate knowledge of its contents. His pupil in 
 navigation, a grown up youth of fair abilities, could 
 not be cheated by his master's superficial knowledge ; 
 hence Story often sat up half the night to solve the 
 problems next day to be submitted to his pupil. 
 By imremitting attention to his school, he began to 
 prosper, whilst a Grammar school, a short distance 
 from the village, where the children of the better 
 class of inhabitants had been accustomed to receive 
 their education, was shut up for want of scholars ; 
 the school-house itself became a ruin, and the endow- 
 ment a question for the charity commissioners. 
 
 On looking over his Poems, which arranged as they 
 are in chronological order, afford a key to his state of 
 mind at various points of life's journey, it will be 
 foimd that they are in the latter part of 1822, of a 
 more hopeful character. The sanctuary of his heart
 
 XXX VIU. 
 
 had long been a void, wlien he found in Ellen Ellison, 
 a native of Gargrave, and about four years younger 
 than himself, one who happily filled a blank in his 
 existence. They were married on the 17th May, 1823, 
 and a passage in his autobiographical memoranda, 
 saves me the trouble of depicting a character so 
 admirably suited to his temperament. Late in life 
 he thus writes of her : — " I married Ellen Ellison, a 
 beautiful girl, but possessed of more valuable quahties 
 than mere personal beauty, as a faithful love of thirty 
 years has abundantly proved. I have many faults, 
 I can hardly charge her with one, and I say this in 
 aU sincerity. We had few real sorrows until we came 
 to London. On my marriage, I was altogether so 
 happy, that I began to think Heaven had forgiven 
 me all my sins. The thought brought gratitude, and 
 gratitude became rehgion." Hope now returned 
 each day with brighter smiles. His home was a 
 happy one, and he spent his evenings at his own fire- 
 side, either in literary pursuits, or in increasing his 
 scholastic attainments, especially in penmanship and 
 mathematics. Among all his labours, and they were 
 incessant at this period, he never entirely forsook 
 poetical composition. Some of these were inserted in 
 the Neiocastle Magazine, then edited by one of Story's 
 literary friends, Mr. Mitchell, who had previously 
 reviewed in his Magazine, the poem of ' Harvest.' 
 
 Soon after his marriage, he increased his income 
 by accepting the ofiice of parish clerk of Gargrave,
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 ofFerecl to liim by tlie Eev. Anthony Marsden, the 
 Vicar. The duties of this clerkship Avere never very 
 agreeable to him, except those connected with 
 Visitation days, and Easter dues, so humourously 
 described in his 'Epistle to Grourley.' To the end 
 of his life, he entertained his friends by reciting, in 
 his own inimitable style, that paragraph, beginning : 
 * Learn, then, that I am Parish Clerk.' The emolu- 
 ments from this office brought him in about ten pounds 
 a year, a most important addition to his very limited 
 resources. 
 
 In the year 1824, the Poems of John Nicholson, 
 the Airedale Poet, a man of great poetical genius, 
 were attracting much attention in the AVest-Eiding 
 of Yorkshire, especially in Craven, and gained for 
 the Author not only much local celebrity, but also 
 considerable pecuniary reward. Nicholson and Story 
 became acquainted, were often in the company of each 
 other, and the glowing report which the former gave 
 of the success of his poetic labours, stimulated Story's 
 ambition to again appear before the public with a 
 volume of poetry. He, therefore, commenced a poem 
 entitled 'The Hunting in Craven,' in which Lady 
 Margaret Percy, daughter of the Earl of Northumber- 
 land, attended by a large retmue of her father's 
 retainers, comes to Craven to enjoy the pleasures of 
 the chace with the Chifords. "Wliilst viewing the 
 sublime scenes of Malham Cove, and Gordale, she is 
 introduced to a former lover, who had become an
 
 xl. 
 
 Outlaw, and inhaLited, with his followers, Gennet's 
 Cave, a cavern well known to tourists, lying a few 
 hundred yards from Grordale. Story, in a letter to 
 Gourley, written in 1820, shews the origin of this 
 Poem, and that of 'The Outlaw:'— "I have lately 
 finished reading the History of Craven, and was glad 
 to find myself in a land of romantic associations. All 
 the district was at one time divided between the 
 Cliffords of Skipton Castle, and the Percys of 
 Northumberland. Grargrave formed part of the 
 Percy fee. With me this is no emotionless circum- 
 stance, and I abeady think of doing something with 
 it in a poetic way. Over these vales clothed, I may 
 say, with eternal green — the collected chivalry of 
 Craven and Northumberland, often awakened the 
 echoes of the surrounding mountains in the pursuit of 
 the stag. You have probably seen a romantic poem, of 
 the 16th centuiy, among Prior's Works, entitled: — 
 'The Nut-brown Maid.' I daily perambulate the 
 scenery of it." Another letter written by Story to 
 Gourley, in June, 1825, shews that the writer was 
 engaged on a 'great work' — "I send a piece [in 
 prose or poetry] every, or nearly every month, to the 
 Neiocaslle Magazine. I regularly translate a page 
 of Latin every night, and I continue at intervals my 
 true Magnum opus, [i.e. 'The Hunting in Craven,'] 
 and all this besides instructing the young, marrying 
 the adults, and burjdng people of all ages." Towards 
 the end of the year, materials for the new voliune were
 
 xH. 
 
 ready, and early in 1826, the book was published 
 by subscription, under the title of 'Craven Blossoms.' 
 These only included a fragment from ' The Hunting 
 in Craven ;' also a fairy tale, called ' Fitz-Harcla,' 
 founded upon a Craven legend, and several minor 
 pieces, which had previously appeared in the Netv- 
 castlc Magazine. By the people of Craven this volume, 
 Specially dedicated to them, was very favoui*ably 
 received. Only three hundred and fifty-six copies were 
 printed, and the whole impression rapidly disappeared, 
 leaving the Author a net profit of fifteen pounds. In 
 a modest preface he declares — " I am far from having 
 the presumption to claim, or the weakness to exj)ect, 
 a very high place for these trifles. They are blossoms, 
 and if a candid examination shall allow that they 
 give j)romise of futm-e /ruit, my most extravagant 
 hope win be realized. If on the other hand, they shall 
 be considered as affording no such promise, I shall at 
 once submit to the decision, and retreat to my pristine 
 obscurity, — not, it may be, without a pang, but 
 certainly without complaint or remonstrance." The 
 little unpretending volume received a favom-able 
 notice in the provincial newspapers, and also in the 
 Neivcastle Magazine. A few copies were sent to 
 several of the London literary Journals ; but with one 
 exception, the work attracted not even a passing 
 remark. That exception was the Gentleman's Magazine, 
 where a caustic review of it appeared, which stuno- 
 Story to the quick, and forgetting the promised sub- 
 
 /
 
 xlii. 
 
 mission to adverse criticism in Ms preface, lie 
 immediately wrote a Satire, with the title — ' The 
 Critics and Scribblers of the Day, by a Scribbler.' 
 It had a very limited sale, but accompHshed its 
 mission of obtaining for him some attention in the 
 Metropolis, which was his object ; but it like'^'ise 
 raised a prejudice against him among the !Re\'iewers, 
 which left its traces long afterwards. Besides, he 
 lost eight pounds by the publication. This loss is 
 bemoaned in a letter to Gourley, in which the poor 
 Poet laments that he must give up writing, or at all 
 events — pubHshing poetry, and, the misery such a 
 course would entail upon him. He continues — "To 
 many this confession would appear ridicidous. They 
 know not how interwoven, with heart and brain, is 
 the love and practice of song in me. They know not 
 that every sunbeam that glances on the hill, every 
 flower that blooms in the meadow, in short, every 
 thing in natiu*e which has heretofore struck a chord 
 in my bosom, has now become a torment to me, be- 
 cause it continues to supply an impulse which the 
 neglect of the public forbids me to indulge fiu-ther. 
 I intend, in future, to be merely a schoolmaster." 
 
 We have now arrived at the year 1827. His school 
 was flourishing, consisting of fifty scholars, and his 
 annual income, fi-om this source alone, amounted to 
 one hundred pounds ! Besides, to his salary as parish 
 clerk, he had added about ten poimds, by accejiting 
 from the vicar, the duties of Sunday school teacher.
 
 xliii. 
 
 His position might now be considered a prosperous one. 
 All his debts, whether in Craven or Northumberland, 
 were discharged. His Hfe, though one of toil, was, 
 on the whole, one of happiness. His holidays. Or 
 hours for recreation, were rare, except on Saturday, 
 the weekly school-holiday. On that day he ' donned' 
 his best apparel, and usually wallved to Skipton in the 
 afternoon on business, sometimes to lay in a stock of 
 stationery, sometimes to read the periodicals, or 
 obtain books from Skipton Subscription Library. His 
 favourite time and place for composition, were whilst 
 stroUing on the river side to Skipton, on the Saturday 
 afternoon ; and thus were wrought out many of the most 
 beautiful songs in this volume. The happy thought 
 sometimes came suddenly as a stranger, whilst 
 he was musing by the way, and was at once moidded 
 into harmonious verse ; at other times the seed had, 
 for a time, been lying fallow in his mind, and on 
 these occasions of inspu-atiou, sprung up to matui'ity. 
 Occasionally, he amused himself with angling, but 
 though iif one of his letters complaints are uttered 
 of the considerable sum some fishing taclde from 
 Kendal had cost him, yet he never became an adept 
 at the sport, because, 25ei*haps, when by the trout- 
 stream-side, his mind was too much engaged in fishing 
 for poetical ideas, to catch any thing but gudgeons. 
 At other times he recreated himself with pla;ying most 
 energetically on the violin, Scotch reels, and other 
 tunes.
 
 xliv. 
 
 Thus happily passed his life. Though his family 
 was rapidl}- increasing, his means kept pace with his 
 wants. But he had nothing to spare, and could not 
 indulge a strong desire to make a periodical allowance 
 to his aged and infirm mother. To accompHsh this 
 wish, he resolved, not"\vithstanding his former de- 
 termination to abstain from publishing, to hazard 
 another work, and devote the profits to her use. 
 With characteristic energy, the task of composition 
 Avas commenced, and soon materials were ready for 
 a volume, called ' The Magic Fountain,' price six 
 shillings. Though this title was given to the volume, 
 it only applied to the fii'st poem, one of a religious 
 character. He observes : — "It tridy enough reflected 
 the mental struggles I had endured while in doubt, 
 and the happiness I fancied I had found in faith." 
 The book added both to his fame and his piu'se. 
 Though some of the London periodicals were severe 
 upon several of the pieces, yet theu* censures were 
 more than counterbalanced by the praises of his 
 friends. Moreover, it afforded him the true dehght 
 of sending a small sum, from time to tinie, to his 
 mother, which was continued until her death, thus 
 smoothing the path of her last days. 
 
 Up to the year 1828, his residence consisted of a 
 mean cottage, but the ability shewn in condu.cting his 
 school, and the good oj)inion he had gained from all 
 classes, induced Matthew "Wilson, Esqture, of Eshton 
 Hall, the chief land owner of the village, to biuld for
 
 xlv. 
 
 hiiu a eommodioTis house, fitted in eveiy respect for 
 Story's increasing faniil}' ; and also to enlarge the 
 school-house, so as to afford sufficient room for the 
 large number of Sunday scholars then under his 
 tuition. These buildings were let to Stoiy at a low 
 rent, as a mark of favoiu". Stoiy removed to his new 
 house in the latter part of 1828, and has (page 101), 
 happily described it in ' The Poet's Home.' 
 
 But now all the pleasant gales that wafted him to 
 prosperity changed. For some time previous to the 
 year 1830, the violent agitation on the Reform 
 Question, had reached even the quiet village of 
 Gargrave, and proved a source of woe to Story. So 
 even and monotonous had been his daily coiu-se, that 
 probably the greatest subjects of discomposiu'e to 
 him, were literary contests in the Newcastle Magazine, 
 where his articles, both in prose and rhj^me, were of 
 a severe satirical cast, and provoked retaKation. But 
 now he entered boldly into the stormy arena of 
 politics, and "v^^ith more characteristic ardour than 
 prudence, violently assailed, both by tongue and pen, 
 the Reform principles then prevalent. Before quitting 
 Northumberland, his political sentiments betraj^ed at 
 least a strong tinge of Radicalism, but these had been 
 sincerely renounced, and now he avowed himself a 
 Conservative of the deepest dj'e. Unfortimatelj' for 
 his comfort, the Whig i:)arty were greatly in the 
 ascendant at Gargrave, and any thing but tolerant of 
 opposition to their views. One of their chief sup-
 
 xWi. 
 
 porters commenced Avitli Story a series of tavern 
 discussions, in wliicli the latter took so decided and 
 hostile a part, that he raised a rancorous feeling 
 against himself throngliont the village, where the 
 people even went so far as to hum him in effigy. 
 These events greatly injured his school and prospects. 
 Henceforward the channel of his life, before quiet and 
 studious, became like one of his well-remembered 
 scenes, the rapids of Linton, where the angry waters of 
 the Wharfe are dashed against a thousand rocks, and 
 form a scene of picturesque tumult. For the next 
 thirteen years of his life, this unfortunate political 
 strife embittered his days, clouded his fortune, and 
 finally compelled him to leave Grargrave. 
 
 During the conflict which resulted in the passing 
 of the Reform Bill, he had written many pohtical 
 pieces, which attracted much notice at the time, and 
 gained him no small share of ill-will ; but when the 
 King, in November, 1834, made his celebrated speech 
 to the Bishops, Story concluded the day of his own 
 party had arrived, and under the influence of a strong 
 enthusiasm, wrote ' The Isles are awake,' and sent 
 it to the Standard. Instantly, the whole Conserva- 
 tive press caught the cry, and re-printing the piece 
 with hearty praise, spread its popularity throughout 
 the kingdom. Pending the election struggle for the 
 representation of South Lancashu^e, b}- Lord Francis 
 Egerton, it became an effective electioneering song 
 on his side, and was circulated by thousands. Hitherto
 
 xlvii. 
 
 the song had been published anonymously, and his 
 Lordship being known as an excellent poet, the 
 composition was attributed to him. With his name, 
 it appeared in the Manchester and other papers, and, 
 thus honoured, it circulated again through the news- 
 paper press. At a dinner given to celebrate the 
 election of his Lordship, the piece was not only sung, 
 but became the text or rallying word of many of the 
 speakers. His Lordship, on rising, after quoting 
 some of the hues, added — " The song has been 
 attributed to me, but, though I should have been 
 proud to be so, I am not the author ; and it would be 
 a species of literary theft, not to say so at once." 
 This disclaimer, and the encomiums passed upon the 
 composition, gave it through the press a more extensive 
 celebrity than before. Story now thought that he 
 might, with propriety, avow the authorship; the 
 intelligence was spread by the press, and he found 
 himself, at once, famous. Speedily, ' The Chm-ch of 
 oxu" Fathers ;' ' The Eock of the Ocean,' and many 
 other lyrics of the same cast, were published by him 
 in the newspaper press. Everj'where hailed as the 
 * Poet of Conservatism,' he was proud of the title, 
 and threw himself, to use his own words, ' heart and 
 soul into the cause,' thereby increasing the exaspera- 
 tion of his neighbours of the opposite party, and 
 heaping up against himself vengeance for another 
 day. 
 
 Having struck^ what he thought, a happy vein, and
 
 xlviii. 
 
 rapidly broiiglit out in succession the political songs 
 above mentioned, and ' The Ancient Barons,' ' Hurrah 
 for the Blue,' and others of the like class, Story 
 concluded that the time had come when he ought to 
 reap the fruits of his popularity. He issued a 
 prospectus of Lyrical Poems, to be published by 
 subscription. Such was the enthusiasm on his behalf, 
 that a list of more than five hundred names was soon 
 filled, of whom his Conservative and other friends in 
 the neighbourhood of Skij)ton, numbered two hundred. 
 His partizans in the pi'ovincial towns, likewise eagerly 
 canvassed for him. The volume was dedicated, by 
 permission, to Lord Francis Egerton, who also 
 bestowed upon the Poet other substantial marks of 
 favour. In little more than a week, the whole of the 
 first edition had been sold, leaving nearly one hundred 
 pounds profit, so that Story thought himself not only 
 on the highway to fame, but to fortune, and decided 
 at once to bring out a second edition, under the 
 auspices of Mr. Fraser, or some other London pub- 
 lisher. On the arrival of the midsummer holidays, 
 1836, he proceeded to London by a Hull steamer; 
 but the journey in its primary object, proved fruitless, 
 because Praser declined to incur the risk of publishing 
 the work on his own account, though he ofi'ered to 
 conduct the London sale. Story, therefore, had a 
 second edition struck off at Liverpool, with the 
 name of Praser on the imprint ; but the sale barely 
 paid expenses, notwithstanding the recommendation
 
 xlix. 
 
 of the volume in a review from the able pen of 
 Maginn. 
 
 Story has left a pleasing account of his trip to 
 London, where, though adding nothing to his gains, 
 he spent twelve happy days, and greatly increased 
 the circle of his literary acquaintance. A letter from 
 his friend Mr. Cronhelm, of HaHfax, introduced him 
 to Mr. Hogarth, of the Morning Chronicle, at whose 
 house he was much gratified by the conversation of 
 Charles Dickens. He also made the acquaintance of 
 Miller, the basket maker, a poet as he observes, of a 
 high order. In a note book. Story gives a laughable 
 anecdote. On Sunday, July 17th, he went to dine 
 with his friend Thirlwall, a musician of no mean 
 pretensions, who set to music many of Story's songs, 
 and there met Miller. " Three Poets," Story exclaims, 
 "and not one could carve a leg of lamb. Miller tried 
 and mangled it ' worse than ten Monroes.' " After 
 seeing all the great sights of London, (this Avas his 
 first visit) including a night at Drury Lane, to hear 
 Malibran, and visits to the Houses of Lords and 
 Commons during the sittings, he returned by coach 
 to Grargrave, * happy to find himself at home again.' 
 
 The excitement consequent upon his entrance into 
 the arena of poHtics, and the time bestowed upon 
 literary pursuits, naturally diverted his attention fr'om 
 school duties. The number of his pupils from these, 
 and other causes, decreased, and being heartily tii'ed 
 of the gin-horse routine of a schoolmaster, he began 
 
 9
 
 1. 
 
 to look abroad for some more congenial employment. 
 For many years lie had nourished the notion that 
 his talents peculiarly fitted him for the post of a 
 newspaper editor, in which capacity he had some 
 little experience. Hearing that an editor was required 
 for the Carlisle Patriot, a Conservative paper, he 
 entered into a correspondence with the Proprietary, 
 who invited him to Carhsle on trial. Accordingly, 
 in the midsummer vacation of 1837, he proceeded 
 thither, in time to take part in the severe election 
 contest, which then occurred for the representation of 
 East Cvimherland. Sir James Graham being the Con- 
 servative candidate, received the strenuous support of 
 the ' Patriot.'' Story wrote several vigorous 'leaders' 
 in his favour, and, at an interview, the Baronet 
 expressed himself well pleased with these articles, 
 and promised to assist him in becoming the permanent 
 editor. Sir James lost the election, and his promises 
 were at once forgotten. Story received, for his services 
 at the election, twenty pounds, and reluctantly 
 returned to his duties of schoolmaster. 
 
 These fierce election struggles were quite relished 
 by Story, who eagerly took a prominent part in the 
 exciting contests for the representation of the West 
 Eiding, which commenced with the passing of the 
 Reform Bill. Parish clerks, at that time, were held 
 to possess a vote, and his name accordingly stood on 
 the Register of voters ; but as he invariably plumped 
 for the Conservative candidate, Mr. WUson, the Wliig
 
 li 
 
 magnate, and leader of the district, discovered that 
 the office of parish clerk did not confer the franehiige, 
 and caused Story's name to he struck off the Eegister. 
 Irritated beyond measure at this step, he vowed to 
 possess at all hazards, the right to vote ; and con- 
 sequently out of the profits of his last publication, 
 purchased for eighty pounds, two small huts in Gar- 
 grave, not worth half that sum. A relative had, in his 
 possession, one hundred pounds lying unproductive, 
 and offered to lend Story the money to re-build the 
 cottages. Foolishly he accepted the offer, and built, 
 at an expense of one hvmdi*ed and fifty pounds, three 
 new cottages, which let for sixteen pounds a year. 
 After incurring the usual expenses of mortgages, and 
 reaping no benefit, except the barren one of an 
 elector, the property which in all had cost him two 
 hundred and seventy pounds, finally came to the 
 hammer in 1843, and sold for two hundred and ten 
 pounds to satisfy his creditors. 
 
 It will readily be inferred that the wasteful ex. 
 penditure of his money upon these cottages, brought 
 upon him a series of humiliations and trials, greatly 
 exasperating the difficulties of his trying situation. 
 His necessities now overtook him. He was in extreme 
 want of funds, and turned as usual to his literary stock 
 to see what was available for help. Though ' The 
 Hunting in Craven' had never been completed in the 
 form originally contemplated, he had, from time to 
 time, moidded the whole plot into a drama, called
 
 lii. 
 
 ' The Outlaw,' the greater portion being written in 
 1835. He now completed this drama, and issued 
 prospectuses to publish it by subscription. The sub- 
 scription list did not fill as he expected ; but the late 
 Miss Currer, the amiable proprietor of Eshton Hall, 
 and a true friend of Kterary merit, to whom he had 
 dedicated the work, somewhat made up the deficiency 
 by presenting to him twenty pounds. To meet his 
 immediate wants, he likewise raised the sum of ten 
 pounds by the sale of a portion of his Kbrary, one of 
 considerable extent, as he had, rather imprudently, 
 indulged a taste for new books. He also received 
 twelve pounds for his year's services as overseer of the 
 poor, which he now filled. Thus he was somewhat 
 relieved, but his anxieties still hung heavily on him. 
 Such, however. Was his elasticity of mind, that he was, 
 as yet, neither borne down, nor broken in spii-it, by 
 pecuniary difficulties, or the opposition of his political 
 
 enemies. 
 
 It was soon after the publication of * The Outlaw,' 
 
 namely, in the midsummer of 1838, that I became 
 acquainted with Story. I remember, with vivid 
 exactness, the circumstances of a meeting at the 
 Albion Hotel, Bradford, where four solicitors, Story, 
 and a brother poet, myself and two others were pre- 
 sent. A right merry company was there assembled ; 
 the wine and social glee circulated freely ; and literary 
 subjects of great interest were discussed. Story 
 constituted the life and soul of the party; his
 
 liii. 
 
 recitations and conversation formed the pleasant 
 condiments of the entertainment. That social party 
 of nine persons, forcibly illustrates the uncertain 
 tenure of life. With one exception, they were in the 
 early bloom of manhood, and all, except two, have 
 long since gone hence. What is more remarkable, 
 the departed were among the most robust and healthy 
 men that could, at that moment, have been picked 
 out of Bradford, whilst the lives of the two still here, 
 were not then apparently worth a couple of years' 
 purchase. Bradford stood at the head of Story's 
 favourite resorts during the school vacations, for there 
 he had more fi'iends than in any other town, and ever 
 received a warm welcome to theii- homes, or to stay, 
 free of expense, at the hospitable board of Miss 
 Eeaney, of the Greorge Hotel. Sometimes he spent 
 these vacations in pleasant strolls over the country ; 
 for instance, to Northumberland in 1829, which I 
 believe was the first visit after liis run-away in 1820 ; 
 and once, in the year 1833, to the Lakes of Cumber- 
 land, in the congenial company of friends. But 
 most of these vacations were chiefly devoted to com- 
 position, or in excursions to the neighbouring towns 
 of Yorkshire and Lancashire, on business connected 
 with his publications. 
 
 Gradually the number of his scholars decreased, in 
 proportion as his fame increased, so that it became 
 imperative that he should repair his finances from 
 other sources. From the 7th May, 1839, to the 30th
 
 Hv. 
 
 March in the following year, he wrote the • leading 
 articles' for the Sheffield Patriot, a Conservative paper. 
 Likewise, in the year 1839, he became a candidate 
 for the office of collector of rates of the Grargrave 
 district, at a salary of seventy .five pounds, and in the 
 gift of the Guardians of Skipton Union. Mr. Wilson, 
 the chairman of the Board, opposed him with all his 
 influence, but in vain, the Conservative element being 
 so strong in the Board, that Story was elected by a 
 great majority. His triumph was, unfortunately, 
 both short and dear bought ; next morning several 
 pupils were, by means of a secret but powerful 
 influence, withdrawn from his school, under pretence 
 that the discipline practised there was cruel. But 
 whatever the pretext, most efi'ectual means were 
 adopted to ruin him. Now came to pass the prediction 
 of his brother John, delivered in the nei-vous vernacular 
 of Northumberland, that if he (Story) did not change 
 his coat to smt the political times, it would be torn 
 off his back. The school waned every day ; his 
 livelihood was uncertain, and his life unhappy, nor 
 were his circtonstances improved by the active part 
 he took in the general election of 1841, when, to his 
 great delight, the Conservative candidates, the Hon. 
 John S. Wortley, and Mr. E. B. Denison, were re- 
 turned for the West-Riding, and knowing how he had 
 been crushed, they promised to use their influence on 
 his behalf. 
 
 Until their good intentions could be realized, a
 
 Iv. 
 
 strong personal effort was reqiiii'ed on his part, to 
 extricate himseK from the difficulties besetting 
 him. He therefore published, in 1842, a volume, 
 entitled — 'Love and Literatm-e,' a miscellany of 
 prose and poetry, price seven shillings and six- 
 pence. Mr. Tasker, Bookseller, Skipton, hung up a 
 prospectus in his shop, and to shew the estimation 
 Story was held in the neighbourhood, one hundred 
 subscribers to the work immediately put down their 
 names. To promote the success of the sale, he gave 
 up school, and commenced a personal canvass in 
 Lancashire and Yorkshire, and obtained other three 
 hundred subscribers. After aU, there stiU remained 
 on his hands, nearly four hundred copies, when he 
 determined to try his native coimty. Thither he 
 went in July, 1843, and spent some time pleasantly 
 enough with his dear friend Grourley. Dui'ing his 
 stay in Northumberland, intelligence was conveyed 
 to him by John Coulthurst, Esquire, of Gargrave, 
 that the Hon. John S. Wortley had, through the 
 influence of Sir Eobert Peel, obtained for him a post 
 as clerk in the Audit office, with a salary of ninety- 
 three pounds a year, and a prospect of a speedy 
 increase. Leaving abruptly the fascinations of 
 Grourley, and other Northumbrian friends, he rapidly 
 returned to Gargrave, and in a few days started for 
 London, glad to quit, for ever, the irksome toils 
 of a schoolmaster, which had alwaj^s been, in many 
 respects, uncongenial to his taste, and forced upon
 
 Ivi. 
 
 him by Fate. Nor was lie loath to quit the strong 
 scenes of politics which had so long distracted his 
 mind. 
 
 With his settlement in London, begins the fourth 
 great stage in his life's journey. On his removal 
 thither, what bright hopes appeared to him in the 
 pleasing vista of the future ! Alas, he knew not the 
 troubles, the funereal sights that awaited him there. 
 At this juncture, one is forcibly reminded of Tasso's 
 striking image, where double-faced Fortune, on the 
 one side, benignly smiles upon her victim ; and on 
 the other, darkly frowns, and prepares to hurl her 
 bolts of misfortune. However, to London, on the 
 17th July, he went in great glee, and with renovated 
 hopes. These were somewhat damj)ed in a few days, 
 when he wrote to his wife at Grargrave, that after 
 searching a day thi'ough Westminster, and finding 
 house-rent excessively high, he "feared they would 
 have some difficulty in making both ends meet," 
 and must, for some time, be content to bear the 
 inconvenience of lodgings. In August, he returned 
 to Grargrave, and removed his wife, and seven of his 
 nine children, the youngest only a few months old, 
 together with a portion of furnitui-e, to London, where 
 they arrived on the 21st, taking refuge in unfurnished 
 lodgings, 20, Warwick street, Pimlico, and paying 
 six shiUiugs a week. He and Mrs. Story resolved,
 
 Ivii. 
 
 by means of thrift and frugality, to figlit, to the 
 best advantage, the battle of life. 
 
 Once for all, it may be noticed, that his labours at 
 the Audit office, were of a very light nature. He 
 attended at ten o'clock in the morning, and remained 
 there until four in the afternoon, being allowed a 
 short interval for refreshment, about one o'clock. But 
 on receiving the appointment at Somerset House, he 
 laboured under a great delusion, as neither himself 
 nor his friends had the slightest notion that it was not 
 on what is called the Establishment. Sometime after- 
 wards, he discovered, to his deep mortification, that 
 his situation was merely one of an extra clerk, liable 
 to be dismissed at a moment's notice, for any or no 
 ofi'ence, and not entitled, like the permanent clerks, to 
 a progi-essive increase of salary, or a superannuation 
 allowance. Nor had he cause for congratulation in 
 the change as to pecuniary circumstances, for after 
 the subtraction of payments, on account of lodgings, 
 fire and candles, there only remained about seventy 
 pounds a year, to feed and clothe nine persons, whilst 
 during the preceding ten years, his average annual 
 income, from one source and another, had exceeded 
 one hundred pounds ; besides, provisions were much 
 cheaper in the country. In other respects, his position 
 in London, during the first year, was any thing but 
 agreeable ; his country creditors were importunate, 
 and threatened him with hostile proceedings. Placed 
 in this extremity, the Craven Conservatives knowing 
 
 h
 
 Iviii. 
 
 how severely he had suffered for their cause, promoted 
 a subscription on his behalf, which amounted to fifty- 
 three pounds, fourteen shillings. This seasonable 
 subscription enabled him to surmount a danger, 
 which, at one time, appeared so great as to threaten 
 the security of his appointment at Somerset House. 
 He, at this period, feelingly deplores, in a letter to a 
 brother bard, Mr. Barker, of Wensleydale, the 
 miseries of poverty which now beset him. 
 
 The autumn of 1844 brought him, however, joys, 
 wliich offered some compensation for the grief which 
 had lately encompassed him. Every year, whilst at 
 Somerset House, he enjoyed, usually in September, a 
 month's vacation, and this year he prepared to spend 
 it among the scenes of his youth. The meeting 
 between himself and Grourley, if not as gay as when 
 they and Mitchell, in 1829, were seated over the 
 'flowing bowl,' was warm and affectionate, though 
 somewhat shaded by the reflection that the latter was 
 suffering from disease of the heart, of which he died 
 the next year. Another friend was absent, his old 
 companion Stobbie, the music master, with whom he 
 had spent at Eoddam, and elsewhere, many pleasant, 
 if not profitable hours. This master of song, quirks, 
 and jokes, was silent in the grave ! 
 
 Hearty were the congratulations of Story's Nor- 
 thumbrian friends, and boundless their hospitality. 
 In their comj)any he revisited Beaumont Side, and 
 many of the other deeply beloved scenes of his boy-
 
 lix. 
 
 hood. The sight of Lanton Hill inspired him — and 
 whilst cUmbing up its steep side, -with body ' more fat 
 than bard beseemed,' he composed one of the prettiest 
 of his minor Poems : — ' I cam' to the HiU where a boy 
 I had wander' d ;' and no doubt his heart, on that 
 day, did beat high, as he traced it again after a lapse, 
 from the time of keeping sheep on it, of nearly forty 
 years. Though not an ' auld man' as yet, he had 
 passed the meridian, and reached the afternoon of his 
 day, bearing upon him many tokens of a strong 
 struggle with difficulties in 'pushing hard up hill 
 with the cumbrous load of life.' But here on the 
 hill sides of Howdsden and Lanton, and the streams 
 of the Beaumont and Till — he 
 
 Bid the mom of youth 
 Rise to new light, and bear afrash the days 
 *Of innocence, simplicity, and truth ; 
 To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. 
 What transport to retrace our boyish plays ; 
 Our easy bUss when each thing joy supplied ; 
 The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze 
 Of the wUd brooks. 
 
 When viewing, for the first time, since a mere 
 cliild, the low-thatched cot at Wark, where he was 
 born, or the ruinous school-house, one story high, at 
 Humbleton, where he first 'taught the young idea 
 how to shoot,' his reflections were of a sombre cast, 
 for he felt that the fatal gift of genius had, in alluring 
 him from these spots, bestowed no coveted happiness 
 in retm'n. He felt that in youthful morn his ' dreams
 
 Ix. 
 
 of gay castles in the clouds that passed,' were base- 
 less fabrics, which had fed his fancy, but nothing 
 more. 
 
 From the lodgings in Warwick street, Story and 
 his family removed to a house in Poole Place, West- 
 minster, and after a twelvemonth's stay, went to Hill 
 street, in the borough, and thence to George's Row, 
 Newington Causeway. This was a fatal locality to 
 Story's family. His son, William, a fine intelhgent 
 youth, in the service of an oil and colourman, took 
 fever in the beginning of 1846, and after a short 
 illness, died, to the infinite grief of his father, who 
 lamented his death in the line's, commencing — ' My 
 William died in London.' Quickly, the shaft of 
 the ' insatiate archer' struck another of his house- 
 hold, Fanny, about seventeen years of age. These 
 were stunning blows to Story, who loved and valued 
 his children as priceless gems. Grrief preyed upon his 
 health ; he became subject to stomach complaints, a 
 disorder which he inherited from his mother, and from 
 which at times, especially in the year 1830, he had 
 greatly suffered. He fled with his family from the 
 pestilent abode of St. Greorge's Row, where he had 
 dwelt a year, to a good house, and healthy situation, 
 in Chapman Place, Lambeth. There he remained 
 only a short time, as the premises were required in 
 the formation of a railway, and receiving a small 
 compensation for quitting the house, he next repaired 
 to Church street, Battersea, where, in 1847, he lost,
 
 Ixi. 
 
 by consumption, his daughter, Mary, aged ten years. 
 A few months after, the family removed to High 
 street, Battersea ; but death tracked his steps, and 
 struck his son John, with consumption, at the age of 
 fourteen years. Story next resided in Battersea Square 
 for four years, where he lost, by inflammation of the 
 lungs, Edgar, a promising youth of thirteen years. 
 Diu'ing the time that he lived in this so-called Square, I 
 spent a Sunday very pleasantly with him at Battersea. 
 Among the objects of his hero-worshii). Lord Boling- 
 broke, who resided here on the banks of the Thames, 
 stood high in his estimation. We strolled through 
 the gi'ounds of his Lordship, and made, owing to 
 Story's un discerning enthusiasm, a rather laughable 
 pilgrimage to the monument of the noble Author, in 
 Battersea Church. Story, at the time of my visit, 
 was still the warm-hearted social being of old, 
 and retained that clieerfulness and hopefulness of 
 character, which characterized him, though the loss 
 of his children, the expenses of sickness, doctors, and 
 funerals, had left some traces of melancholy on his 
 face and manner. Besides, the pecuniary embarrass- 
 ments arising fi'om these misfortunes, were not 
 alleviated by the increase of salary, which he had 
 long and anxiously expected. Hope deferred had 
 made his heart sick, as he had, from first setting foot 
 in Somerset House, been induced to believe that his 
 salary would, in a short time, be considerably 
 augmented. Judge, then, his surprise and horror,
 
 Ixii. 
 
 wlien he received, about this time, 1 848, a notification, 
 that it was intended to reduce the number of extra 
 clerks in the establishment. He drew up a memorial 
 to the Lords of the Treasury, in which he justly- 
 represented that both himself, and the political friends 
 whose influence had gained him the apj)ointment, 
 conceived that it was a permanent one, and that it 
 would be an act of cruelty if he and his family were, 
 after his unblamed services for ten years, thrown out 
 of bread and cast friendless upon the desert of London. 
 Fortunately, this petition was backed by some in- 
 fluential friends, otherwise the heartless scheme of the 
 Treasury might have succeeded, whereby one set of 
 public servants, nominated by a Freemantle, would 
 have been thrown out, to make way for those of a 
 Hayter. 
 
 Monotonous as his Hfe proved in London, where, 
 for something like seven years, the most important 
 breaks were the sickness and deaths of his beloved 
 children, there are few incidents worth recording. 
 His month's vacation in the autumn, formed a kind of 
 refreshing oasis in the desei't of his existence, and was 
 usually spent among his Yorkshire friends. In Craven, 
 hearts and homes ever welcomed him, and such as 
 W. N. Alcock, Esquire, of Gisburn Park, not only 
 cheered him by their smiles, but in times of need, 
 aided him with their purses. The towns of the West- 
 Eiding, especially Bradford and Halifax, as well as 
 Manchester, and many others of Lancashire, to my
 
 Ixi'ii. 
 
 personal knowledge, greeted his presence with plea- 
 sui'e and hearty hospitaHty. 
 
 These journeys, however, notwithstanding the 
 hospitality which awaited him, were the source of 
 much expense ; and one of them, made in the 
 autumn of 1848, unusually drained his pocket. On 
 reaching home, he long and earnestly revolved in his 
 mind, the best method of replenishing his purse. 
 For years the old train of thought, the alliance which 
 his fancy had formed between the dearest spots of 
 Northumberland and Craven, had been silently work- 
 ing in his mind, sometimes iu one form, and sometimes 
 in another. He now resolved to write a long Poem, 
 something of an Epic, laying the plot as in ' The 
 Outlaw,' in both the districts just mentioned, and 
 choosing for heroes those who figured in the contest 
 between Alfi-ed the Great, and the Danes. At first, he 
 designated this piece ' Aymund the Dane,' but after- 
 wards changed it to ' Guthrum the Dane.' His habits 
 of composition were similar in London to those in 
 Gargrave. He awoke at six in the morning, and 
 having at hand writing materials, employed himself 
 for an hoiu- or so, in jotting down his thoughts. Then 
 on his walk to Somerset House, he mentally composed, 
 verse by verse, whole paragraphs, which his tenacious 
 memory duly retained and polished. Most Hkely 
 these paragraphs were committed to paper on 
 reaching Somerset House, at the expense of the 
 nation. During the year 1849, the pqem of * Guthrum'
 
 L\iv. 
 
 was published by subscription. In a prospectus of 
 the Poem, after observing that perhaps from the 
 subject, it might deserve the epithet of National, he 
 proceeds: — "It is the longest — some of my fi-iends 
 think it the best — I have a presentiment that it ■will 
 be the lasty He dedicated it, at my suggestion, to 
 his staunch fiiend. Miss Eeaney, of Bradford, now 
 Mrs. Thornton, who (in this and many other 
 instances) proved that she was a worthy patroness of 
 a worthy poet, by subscribing for eighty copies. 
 
 The work was very genially reviewed by the 
 London press, and brought to its author a con- 
 siderable sum. Three hundred copies were printed 
 at a cost of thirty-six pounds, and most of them were 
 soon sold. From a great number of literary friends, 
 he received flattering commendations of the work, 
 and among others from Peter Cunningham, who, 
 however, gently chided him for copying Scott's 
 manner, and thus, to some extent, detracting from the 
 intrinsic value of the Poem. 
 
 Besides the profit arising fi'om the publication of 
 * Guthrum,' other good fortune befeU him in 1852. 
 His salary, as clerk in the Audit office, was raised in 
 the early part of the year, to the sum of about one 
 hundred and ten pounds a year ; and now for the first 
 time, during a long and sorrowful period, he began 
 to feel at ease in his pecuniary affairs — and think that 
 Fortune again intended to smile on his path. 
 
 But his troubles were not at an end, for this year
 
 Ixv. 
 
 was marked by another calamity whicli came upon 
 his house, in the death, from consumption, of his 
 eldest daughter, Sarah, aged twenty- eight. She had, 
 for some time, been in a lingering state, but Story, 
 hoping for her recovery to the last, was greatly 
 affected by her loss. She was the subject of two 
 poems in this volume ; the one beginning — ' Faii'est 
 of all stars,' exhibits the depths of his sorrow. 
 Some years afterwards he was asked, in my presence, 
 to insert these verses in an album. He complied, 
 whilst the tears trickling down his cheeks, and the 
 trembling hand plainly betokened the deep affection 
 and intense feeling which the recollection of her 
 loss brought to his mind. At her death, he resided 
 in Church street, Battersea, but soon after removed 
 to Albert Cottage, Battersea Park, a pleasant 
 situation, affording him easy opj)ortunities of re- 
 creation in the park. 
 
 From the sorrow cast around his home, by death, 
 he sought refuge in an autumnal trip to Yorkshii*e, 
 and accidentally visited the gigantic works of Salt- 
 aire, then in the course of erection, near Bradford. 
 His imagination was so struck with their magnitude, 
 that the thoughts so vividly and beautifully ex- 
 pressed in ' The Peerage of Industry' spontaneously 
 occurred to him, and were soon afterwards moulded 
 into verse. On the inauguration of these works, 
 by a grand banquet, where several thousand people 
 sat doisTi, the Earl of Harewood, and a large number
 
 Ixvi. 
 
 of the gentry of the neiglibourhood, being guests, 
 these verses "vrere recited amidst immense applause, 
 Mr. Salt, as an expression of the compliment paid 
 to him, presented the Poet with the liberal sum of 
 twenty pounds. 
 
 The even tenor of his way in 1854, was not marked 
 by any event worthy of note, except a visit to Paris 
 during the French Exhibition. For a considerable 
 period Captain Hastings, and his wife, a daughter of 
 General Orde, resided at Battersea ; and there Story, 
 to whom the lady was slightly known when at 
 Eoddam, was introduced to her. The associations of 
 early years naturally inspu-ed mutual regard, and 
 being herseK higlily-gifted, and a lover of poetry, a 
 friendship peculiarly agreeable to him sprung u.p 
 between them. Afterwards, Captain Hastings re- 
 moved to Paris, and invited Story to visit them in 
 the autumn of 1854, and witness the French Ex- 
 hibition. This sojourn in Paris was of the most 
 delightful character, for with the aid of Captain 
 Hastings' son, the Poet saw, to the best advantage, 
 all the wonderfe and sights of that gay metropolis, 
 and its neighbourhood. He returned to London full 
 of admiration of the French, and enthusiasm for 
 the Emperor. His obligations to the kind family, 
 under whose roof he had been so well entertained, 
 were acknowledged in some pleasing verses written 
 in his best manner. 
 
 For some time past, Story had entertained the
 
 Ixvii. 
 
 project of piiblisliing a collected edition of his works. 
 Conceiving tliat it would probably be tbe last and 
 largest legacy bequeathed by him to the public, 
 he desired, above all things, to connect it, by some 
 enduring tie, with his native county. This object, he 
 concluded, would be best effected by dedicating the 
 work to the Duke of Northumberland, the great 
 Chief of the county. He was, however, perplexed 
 as to the best manner of approaching his Grace, 
 when he remembered that Mr. Dickson, of Alnwick, 
 Clerk of the Peace for Northumberland, had, some 
 years previously, expressed great admiration of his 
 Poems, and would probably promote his views. 
 And upon communicating with him, that gentleman 
 coiu'teously offered his services, and brought several 
 of Story's pieces under the Duke's eye, who instantly 
 perceived their merit, and with the generosity 
 characteristic of his nature, not only gave permission 
 for the volume to be dedicated to him, but suggested 
 that it should be adorned at his expense, in a 
 manner befitting its contents. Accordingly, to ar- 
 range for the publication of the work. Story, in the 
 month of August, 1856, took a joiu-ney to Northum- 
 berland, and spent several days at Alnwick, in the 
 pleasant society of that town. The castle was shewn 
 to him by the resident architect, Mr. P. P. "Wilson. 
 Story, in a letter to his wife, describes in most 
 glowing terms, the flattering reception accorded to 
 him by the Duke and Duchess. The words of praise
 
 Ixviii. 
 
 aad encouragement wliich they spoke, were more 
 deeply engraven upon his heart than any which 
 were ever addressed to him. On the 28th August, 
 he was invited by her Grace to spend the evening 
 at the castle, where the Duke's piper played, by his 
 Grace's orders, a number of Northumbrian airs. 
 "When the piper was gone," Story writes — "the 
 Duchess did me the honour to say that she should 
 like to hear one of my beautiful Poems recited by 
 myself. I recited ' The Ancient Barons,' which 
 pleased amazingly, and then two or three others, 
 with the same success. Compliments, the most 
 delicate, were bestowed upon me by their Graces, 
 as well as by their friends who had been invited 
 to hear me. On one of them remarking that he 
 greatly preferred the poetry to the piper, I told 
 him he would shortly see these verses produced in 
 the best style, from the kindness of the Duke, when 
 his Grace said * they are in the best style already, Mr. 
 Story.' At parting, the Duke said that my Poems 
 would now be read and admired by thousands who 
 never before had seen them ; and added that ' The 
 Ancient Barons' should be painted in one of the rooms 
 of the castle, and that he would have it painted in 
 the same spirit as in my Poem. *' * I should tell 
 you that the gentry of Alnwick fete me every 
 evening ; but show Pinch this letter, and tell him 
 that I am as humble — and bear my honours as 
 meekly — as any one could wish."
 
 Ixix. 
 
 Soon after Story's visit, the work was printed in 
 colours, by Messrs. Pigg, of Newcastle, and in a style 
 of beauty and magnificence wliicb I do not remember 
 to have seen equalled by the provincial press. The 
 designs for the illuminated letters were made in 
 Newcastle, the paper was manufactured in Northum- 
 berland, and the book bound in Newcastle, with 
 leather di'essed on the Tj-ne. All the accessories 
 thus accorded with a book which breathed the poetry 
 of Northumbria. The mere expense of adorning the 
 work cost his Grace five hundred pounds — a splendid 
 monument to the Bard of Beaumont Side! One 
 thousand impressions were struck off, at the price, 
 for large copies, of one guinea, and for small ones of 
 ten shillings and sixpence. The work was praised 
 by the press through the length and breadth of the 
 land, for Story had, probably in too liberal a spirit, 
 distributed copies for review with no sparing hand.* 
 
 * He received from miiuy eminent men, such as Lord Macaulay, Professor 
 Aytoun, Carlyle, Jerdan, and Gilfillan, gratifying letters, praising the 
 Poems. The letter of Carlyle is so characteristic, that a copy is subjoined :^ 
 " Dear Sir,— I have received your beautiful volume, probably the finest bit 
 of typogi-aphy that ever came before me ; and have looked over it with 
 interest and pleasure — certainly with hearty good-will to the amiable and 
 worthy brother-man who sketches out in that manner his pilgrimage through 
 this confused world, alongside of me. A certain rustic vigour of life, breezy 
 freshness, as of the Che\'iot hills ; a kindly healthiness of soul breathes every 
 where out of the book. No one that reads it, I should think, but will feci 
 himself the better for its influences. I can honestly wish success to it ; and 
 to its author, peace and comibrt for the days and years that remain. With 
 many thanks and regards, I remain, yoiurs sincerely, T. Caelvlk." 
 
 In the graceful letter of Professor Aytoun, he says : " The purity of 
 thought, and felicity of diction, wliich characterise many of the pieces, may 
 well excite admira'tiou."
 
 Ixx. 
 
 Owing to this and other causes, the profits of the 
 work were not so large as might have been expected, 
 but they were still so considerable, as to add to the 
 enjoyments of his home, and cheer the last days of 
 his existence. Some time in the year 1856, he 
 removed to an airy and respectable street in Battersea, 
 (12, Harley street), where his home was all that he 
 could wish. There I often visited him, and witnessed 
 the quiet comfort of his fire-side. To hear his youngest 
 daughter play Scotch airs on the piano constituted 
 one of the greatest of his enjojonents ; and especially 
 when she played 'Bonnie Dundee,' or a Jacobite 
 air, he gave very demonstrative tokens of hearty 
 sympathy. 
 
 One of the most gTatifying events of his life was 
 the invitation he received fi'om the committee 
 appointed to manage the celebration of Bui-ns' 
 Centenary Festival, at Burns' Cottage, Alloway, on 
 the 25th January, 1859. Eeadily the Audit board 
 gave him a week's leave of absence to attend this 
 congenial gathering. The dinner, at which nearly 
 one hundred gentlemen were present, was served 
 in the large hall attached to the Cottage. The Eev. 
 P. H. Waddell, of Girvan, took the chair, whilst 
 to Story was assigned as the second place in the 
 demonstration, the ' Crouxiier's' seat. After an eloquent 
 introductory s^Deech by the chairman, and the usual 
 loyal toasts. Story recited, amidst enthusiastic bursts 
 of applause, his stanzas on the occasion : — ' What
 
 Ixxi. 
 
 moves fair Scotland ?' Aftenvards, he responded to 
 the toast of tlie ' Poets of England.' He observed that 
 he was not quite sure whether the English Muse 
 acknowledged him, for if she had anything of the 
 jealousy of other females, she must have witnessed 
 many of his flirtations with her Scottish sister. Of 
 the illustrious line of Poets, which began with Chaucer 
 and ended with Wordsworth, he declared himself 
 a devoted, though not perhaps a very discrimi- 
 nating worshipper, being perhaps, in the latter 
 respect, a true Catholic in disregarding the com- 
 parative estimates of genius. He held all Poets saints 
 in his calendar, though his devotion was warmer 
 to some than to others, and above all, he held in 
 high esteem the lofty genius of Burns. Some other 
 toasts were responded to by him, in which he paid a 
 high tribute to the Poets of Scotland, and instanced 
 Professor Aytoun as a glorious and worthy successor 
 of Sir "Walter Scott. Story's health, as Croupier, 
 was drunk with rapturous applause. During the 
 evening he recited his verses, commencing — ' I cam' 
 to the hill,' and prefaced the recitation ^vith a few 
 remarks, in which he stated that when he was affected 
 by any deep feeKng he always thought in Scotch. 
 On the 26th, Story was entertained at dinner by the 
 committee and a lai-ge party of friends, *in recogni- 
 tion of his services as Croupier the preceding day, his 
 private Avorth, and literary merits.' Mr. Waddell 
 again presided, and proposed the health of the
 
 Ixxii, 
 
 guest, in an eulogistic sjjeecli, wliicli was frequently 
 applauded, and the toast was, to use the words of a 
 newspaper report, ' felicitously acknowledged.' Thus 
 ended his visit to Ayr, which remained to his last 
 moments, one of his brightest recollections. The 
 kindness and unbounded hospitality of these Ayrshire 
 friends, made a deep impression on his heart, and 
 were referred to with pleasure and gratitude. In a 
 pecuniary light, the journey was not unproductive, 
 for about forty copies of his collected works were 
 subscribed for in Ayr and the neighbourhood. 
 
 He renewed his acquaintance with Scotland in the 
 autumn of 1859. Groing by steamer from London to 
 Aberdeen, he caught cold by imprudently sleeping on 
 deck, and, as I believe, thus induced or hastened the 
 disease, which eventually proved fatal to him. From 
 Aberdeen he went to Edinburgh, Stirling, Glasgow, 
 and Ayr. At the latter town, a few days were spent 
 most delightfully, Avith several of his friends. 
 Previous to his departure, an exciu-sion was taken 
 by him, accompanied by an agreeable party, to the 
 famous Glen Ness and Loch Doon. The scenes of the 
 former, viewed in the light of a bright day and merry 
 countenances, inspii-ed him, and he wrote some 
 pretty stanzas on them, which were printed in the 
 Scottish newspapers. 
 
 Eetuj-ning home by way of Alnwick, another treat 
 awaited him. He was invited by Mr. F. E,. "Wilson, 
 of that town, Ai-chitect, to accompany a party
 
 on an excursion to the Ckeviots, to join a large 
 assembly of tlie Tyneside and Berwickshire Natural- 
 ists' Clubs, the whole comprising some of the most 
 scientific and literary gentlemen in the North of 
 England. With these a most pleasant and instructive 
 season was spent. Breathing his native air, he 
 ascended, with the energy of days of yore, the noted 
 Staindrop, a mountain of loose porphyry stones which 
 seem to have been vomited from the bowels of the 
 earth ; and also "sdsited the romantic cataract of Lin, 
 or Linhope spout, where the waters, rushing over a 
 high rock, descend into a most picturesque ravine. 
 The party were afterwards entertained at the hospita- 
 ble mansion of Ealph Carr, Esquii-e, of Hedgeley. 
 Story never tu"ed of recounting the pleasant inci- 
 dents of this day, and as I then resided in London, 
 and saw him very often, I was a willing listener to 
 his narrations. From Alnwick, he repaired to North 
 Shields, where a numerous party of Shields folk, 
 presided over by Dr. Dodd, assembled at the Bedford 
 Ai*ms, to testify their respect and admu-ation for the 
 bard. The gathering was a Symposium of the most 
 attractive description. 
 
 During the whole of the Poet's residence at Batter- 
 sea, his habits were very uniform, and may be 
 described in a few words. He arose early in the 
 morning, started from home at eight o'clock, and 
 Avalldng through St. James' Park, arrived at Somerset 
 House punctually at ten o'clock ; at one o'clock, he 
 
 k
 
 Ixxiv. 
 
 resorted for a few minutes to a tavern in the Strand, 
 to partake of some slight refi-eshment ; and when his 
 day's labours were terminated at four o'clock, he re- 
 turned to Battersea by the steam boat, and reached 
 home about five o'clock, where tea, a la fourchette, 
 awaited him. Then, as his fancy dictated, he read or 
 wrote, amused himseK with music, walked in the park, 
 or spent the evening in the company of some of his 
 numerous friends in the neighbourhood. With Mr. 
 Finch, a solicitor, possessed of literary taste, he 
 passed many agreeable hours. Occasionally, he re- 
 mained in London during the evening, and attended 
 the gatherings of the Hotspur society or the High- 
 land society, where he was ever a welcome guest. 
 Often he sj)ent two or three hours with his friend 
 Mr. John Henderson, of 42, Windmill street, Eath- 
 bone place, who, from his acquaintance with Campbell 
 the Poet, and other literary celebrities, possessed a 
 fund of anecdote, highly instructive and entertaining 
 to Story. 
 
 For the last two or three years of his life, he re- 
 ceived, through the kindness of Mr. Williams, the 
 Duke of Northumberland's Agent, an invitation to 
 dine with the Duke's London Tradesmen, in celebra- 
 tion of his Grrace's bii*th-day. This was indeed a red 
 letter day in his calendar, and even surpassed the 
 ' visitation day' of yore, for here, at the Freemason's 
 Tavern, the company was of a high order, and weU 
 able to appreciate his poetical merits : — 
 
 Grand day ! that sees me costless dine, 
 MiCl costless liualf the rosy wine.
 
 Lxxv. 
 
 Story, on these festive occasions, wi'ote several 
 pieces, one of which is printed in this volume. 
 Another of them was, I believe, the occasion of a 
 much prized, present being made to him. In the 
 latter verses, there is an apt and pleasing allusion 
 to a large gift of wine which the Duke had made to 
 the Caledonian Hospital Ship, which, when a fast 
 sailer, his Grrace commanded. The Duke directed that 
 one hundred bottles of excellent sherry should be given 
 to Story. This gave rise to endless pleasant badinage 
 by his numerous acquaintance. Some likened it to 
 the present of sack to Ben Jonson, and stated that 
 Story having been installed as the ' Duke's Laureate,' 
 it was a fitting and customary compliment to send 
 him the Laiu'eate's wine. Unfortunately, he did not 
 live to enjoy the gracious gift, for owing to the severity 
 of the Spring season the wine could not, with 
 safety, be removed from its cellar, and did not reach 
 him until the commencement of his fatal illness. 
 On the arrival of the precious freight, he wrote a 
 letter to Mr. "Williams, the Duke's Agent, which, as 
 it was almost the last written by Story, is given 
 below : — 
 
 12, Harley Street, Battersca, three o'clock Afternoon, 
 
 ,2Gth May, 1860. 
 A thousand thanks, my dear Sir, for your attention ! The noble present 
 has aiTivcd. It is cellared ; one bottle, however, I reserved ; it is now on 
 the table, at least, what is left of it, for my wife, my two daughters, and 
 myself, have each drank a glass to the health of the Duke and Duchess of 
 Northumberland. Wc all agree that it is delicious : but the tiiixg itself
 
 Ixxvi. 
 
 is light in the comparison : it is iu the kindness which sent it that the true 
 VALVE Ues. I have become quite excited over it ; though I am so ill, that it 
 is with difficulty I can walk across the floor. Still my Surgeon tolls me 
 that I am not in the shghtest danger, and gives me hopes that a few more 
 days will see me well again. God grant that it may be so ! Aiid not to 
 allow my excitement to pass away betwixt hopes and fears, I have now fiUcd 
 the glass to the health and happiness of another warm and true friend of 
 ours. You cannot guess whom? He is the inhabitant of a certain Eveless 
 Paradise* in St. John's "Wood, but otherw-ise as comfortable as it is 
 possible for a man to be in this world, surrounded by friends that love and 
 respect him, and to be respected by whom is an honour! Now, do you 
 guess ? Your health, my dear "Williams, and the health of youi- friends at 
 the same time ! I see a smile on the cheek of a certain lady t when she 
 hears or reads tliis ; for she knows that good nature and condescension 
 always go to the heart even of an old Poet, and she knows she occupies a 
 conspicuous place in the portrait gallery of my memory. She and her 
 worthy husband are the two friends with whom I constantly associate you. 
 A health to all !— you see how I run on— aU in consequence of the wine ! 
 But I must now stop. Hy physical strength is aU but exhausted. "WTien 
 I return to the office, after the present holidays, I wiU just shew myself to 
 you at Northiimberland House, and repeat with how much respect 
 I am, my dear Sii-, yours most truly, 
 
 (Signed) Robert Stort. 
 
 T. "S\''iUiams, Esq. 
 
 And no"w comes the final eatastroplie ! For the 
 last t"wo or three years he had not enjoyed his usual 
 robust health. "Whilst staying at a friend's house, 
 he had, inadvertent^, been put into a damp bed, and 
 had only partially recovered from the efiects, Avhen 
 he foolishly exposed himseK at night, on the deck of 
 the Aberdeen steamer, "which conveyed him to Scot- 
 land. Thencefor-ward he never regained his former 
 
 * Mr. "Williams is a widower. 
 
 + Mrs. George Richards, of 16, Palace Gardens Terrace, Kensington, a 
 cousin of 3Ir. WilUams.
 
 Ixxvii. 
 
 flow of liealth. ; but tlioiig-li weakened in constitution, 
 still attended to his official duties as usual. At length, 
 in the month of May, his illness was much exas- 
 perated by exposing himself one cold evening on a 
 river steamer, running from "Waterloo Bridge to 
 Battersea. With care, the springing disease might 
 even now have been subdxied, had he remained 
 quietly at home, in accordance with the leave given 
 to him by the Audit Board. But whilst very ill, and 
 hardly able to move, the recollection occurred that 
 he had promised to engage a public room in Chelsea, 
 for a lecture, by his friend the Eev. Mr. Waddell. In 
 going across Battersea Bridge, to engage the room, 
 the day was cold and raw, and on returning home, he 
 felt as if he had received his death-stroke. Never 
 again did he leave his house. Hearing of his illness 
 whilst in London, I hastened with an esteemed friend 
 of his, and brother Poet, Mr. Edward Collinson,* to 
 visit him at Battersea. We found him sufi'ering from 
 bronchitis, and great difficulty of breathing, but 
 cheerful, and expressing a confident opinion that in 
 a few days he should be enabled to return to his 
 duties at the Audit office. We partook of a bottle of 
 the Duke's sherry, which he jokingly observed ought 
 to be a good sailor, as it had made two journeys to the 
 East Indies. Not one of the party conceived that he 
 was labouring under any but a temporary illness, the 
 
 *Author of " A Talc of Memory", "Education considered in its Import- 
 ance and General Influence on Society", &c.
 
 Ixxviii. 
 
 severity of whicli had passed, and that in a few days he 
 woiild be convalescent. Next day I returned to York- 
 shire. He gradually grew weaker, and for a short 
 period before his death, was unable to rise from bed. 
 Strange enough, he hardly ever slept during his last 
 illness. . His mind, during the whole of it, was 
 uncommonly active and clear, nay even creative, with 
 a wish to compose, as usual, poetry ; but his hand was 
 powerless. From his wife and two daughters, he 
 willingly received unremitting attention. Indeed, 
 the former, at his request, was scarcely ever absent 
 from the bedside during the last days of his life. 
 Till towards the end, the alternations between hope 
 and despair were rapid ; sometimes he gladdened 
 himseK with the thought that he should, for a short 
 period at least, be spared, and then relapsed into 
 despair — that the inevitable message had arrived. 
 To him, as he observed, how severe the sentence of 
 death, when at last fame appeared to have been 
 achieved, or at least, within sight ; and many happy 
 days seemed to beckon him in the future. In his last 
 moments, he ' babbled' of the hills and streams of 
 Yorkshire and Northumberland ; and as a final 
 legacy to his Yorkshire friends, exclaimed, (almost 
 the last words he spoke) on recei\dng a trilling article 
 from that county, "Ah! there's nothing like York- 
 shire I" He died of disease of the heart, on the 7th 
 of July, 1860, without pain, perfectly conscious 
 to the last moment; and though reluctant to leave
 
 Ixxix. 
 
 this beautiful world, of -which, he was so enamoured, 
 his end was eminently one of peace. His hopes of 
 immortahty and bliss are fitly expressed in the 
 concluding Poem of this volume, which I beheve was 
 the last that emanated from his pen. It may 
 probably, without impropriety, be mentioned that 
 when in the year 1851, I was considered to be in 
 a dying state, he visited me, and then expressed his 
 behef that in the other world we should be conscious 
 of what had passed in this, and that the supreme 
 pleasures of heaven would be something like the 
 antepast which had been vouchsafed to poets in 
 inspired moments. 
 
 Though, to use in part the apt words of a con- 
 temporary, he might write verses about ' regal 
 Thames,' and speak of ' sleeping at last by that 
 Imperial river ;' yet this tone was not in unison with 
 his inmost thoughts. It was not a mere poetic wish, 
 but one entwined with every fibre of his heart to 
 retire on a small pension, and spend his last moments 
 among his ' ain hills' — in comparison with which the 
 hills of Surrey were charmless — and at last sleep in 
 peace in Newton Chiu-ch-yard, where the yellow 
 broom might wave over his head. But destiny forbade 
 the fulfilment of his strong yearnings. Instead of 
 the 'rural green-church-yard,' he was bimed in 
 Brompton Cemetery, on the 11th July, 1860, where it 
 is intended to erect a suitable monument to mark tho 
 place of his interment.
 
 Ixxx. 
 
 In appeai'ance Story was of middle size, and 
 conunanding presence. "WTien young he might be 
 considered slim in build, but in later years, inclined 
 to corpulency. His eyes were light blue, and soft in 
 their expression, except when excited whilst reciting 
 poetry, or in animated conversation, when they were 
 exceedingly bright, and beamed with intelligence. 
 Long and curling locks of flaxen haii-, which the 
 frost of age had only slightly whitened, fell in 
 abundance over his broad shoulders. The noble 
 brow, and other characteristics of his ingenuous 
 countenance, are sufficiently depicted in the excellent 
 portrait of him, taken when about forty years of age, 
 and engraved by Mr. Gleller, expressly for this work. 
 
 But who shall successfully depict the strength of 
 affection, and social worth of poor Story ? It would 
 unquestionably be a task for an abler hand than 
 mine ! That he was a kind husband and a tender 
 father, his widow and three children*' only too deeply 
 feel in his loss ! The numerous friends whose houxs 
 he so often gladdened with his fascinating company, 
 attest, with unanimous voice, the geniality of that 
 heart which bound them to it by the most enduring 
 of ties. 
 
 In disposition he was exceedingly forgiving. On 
 hearing of General Orde's death, he wrote a letter, 
 nobly expressing deep regret that he had occasioned 
 
 » A son Robert, and two daughters, Esther and Ellen, the latter being 
 eighteen j'ears of age.
 
 Ixxxi. 
 
 that gentleman pain by his inconsiderate conduct. 
 And after his removal to London, meeting Mr. 
 Wilson, of Eshton Hall, with whom the feud was of 
 a gi*ave nature, a mutual reconciliation took place, 
 aHke honourable to both. 
 
 That he was quick to resent an injury, excessively 
 desirous of fame, and easily flattered, will have been 
 gleaned from the preceding pages. These common 
 failings, even if they deserve the name, were counter- 
 balanced by an entire freedom from that envy which 
 is too often the canker of literary men, and renders 
 them notoriously unjust to each other. Living upon 
 the best of terms Avith a host of Yorkshire and 
 Lancashii-e Poets, who admu-ed and esteemed him, 
 his good-will, and appreciation of their genius, were 
 in return, never withheld. 
 
 He was exceedingly fond of company, and shone 
 in it, either as an acute debater, or a reciter of poetry. 
 Possessing a tenacious memory, a well modulated 
 and silvery voice, and with scarcely a perceptible 
 note of the Northumbrian accent, his recitations were 
 invariably well received. As an instance of his 
 retentive memory, I remember one afternoon being 
 at a tavern in London, resorted to by gentlemen of 
 the press, in the company of Story and Sam Bamford, 
 when the latter, an excellent reciter, gave a long pass- 
 age fi'om the 'Lady of the Lake,' in illustration of 
 some subject, and after he had finished. Story, un- 
 hesitatingly, took up and recited the continuation of 
 
 I
 
 Ixxxii. 
 
 tlie passage. At one time he eonld recite nearly the 
 ■whole of Scott's Poems. Earely indeed during even 
 a hot dispute, did any violence of temper escape his 
 lips. If he failed to preserve his equanimity, the 
 cause generally arose from the subject of politics, but 
 even here his sentiments had been sobered and modi- 
 fied by age, and accorded with those of the Peelites. 
 
 All men are, in their inmost nature, poets ; and 
 this alone accounts for the ujiiversal delight and 
 interest which poetry imparts to both Peer and 
 Peasant. But though all are so far poets as to 
 feel occasionally the true touches of inspiration, and 
 have their hearts deepty stirred by the passions and 
 affections, yet not to many has the Muse imparted 
 the mighty power to adequately express even the 
 ordinary emotions of poetry ; whilst to very few has 
 she vouchsafed the honour of being her High Priests, 
 and admitted into the inner veil of that everlasting 
 Temple, where each emotion of the heart finds its 
 appropriate altar. Fortunately, for the human race, 
 that portion of poetry which best refines the mind, 
 and touches the soul to fine issues, is the commonest 
 and the easiest understood ; and he who truthfully, 
 and in pleasing coloiu's presents it to the multitude, is 
 sure of numerous readers. Hence the popularity of 
 Story's Minor Poems. His Lyre was attuned to the
 
 Ixxxiii. 
 
 finest lieart-strings of mankind— Love, Friendsliip, 
 Patriotism, and the Domestic affections; and he 
 touched them with the hand of a master, hut wdthal, 
 
 chastely. 
 
 In the poem of ' Harvest,' consisting of two Cantos, 
 with an Introduction, there is, notwithstanding the 
 faults before alluded to, (page xsix,) a faithful and 
 sphited description of the incidents occurring in a 
 northern harvest-field. After describing his lovely 
 harvest-mate, the ' Flower of Calder,' he poxu-trays 
 himseK in true colours, under the name of Sylvander, 
 and declares that the dear scenes of his youth 
 " attuned liis infant mind to song, and gave a joy to 
 after days which poverty could ne'er erase." He 
 likewise paints to the life his companions on the corn 
 rig, and exhibits thus early a knowledge of character 
 both keen and extensive. His love-scenes, with the 
 ' Flower of Calder,' are fi-ee from the common poetic 
 sin of affectation, and have all the freshness and 
 charm of rural courtship, whilst the whimsies of the 
 young poet are drawn fi'om his own experience with 
 a faithful and unsparing hand. Animated are the 
 descriptions of the contest for victory between the 
 different sets of reapers, and faithful as aU who have 
 witnessed the hot strivings of the harvest field, can 
 testify. But the most spii-ited and pleasing delinea- 
 tion is that of 'Harvest Home,' the 'Ku-n'as it is 
 called, whose festivities are painted in a masterly 
 style, and Avith a gusto bearing proof that he had often
 
 Ixxxiv. 
 
 tasted and highly appreciated their pleasures. There 
 are scattered through the Poem numerous passages 
 which cannot fail to please the lover of rural occupa- 
 tions and pastimes ; and the whole work, though 
 abounding in faults, both of manner and rhythm, 
 contains abundant evidence of poetic powers, which 
 it only required age and experience to bring to 
 matvu'ity. Along with 'Harvest,' were printed many 
 songs and minor pieces, none of which are of 
 sufficient merit, except ' The Maid of Tweed,' to be 
 inserted in this volume. 
 
 His next work ' Craven Blossoms,' may speedily 
 be dismissed. The ' Hunting in Craven,' in the 
 stanza of Scott's poetical Romances, is smooth and 
 harmonious, but fragmentary and unfinished in its 
 plan. Besides, the plot is developed in ' The Outlaw,' 
 of which, indeed, it seems to have been the first 
 rough sketch in rhyme. 'Fitz Harcla,' a short poem 
 in blank verse, has little to recommend it. Only three 
 of the short pieces in the 'Craven Blossoms,' were 
 deemed worthy to be included in this volume. 
 
 With many readers ' The Fountain, an Allegory,' is 
 a favourite ; and certainly it is a pleasing poem, in 
 which the progress of an infidel from error to truth, 
 is described with great spirit and elegance. 
 
 ' The Outlaw,' a Drama of five acts, in blank verse, 
 though altogether unsuited for the stage, is perhaps 
 the best of Story's larger works. On every page we 
 may discover powerful delineations of character, and
 
 Ixxxv. 
 
 on the whole clothed in musical and choice versifi- 
 cation. Henry CKfford, ' The Outlaw,' is depicted 
 with a bold and vigorous pencil ; Lady Margaret has 
 all the innate grace and modesty which belong to the 
 noblest of her sex ; but in Fanny, the Poet appears 
 to have concentrated all his powers to describe the 
 strength and purity of her attachment to Henry. 
 Some of the scenes, after she has been deserted, 
 remind one of Ophelia, in their tenderness. Its 
 liveliness of dialogue, well-developed plot, and truth- 
 ful pictures of landscape and manners, cannot fail to 
 render it a favourite in the closet, more especially to 
 the dwellers in Craven. 
 
 Of all Story's works 'Guthrum' is the most 
 ambitious, and cost him the greatest labour. After 
 a fine Introduction, the poem opens with Aymund, a 
 noble Dane, old and sightless, seated with his grand- 
 son upon one of the Northumberland hills, overlook- 
 ing Bamborough Castle and Lindisfarne. The aged 
 warrior, in high poetic style, recounts the events of 
 the Danish invasion of Northumberland, under the 
 leadership of Gruthrum, his kinsman, and the struggle 
 which ensued ending in the defeat of the Danes, by 
 King Alfred. The description of the attack on Lindis- 
 farne Abbey, defended by a band of Saxons, is spirited 
 and weU-sustained. During the fight, the building is 
 accidentally set on fire. Aymund rescues from the 
 flames a noble lady, Eowena, and her attendant, 
 Bertha, who were staying at the Abbey. The
 
 Ixxxvi. 
 
 rescue of these ladies is narrated in the happiest 
 style. Afterwards, their deliverer, wounded, and 
 taken prisoner, is removed to the interior of the 
 country, where he recovers under the care of Bertha, 
 whose charras are limned in choice colours. From 
 her he discovers that gratitude had begot love in the 
 breast of Eowena. Canto third commences with an 
 exquisite description of a morning in spring, as the 
 scene is surveyed from one of the Cheviots. Here the 
 Poet uses his utmost skOI to set off in all its beauty 
 the land of his youth. Bertha endeavours to convert 
 him to the Christian faith, and in the difficult task of 
 reasoning in poetry, our author has performed his 
 task well. In the interview between Aymund and 
 Eowena, Story has put forth his utmost powers in 
 pictiu-ing her 'matchless form and feature,' and 
 produced a splendid passage. He also describes, with 
 great felicity and minuteness, the patriotic schemes of 
 Alfred, for redeeming the country from barbarism. 
 The visit of Alfred to the camp of Gruthrum, is a 
 beautiful specimen of poetic narrative. In the night 
 attack of the Danish by Alfred, Gruthrum and Ajonund 
 are taken prisoners, and conveyed to the tent of the 
 King, who proposes, upon their becoming Christians, 
 to conclude a perpetual peace ; to cede to them 
 Northumberland and East Anglia ; and bestow upon 
 Aymund, the hand of Eowena, who j)roves to be 
 the Monarch's sister. After many mental struggles 
 the offer is accepted by the captives. Throughout
 
 lxxx\'ii. 
 
 the poem are interspersed charming descriptions of 
 the romantic scenery of Northumberland and Craven. 
 
 Such are the meagre outlines of this poem. Con- 
 siderable reading must have been needed to correctly 
 describe the events of the invasion of the Danes, and 
 to delineate correctly their manners and customs. For 
 this purpose Thierry and Mallet seem to have been 
 assiduously considted. 
 
 Story himself considered ' Guthrum' his greatest 
 
 work, and that upon which the solid basis of his fame 
 
 would ultimately rest. In this opinion few will 
 
 coincide. That it is an historical poem of great 
 
 merit, full of noble and heart-stirring passages, 
 
 and especially vivid and happy in the descriptions 
 
 of scenery, will be readily admitted ; but the rare 
 
 felicity of diction, the delicate turns of thought, and 
 
 the warmth and feeling which distinguish his lyrical 
 
 pieces, shew unmistakeably where his real strength 
 
 lay. His first and last essays were l;^Tical, and like 
 
 Dryden, his genius late in life burnt clear, so that the 
 
 last efforts of his pen painfully indicated that the 
 
 ' living fire' was not exliausted, but glowed brightly 
 
 tUl extinguished by death. 
 
 Many of Story's Lyrical compositions are destined 
 to descend to posterity. He was essentially a IjTist, 
 and in every description of that class of poetrj^ he 
 excelled. If we look for the pathetic, many choice 
 effusions such as 'Anna's Grave,' 'Fairest of all 
 Stars,' 'My William died in London,' 'We often
 
 Ixxxviii. 
 
 laughed at Fanny,' present themselves; if we wish 
 for the sportive, what more humourous and gay 
 than the ' Parish Clerk,' and the ' Danish Whistle.' 
 He was especially happy in patriotic and descriptive 
 songs — ' The Chm'ch of our Fathers,' ' The Ancient 
 Barons,' ' Bring out the old War Flag,' and a host 
 of others, are choice examples of patriotic poesy. 
 * In May's expansive Ether,' ' Sweet Beaumont Side,' 
 ' Grreen Homilheugh,' 'Poui's the Spring,' may be 
 quoted as beautiful pieces of descriptive poetry. His 
 love songs are so numerous, varied and excellent, that 
 it would be no easy task to select specimens. Again, 
 what more beautiful in sentiment than the piece 
 beginning ' Dear Hudson,' addressed to his fi'iend 
 William Hudson, Solicitor, Bradford, 'The Wives 
 and Mothers of Britain,' ' The Bonnie Pink Flower,' 
 the ' Seasons in Passing,' or ' The Peerage of Industry.' 
 But that which, to my judgment, shews his poetic 
 faculty to the best advantage, in his minor pieces, is 
 the Ode on Burns' Centenary. Here the richness of 
 his imagination, the simphcity of his construction, and 
 the natural turn of his expression, are fully displayed. 
 The Monody on John Nicholson, also exhibits much 
 poetry and feeling. 
 
 He wrote a sprightly and idiomatic prose style. 
 Some of the articles in ' Love and Literature,' display 
 much critical acumen, and happiness of illustration. 
 His .epistolary style was simple, flowing, and un- 
 affected.
 
 NOTES TO THE 'LIFE.' 
 
 Page is. 
 
 liiKE Bums, Story shortened his family name by leaving out the letter 
 
 e. His 'Craven Blossoms,' published in 182G, had the name 'Robert 
 
 Storey' on the title page ; but iu the next work he published ' The Magic 
 
 Fountaiu,' dedicated to his mother, ' Mary Story, "Wooler', his name is 
 
 altered to ' Story,' as he afterwards spelled it. I believe Story was brought 
 
 up as a Presbyterian, at least when he was about fifteen years of age he stated 
 
 that such was his creed. 
 
 Page ssviii. 
 
 When residing at Ilderton Moor, he wrote a vast number of verses. He 
 has most impressively described the difficulties he had to surmount ia 
 writing English, iu fact, beiug compelled to translate his thoughts from the 
 Northumberland vernacular to English. By excessive labour and care, he 
 at last attained a good English style, and great wealth of diction. Of 
 this period he thus speaks : "I was happy on Heddon Brae, a few minutes* 
 walk by moonlight or otherwise, brought me ' o'er the moor to Maggie !' 
 and poetry and courtship became the order of the day." With Maggie, he 
 even went to Coldstream, to get married Scotch fashion ; but on reaching 
 the place, either one or both repented of the journey. 
 
 During the greater part of the time he taught school at Eoddam, he 
 lodged in the school-room, where he had a bed made up in a recess. One 
 winter he suffered great privation owing to the severity of the snow storm 
 which blocked up the roads, and prevented the outside children — and they 
 were nearly aU outsiders — getting to school. "Worst of all, my stock of 
 coals failed me, and my pantry was but scantily suppUcd. When I have 
 come in of a night to my fireless house and cold bed — cold enough, for some- 
 times there was a heap of snow-drift on the middle of it, — I have actually 
 danced myself into a glow, and then gone to bed, and slept sounder than 
 a king. The snow was piling above me, and the impudent mice running 
 over me by dozens. What cared I !" 
 
 Whilst at Roddam, he ran away to sea. Having read ' Falconer's Ship- 
 wreck' and other pieces of a similar cast, he had imbibed a poetical 
 predilection for a seafaring life, tinconscious of the hardships of snch a call- 
 ing. Following this impulse, he set off, unknown to aU his friends, for 
 Berwick-upon-Tweed, with the fixed determination of binding himself as a 
 common sailor, at that port. His appearance was anything but sailor-like. 
 He was somewhat tall, and looked taller than he really was, owing to his 
 slender and pale-fiiced appearance, a vei-y contrast to his portly ruddy look
 
 Ixxxix. 
 
 in after life. The shipowner to whom he applied for employment, could 
 hardly refrain from laughing at the would-be sailor ; but told him very 
 civilly that young sailors were not in demand. Hearing, however, that 
 sailors were wanted at Shields, he returned to his mother's, at Hmnbleton, 
 to get better equipped for the journey. He writes.— "The sensation 
 which my flight to sea, and determination to be a sailor, produced at home, 
 I cannot describe, and shall never forget or forgive myself for ; but my resolve 
 was unshaken ; and to fit niyself for a sailor, I learned a little of navigation 
 from Mr. Richardson, of Wooler. I wrote a ' FareweU' to my mother, my 
 lover, and the Miises. It was a good deal read and copied." Every thing 
 being ready for his departm-e to Shields, he went to Grindon to bid fare- 
 well to his brother, who, however, induced him to give up his project of 
 going to sea, and offered, if he would study the Latin lang-uage, to be at the 
 expense. He entered upon this new study, under a teacher, with much 
 ardour ; and, in a short poem, promised to give up every pleasure imtil he 
 had mastered the speech of ancient Eome. But his resolution soon 
 failed; he became negligent, his brother discontented, and they parted 
 mutually dissatisfied, Story returning to Roddam school. 
 
 Page Ixxx. 
 Notwithstanding the numeroiis severe tiials which Story had encountered, 
 he, at least, thought that his Ufe had in its general tenor, been a happy one. 
 I remember being in his company when a conversation arose on this sub- 
 ject. I contended that imdoubtedly he had enjoyed good health, and 
 avoided stem want, but his career had been so much chequered by mis- 
 fortunes, he had witnessed so much sickness and sorrow in his house, and 
 lost so many of his children, that his course could not have been a happy one. 
 A friend who was present combated this opinion, and on referring to Story, 
 he declared his Ufe had been, on the whole, a happy one. It may be 
 suspected that this enviable state arose from feeling — "My mind to me a 
 
 kingdom is." 
 
 Page Isxxviii. 
 
 He essayed various kinds of prose composition. A MS. entitled the 
 
 • Chronicles of the Swan,' contains a humorous and graphic description 
 
 of the various characters that assembled in that noted Craven tavern. I 
 
 have before me the draft of a sermon which he prepared for a Craven clei'gy- 
 
 man, when he was appointed chaplain to the High Sheriff of Yorkshire, and 
 
 which was preached before the Judges at York, in the year 1832. The text 
 
 is from Genesis, chap, xx, verse 11. The subject was well handled, and was 
 
 plainly an attack upon the revolutionary principles which then prevailed. He 
 
 shewed that the fear of God is the only effectual check upon the irregular 
 
 j)assions of men.
 
 INDEX TO THE TOEMS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Anna's Grave ........ 5 
 
 An Eye in its Dark-glancing Beauty ... 24 
 
 Ah ! will there a Time come . . . . . ^H 
 
 Again the Sweetest Season 77 
 
 An Englishman's Wife . . . , . .115 
 
 A happy New Year \oO 
 
 Ahove the Line of Lamps ..... ]-U> 
 
 At Parker's Tomb ]ji 
 
 A Being there is lS(i 
 
 Be Still my Wild Heart 39 
 
 Beaumont Side 44 
 
 Breathe, Breathe on my Heart .... f'r2 
 
 Bring out the Old War Flag 17i' 
 
 Bums' Centenary Festival — An Ode . . . li)2
 
 XCl. 
 
 Paire. 
 Dear Hudson . . . . . • • .119 
 
 Exposed in Life's ....... 26 
 
 Fairer than the Fairest Blossom . . . .12 
 
 Fairest of all Stars 168 
 
 Forgive me, O My Native Hills . . . .184 
 
 Guthrum the Dane — Introduction .... 161 
 
 How Sleep the Dead ....... 18 
 
 I Love Her 4 
 
 1 shall never see it more . . . . .20 
 
 I sought the Halls "25 
 
 I have heard of Fair Climes . . . . . 27 
 
 In May's expansive Ether ..... 28 
 
 In my Hey-day of Youth ...... 30 
 
 I gang frae Thee ....... 43 
 
 It is Sweet to Perceive . . . . . .70 
 
 I know thou Lov'st me ..... 8 J 
 
 It is Sad, very Sad ....... 94 
 
 It is Sweet on this Fair Bark . . . . . 98 
 
 I saw her m the Violet Time 104
 
 XCll. 
 
 Fago. 
 I was Born in a Cot . . . . . , 114 
 
 I blame thee not, World . , . , . .117 
 
 Ingleboro' Cave , 120 
 
 I would not Pass from Earth 134 
 
 It ne'er was Spak' ...... 138 
 
 In Youth our Fathers 157 
 
 My Love is not Yon Wild Rose .... 10 
 
 Mark, Ellen, how Fair 42 
 
 Mute is the Lyre of Ebor lirZ 
 
 Mony Auld Frien's • . .141 
 
 My William 145 
 
 My Bark is on the Tyne . . . . . .152 
 
 My Blessing on Yonder Wild Mountains . . 158 
 My Blessing on Bradford 177 
 
 On Skipton's Vales 8 
 
 O Love has a favourite Scene 11 
 
 O these are not Mine own Hills .... 15 
 
 One April Morn 53 
 
 O Woman, Fair Woman 69 
 
 O Blest is the Hearth 71 
 
 O Lay him by his Father 100 
 
 O Faded Leaf U.>
 
 XOIII. 
 
 TagC. 
 O Spare tlie Kind Heart . . . . . 125 
 
 O Sing to me no Modish Tune ..... 129 
 
 O Let us be Friendly .... . . li'i 
 
 O Scorn not the Plough . . . . . .154 
 
 Our Nightingale's Fame . . . . . 17S 
 
 Our Saxou Fathers 187 
 
 Pours the Spring ....... 17 
 
 Poor Mary 136 
 
 Reply to an Epistle from Islr. Gourley ... bi 
 
 Shake from thee that Rain -drop . . . . .40 
 
 Stop, O Stop the Passing Bell .... >>9 
 
 Sweet Beaumont Side . . . . . .97 
 
 She is falling by Grief . . . . . . 101 
 
 She shall not Die 123 
 
 Sleep, my Mary . 148 
 
 She tried to Smile . . . . . . .173 
 
 Sebastopol is Low 180 
 
 The Heath is Green ...... I 
 
 The Maid of Tweed 2 
 
 Though Winter's Chill Breezes 3
 
 XflV. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Thou Fairest Maid 7 
 
 To the Northern Breeze .... . . 9 
 
 The Flower of Malhamdale 13 
 
 The Young Poet dying at a distance . . . .21 
 
 'Tis not by Day . 31 
 
 The Wild Thyme still Blossoms 36 
 
 The Poet's Home 47 
 
 There's a dark Hour Coming ..... 52 
 
 Twenty Years Parted ...... 62 
 
 The Dead stood by 63 
 
 The few Corn-fields ...... 72 
 
 The Isles are Awake 85 
 
 The Church of our Fathers ..... 86 
 
 The Bride is Away , . 87 
 
 The Wives and the Mothers of Britain ... 90 
 
 The Wane of the Day ,91 
 
 The Ancient Barons 93 
 
 The Friends that I Loved 95 
 
 The Vows thou hast Spoken , . . . . 1 02 
 
 The Music of another Spring 103 
 
 The Hills of my Birth-place 106 
 
 Though almost Twenty Years . . . . .108 
 
 The Union Workhouse . . . . . 110 
 
 The Rose of the Isles 113 
 
 The Day is Gane 128
 
 xcv. 
 
 Page. 
 The Bonnie Pink Flower . . . . ' . .139 
 
 The Chain is Broken, Father 147 
 
 'Tis Sweet to Escape 150 
 
 The Seasons in Passing . . . . . , 155 
 
 The Peerage of Industry ...... 169 
 
 The Zephyr of May 182 
 
 That Beautiful Thought . . . . , .199 
 
 Verses on the Duke of Northumberland's Birth-day . 189 
 
 Where, Loved One, is thy Dwelling now ... 33 
 
 Wethercote Cave 79 
 
 With Bounding Step 80 
 
 We often Laughed at Fanny 143 
 
 Who would not be Proud of Old England . . .160 
 We rear no War- defying Flag . . . . 173 
 
 Your Name may be Noble 99 
 
 Yon Lass ye see . . . • ... 126 
 
 You have heard . . . . • • .171
 
 POEMS.
 
 THE HEATH IS GREEN. 
 
 1816. 
 
 ■X- 
 
 The heath, is green on Roseden Edge, 
 The sweet-brier rose begins to bloom ; 
 
 While mingle, on its southern ledge. 
 
 The milk-white thorn, and yellow broom. 
 
 But heavy snow concealed the heath, 
 And loaded every bloomless bough, 
 
 When — love's sincerest vows to breathe — 
 I met my Fair on yonder brow. 
 
 Our troth had passed at noon to meet. 
 And there at noon we kindly met ; 
 
 Oiu* hearts were true, our words were sweet, 
 At eve we parted with regret ! 
 
 I have been blest in rosy bower, 
 I have been blest on daisied lea ; 
 
 But daisied lea, nor rosy bower 
 
 E'er matched that snowy bank to me ! 
 
 * Kosoden Edge, the scone of this singular love-meeting, is an eminence 
 between Roddam and Ilderton, the southern slopes of which abut upon 
 Koddani-dean. The young lady — now no longer young ! — is still living, tjut 
 her name must be sacred.
 
 0, love it cheers the hardest lot, 
 0, love it soothes the keenest woe, 
 
 It makes a palace of a cot, — 
 
 It warms the chill of winter's snow ! 
 
 THE MMD OF TWEED. 
 
 Blithe I left yon southern river, 
 
 Every glen and painted mead. 
 Joyous — thinking ne'er to sever — 
 
 Sought the lovely maid of Tweed. 
 Purest flames of love were hixrning ; 
 Hope proclaimed the hour retui-ning, 
 "When pleasui-e should succeed to mom-ning, 
 
 As I sought the maid of Tweed ! 
 
 Light the clouds of Eve reposing 
 
 Varied scarce the sky's soft blue ; 
 And the sun, his bright eye closing. 
 
 O'er the land his last beams threw. 
 High apxDcared the fair-one's towers, 
 Grreen I saw her warbling bowers. 
 Where had often flown the hours 
 As I sung the maid of Tweed.
 
 3 
 
 Still the lofty oak-tree flourished 
 
 Where I'd carved oiu' names before ; 
 These — how oft the thought was cherished !- 
 
 Sadly pleased, she might explore. 
 All in vain ! — Though love's still burning, 
 And hope ■would tell of bliss returning. 
 Pleasure must give place to mourning — 
 False the lovely maid of Tweed ; 
 
 Yet the haunts where we have wandered, 
 
 To my breast are fondly dear ; 
 Where my brightest years I squandered, 
 
 Let me mourn my fate severe ! 
 By the Tweed's translucent river 
 Pour my song of sorrow ever, 
 Till from my bosom death shall sever 
 
 The image of the maid of Tweed ! 
 
 THOUGH "WINTER'S CHILL BEEEZES. 
 
 Though -winter's chill breezes have blighted each 
 
 flower. 
 And natiu'e is sad in the gloom of the hour. 
 The blithe smile of summer o'er mountain and plain, 
 To garden and grove will bring beaiity again.
 
 But the EosE tliat has fallen by Breamish's side, 
 lu the gloAY of its tints, and the height of its pride, 
 What dew shall refi-eshen ? what sunbeam restore ? 
 'Tis vanished from earth, and shall grace it no more ! 
 
 The clouds that envelope the sun in mid course, 
 That sun yet will vanquish, and shine in his force ; 
 As dark on my soul are the sorrow-clouds met, 
 But the sun that should chase them, for ever hath set! 
 Farewell ! I must mourn thee, a bright vision gone. 
 Of beauty that bloomed, and of virtue that shone ; 
 For, though fair among angels, 'tis thine to adore, 
 'Tis mine ^to behold and to clasp thee, no more ! 
 
 I LOVE HEE 
 
 Talk on ! each fault in Mary blame 
 That hate can think, or envy frame ; 
 Lessen her beauty, taint her fame ; 
 
 Whate'er you sa}^, I love her ! 
 I look but on her cheek and eye — 
 They give her base remarks the lie ; 
 How pure the glance ! how fine the dye ! 
 
 By all that's fair, I love her !
 
 Arouse my pride : she spiu'ns my prayer 
 For one — i^ereliance less worth her care : 
 Her presence melts that pride to air, 
 
 I see her — and I love her ! 
 Describe her weak and uni-efined : 
 She comes — her tones the soul can bind ! 
 Her eye is eloquence and mind ! 
 
 By all that's grand, I love her ! 
 
 Depress me with the thought that she 
 Must ne'er my heaven of rapture be : 
 Blest be her heart, I say, and free ! 
 
 Repulsed and scorned, I love her ! 
 And while her form — a sunbeam bright- 
 To Memory's eye shall lend its light, 
 By levelled Hope's eternal blight ! 
 
 By all my woes ! I'll love her ! 
 
 ANNA'S GEAVE. 
 
 [In memory of Anna Boer, a fine young woman from Sliropshirc, who died 
 lumianied. My love for her was the piixest I had ever known.] 
 
 LEAVE me here alone with woe, 
 And go, my friends, as joys in\'ite, 
 
 Where Beauty smiles, and goblets flow ; 
 Fit scenes for those whose hearts are light.
 
 Another voice tlian that of glee 
 
 There breathes — through distance long and 
 drear — 
 Prom Anna's lowly grave to me, 
 
 And it hath aU my soul and ear ! 
 
 Afar in Salop's vale she sleeps — 
 There vrinds of winter wildly blow ; 
 
 The cold di'ift circles there, and heaps 
 A breast once purer than the snow ! 
 
 All Hfe and sj)rig-htKness, she threw 
 A tint of Eden o'er these bowers ; 
 
 And almost Eden's bliss I knew 
 
 When her bright presence winged the hours. 
 
 Om* moonlight walks by lawn and vale — 
 The soothing words she, parting, spoke — 
 
 Away ! I must not tell a tale 
 
 My heart can feel, but words would mock. 
 
 Then go, my friends, where hearts rejoice, 
 And leave me to my musings here — 
 
 Erom Anna's grave there breathes a voice, 
 And it hath all my soul and ear !
 
 THOU FAIREST MAID. 
 
 1820. 
 
 [On Miss H , a beautiful young lady in Newcastle— long since dead.] 
 
 Thott fairest maid that blooms by Tyne, 
 Thou fairest maid that blooms by Tyne, 
 
 A thousand smiles I can forget — 
 But ne'er forget one glance of thine ! 
 
 How blest the man whose worth shall gain 
 Thy young bright eye's approving shine — 
 
 Immortal Love shall form his chain, 
 And Eapture Hnk his hand to thine ! 
 
 Thou fairest maid, &c. 
 
 My cup was hallowed by thy touch ; 
 
 Proud of thy dark glance, foamed the wine ; 
 And ! its taste to me was such — 
 
 'Twas inspiration all divine ! 
 
 Thou fairest maid, &c. 
 
 Could all my countless sufferings past 
 Return, and in one blast combine. 
 
 How gladly would I bear that blast 
 To press thy hand, and call thee mine ! 
 
 Thou faii'est maid, &c.
 
 ON SKIPTON'S VALES. 
 1820. 
 
 [Skipton is the capital of the beautiful district of Craven.] 
 
 On Skipton' s vales and mountains play 
 Tlie first red gleams of Morning gay — 
 linger yet ! ye moments, stay ! 
 
 Nor urge my flight from blue-eyed Jessy ! 
 
 Ye sweetly-opening daisies, filled 
 With, tears from moonlight mists distilled, 
 The sun will dry your bosoms chilled, 
 And ye -snll smile like blue-eyed Jessy ! 
 
 No sun, or spring-breeze passing by. 
 Shall wake my bloom, my tears shall dry ; 
 A desert plant, I'll withered lie 
 
 Unwept, and far fi'om blue-eyed Jessy ! 
 
 Alas ! the moments will not stay — 
 The sky-lark summons me away ! 
 But while my heart's warm pulses play. 
 My heart shall throb for blue-eyed Jessj-- !
 
 TO THE NORTIIEKN BEEEZE. 
 
 1820. 
 
 Northern Breeze ! that lov'st to liover 
 In this vale of constant green, 
 
 Tell me, hast thou sported over 
 Eoddam's every dearer scene ? 
 
 Hast thou swept the Cheviot mountains, 
 Eich with all their rath perfume ? 
 
 Curled the pure and sprightly fountains, 
 Gushing through their bordering bloom ? 
 
 Hast thou sighed where forest shadows 
 
 O'er the path of lovers fell, 
 When the hour of gloaming led us — 
 
 Lovers — to the silent deH ? 
 
 — Fondest of illusive fancies ! 
 
 Yet what truth like it can please ? 
 Impotent were necromancy's. 
 
 To thy speU, sweet Northern Breeze !
 
 10 
 
 MY LOVE IS NOT YON WILD ROSE. 
 
 1820. 
 
 [The lady who inspired this, my first Gargrave song, afterwards Mrs. M , 
 
 has been dead many years. The infant Aire flows through the village 
 once perfumed by her sweetness.] 
 
 My love is not yon wild rose 
 
 That decks the river's bank so green — 
 My love is not yon wild rose, 
 
 "WTiose sweetest charms at once are seen. 
 Her emblem true uncloses 
 
 Its leaves in yonder garden fair — 
 Worth aU the wilding roses 
 
 That e'er a summer strewed by Aire ! 
 
 The garden rose-bud pearly 
 
 With drops imbibed before the sun 
 Expands to morning early 
 
 Its folded beauties, one by one ; 
 Each new recess revealing 
 
 A hue more sweet, a tint more fair — 
 And such is she whom FeeKng 
 
 And Taste proclaim the Eose of Aire. 
 
 The rose-leaf folded over 
 
 Its gem of gathered dew refined, 
 
 Is not a sweeter cover 
 
 Than Myra's form is to her mind !
 
 11 
 
 No dew-gem half so bright is, 
 
 By sunheam fomid reposing there, 
 
 As Myi'a's sovJ of light is — 
 
 My love's the Gem and Eose of Aire. 
 
 0! LOVE HAS A FAVOUEITE SCENE, 
 
 1820. 
 
 ! LOVE has a favourite scene for roaming — 
 It is in the dell where the Aire is foaming ; 
 And love has an hour, of all the dearest — 
 It is when the star of the west is clearest ; 
 It is when the moon on the wave is yeUow ; 
 It is when the wood's last song is mellow ; 
 It is when the breeze, o'er the scene reposing, 
 Stirs not a flower as its leaves are closing ; 
 And every green bough of the brier thou meetest 
 Has rose-buds and roses the softest and sweetest ! 
 
 Come, love ! 'tis the scene and the hoiu* for roaming. 
 The dell is green, and the Aire is foaming 
 Not purer the light that the west is pouring, 
 Not pm'er the gold that the moon is showering,
 
 12 
 
 Not purer the dew on the rose's blossom, — 
 Than tlie love, my dear maid, that warms my bosom ! 
 Yet morn will come, when the dew — ascending — 
 "Will leave the dry flower on its stalk depending. 
 The star the blue west, and the moon the river, 
 Will qmt — but my heart will be thine/or ever ! 
 
 FAIEEK THAN THE FAIREST BLOSSOM. 
 
 1821. 
 
 [On Miss H , of Gargrave, long since dead.] 
 
 Pairer than the fairest blossom 
 Opening on the sunny lea ! 
 
 Torture not a constant bosom, 
 Female arts are lost on me. 
 
 Shall my love be unrequited ? 
 
 Let the sentence then be heard ; 
 And may I be fiu-ther slighted 
 
 If I beg a second word !
 
 13 
 
 Woidd thy heart its own retain me ? 
 
 Angel charms are thine, my dear ; 
 These enchant me — these enchain me — 
 
 Coyness is but wasted here. 
 
 Cloud and gleam, by tiu-ns that fly, love, 
 Mark a Craven's summer day — 
 
 Be not thou a changefid sky, love ; 
 Let thy smile for ever play ! 
 
 Flowers that in the shade woidd perish, 
 In the Hght will blossom high ; 
 
 And my love will only flourish 
 In the sunshine of thine eye ! 
 
 THE FLOWER OF MALIIAMDALE. 
 
 1821. 
 
 [This lady was a Miss Dcwliurst, who died at Aii-ton in Malliamdalc, in, I 
 think, her 16th year.] 
 
 If on some bright and breezeless eve, 
 When falls the ripe rose leaf by leaf. 
 
 The moraKsing bard Avill heave 
 
 A sigh that seems allied to grief, —
 
 14 
 
 Shall I be blithe, shaU I be mute, 
 Nor shed the tear, nor pour the wail, 
 
 "When death has blighted to its root 
 The sweetest Elower of Malhamdale ? 
 
 Her form was like the fair sun-stream 
 
 That glances through the mists of noon- 
 Ah ! little thought we that its beam 
 
 "Would vanish from our glens so soon ! 
 Yet when her eye had most of mirth. 
 
 And when her cheek the least was pale, 
 They talked of purer worlds than earth — 
 
 She coixld not stay in Malhamdale ! 
 
 The placid depth of that dark eye. 
 
 The wild-rose tint of that fau^ cheek — 
 Will still awake the long-di'awn sigh, 
 
 "While Memory of the past shall speak. 
 And we can never be but pained 
 
 To think, when gazing on that vale. 
 One Angel more to Heaven is gained, 
 
 But one is lost to Malhamdale ! 
 
 I may not tell what di-eams were mine — 
 Dreams laid in bright futui-ity — 
 
 Wlien the full, soft, and partial shine 
 Of that fair eye was turned on me.
 
 15 
 
 Enoiigli, enough — the blooming wreath 
 Of Love, and Hope, and Joy, is pale, 
 And now its withering perfumes breathe 
 O'er yon new grave in Malhamdale ! 
 
 THESE ME NOT MINE OWN HILLS. 
 1821. 
 
 [On arriving in Craven, whither I had come on foot, and seeing the hills — 
 so like, and yet so luUike the Northumbrian mountains^-I became seized 
 with a HOME SICKNESS the most intense. I fancied myself banished to a 
 far-distant land ; and if the reader, who may be inclined to smile at the 
 idea, win reflect that railways then were not ; that stage coaches were 
 above my means ; and that my estimate of distance was founded on my 
 power as a pedestrian ; he will see that the idea was not so very absurd.] 
 
 TEHESE are not mine own hills. 
 Fair though their verdure be ; 
 Distant far mine own hills. 
 
 That used to look so kind on me ! 
 These may have their rock and caii-n, 
 Their blooming heath, and waving fern — 
 But ! they stand so strange and stern, 
 And never seem like fiiends to me.
 
 16 
 
 "Where, pr'ytliee, rise thine own hills? 
 
 In France or "brighter Italy ? 
 "What fruit is on thine own hills, 
 
 That we must deem so fair to see ? 
 Grows in Summer's constant shine, 
 The orange there, or purpling vine ? 
 Does myrtle with the rose entwine 
 
 On moimtains so beloved by thee?" 
 
 All bleak along mine own hills 
 
 The heather waves, the bracken free ; 
 
 The fruit upon mine own hills 
 Is scarlet hip and blaeberry. 
 
 And yet I would not them exchange, 
 
 'Mid gay Italian scenes to range ; 
 
 No ! vine-clad hills would look as strange, 
 As stem, and lone, as these to me ! 
 
 In boyhood, on mine own hills, 
 
 I plucked the flower, and chased the bee ; 
 In youth, upon mine own hills, 
 
 I wooed my loves by rock and tree : 
 'Tis hence my love — to tears — ^they claim ; 
 And let who will the weakness blame, 
 But when, in sleep, I di'eam of them — 
 
 I would not wake aught else to see !
 
 17 
 
 rOURS THE SPRING. 
 
 1821. 
 
 [Ho'wdsclen — which I have softened into Howsdcn — a beautiful hill orer- 
 lookiiig the Beaumont. It is remarkable as being always the very first to 
 acknowledge, by its verdure, the favours of returning Spring. Its base, 
 when I kept sheep upon it in my boyish days, used to exhibit a perfect 
 forest of broom. ] 
 
 Poims the Spring its earliest green 
 
 Upon How.sden still ? 
 Are the milk-white hawthorns seen 
 
 Upon Howsden still? 
 Does the tall and grove-like broom, 
 With its moist and yellow bloom, 
 Shed a glory and perfume 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 
 Rests the white and downy cloud 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 Is the skylark's carol loud 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 Is the cui'lew seldom dumb ? 
 And the wild bees — do they come, 
 As of old to sip and hum 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 c
 
 18 
 
 Sits the liappy slieplierd boy 
 
 Upon Howsden still, 
 Singing blitlie his song of joy 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 While far beneath his eyes 
 The blue stream of Beaumont lies, 
 And her Kquid murmurs rise 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 
 Ah ! the Summer sheds delight 
 
 Upon Howsden still ; 
 And I walk, in dreams by night, 
 
 Upon Howsden still ? 
 AVhen waking 'mid my joy, 
 I but meet the world's annoy, 
 And wish I were a boy 
 
 Upon Howsden stiU. ! 
 
 HOW SLEEP THE DEAD. 
 
 1821. 
 
 How sleep the dead in yon church yard, 
 A\1iere chequering moonbeams purely fall ? 
 
 How sleep the dead beneath the sward ? 
 Calmly — softly — sweetly all !
 
 19 
 
 In mute companionship they lie — 
 
 No iiearts that ache, no eyes that weep ! 
 
 Pain, sickness, trouble, come not nigh 
 The beds of those that yonder sleep. 
 
 Around, the world is passion-tost — ■ 
 War, murder, crime, for ever reign ; 
 
 Of sacred peace alone may boast 
 
 The church-yard's undisturbed domain. 
 
 The stormy sea of human life. 
 
 With aU its surges, roars around ; 
 
 Then- barrier- wall repels its strife — 
 
 No wave breaks o'er their hallowed ground! 
 
 Ai"ound, the summer sun may scorch — 
 The dead feel not the sultry ray ; 
 
 Winter may howl in spire and porch — 
 The dead are reckless of his sway. 
 
 Thus sleep the dead in yon church yard. 
 Where chequering moonbeams purely fall ; 
 
 Thus sleep the dead beneath the sward — 
 Calmly — softly — sweetly aU !
 
 20 
 
 I SHALL NEVER SEE IT MORE. 
 
 1821. 
 
 I SHALL never see it more ! save in visions during 
 
 sleep, 
 When — but half deceived — I gaze on it, and as I gaze 
 
 I ^eep ; 
 But 'tis blossomed bright in Memory yet, and shades 
 
 the verdant steep, 
 The sweetest hawthorn tree on the banks of the Till! 
 
 'Twas a lovely eve in Spring, and the crimson of the 
 
 west 
 Lay Hke a dream of heaven on the river's gentle 
 
 breast. 
 When we met beside the hawthorn tree, in milk-white 
 
 blossoms dressed. 
 The loving and the loved, on the banks of the Till ! 
 
 I have wandered — wandered long in the heartless 
 
 ways of men. 
 And have often felt the thrill of love — but never more 
 
 as then. 
 When we lay in young love's happy trance amid the 
 
 silent glen — 
 Beside the hawthorn tree on the banks of the Till !
 
 21 
 
 My Mary was as pure as the bloom upon tlie tree ! 
 She died — and left my heart exposed to vice and 
 misery ; 
 She drank of life's first rapture-cup, and what is left 
 to me, 
 But a worthless di'aught, afar from the banks of the 
 Till! 
 
 THE YOUNG POET DYING AT A DISTANCE 
 ITtOM HOME. 
 
 1821. 
 
 (Written during a slight attack of illness. I imasrined I was yoinp: to die — 
 far Irom lloddiim-dcau, where, iu my feverish excitement, I wished to be 
 buried.) 
 
 O BiJEY me not in yon sti-ange spot of earth ! 
 
 My rest never sweet, never tranquil can be ; 
 But bear me away to the land of my birth. 
 
 To a scene — how dear, and how pleasant to me ! 
 If you saw how the sunbeams iUumine the mountains, 
 
 How brightly they He in the glen that I choose —
 
 22 
 
 Could tlie song of its birds, and tlie gush, of its foun- 
 tains, 
 Through your souls the rapture and freshness diffuse 
 "Which in life's happy morning they shed over mine — 
 ! your hearts would confess it is all hut divine ! 
 
 Nay, call it not raving ! A stranger I came, 
 
 And a stranger amongst you I ever have been : 
 Wben I stepped from my circle, you found me the 
 same 
 
 Vain trifler as thousands beside in the scene. 
 But I lived in a circle of fancy and feeling, 
 
 A world of fair forms, a creation of bliss. 
 Though never to you the dear secret revealing : 
 
 My first and my latest disclosiu'e is this, 
 This dying request — the last night of the dream ! — • 
 
 I do not despise it, though wild it may seem. 
 
 1 know it — the grave which to me you assign. 
 
 Is black in the shade of your dreary church- wall, 
 Where nettle and hemlock their rankness combine, 
 
 And the worm and suUen toad loathsomely crawl. 
 ! where is the primrose, so meet for adorning 
 
 The grave of a Minstrel cut off in his bloom ? 
 ! where is the daisy, to shed in the morning 
 
 The tears it had gathered by night, for my doom ? 
 And dearer — ! dearer than anguish can teU, 
 "Wbere, where are the friends that have loved me so 
 weU?
 
 23 
 
 Thrice blest be those tears ! tliey descend on my heart 
 
 Like the soft rain of Spring on a perishing flower ; 
 And may I expire in the hope they impart, 
 
 That — yet — I shall rest by my favourite bower ? 
 Heaven love you for that! Like the flower I have 
 shown you, 
 
 No more to expand in the loveliest ray. 
 And breathing its last sigh of perfume upon you. 
 
 My spii'it, all grateful, shall vanish away ! 
 For laid in the glen, by the stream and the tree. 
 Deep, hallowed, and happy, my sliimber shall be ! 
 
 See ! one aged Mourner comes, trembling, to place 
 
 A weak, withered hand on the grave of her eon — 
 See ! Friendship, to tell how I strove in the race, 
 
 But died ere tlie chaplet of glory was won — 
 And Beaut}- — I plaited a ^I'eath for that Maiden 
 
 When warm was my heart, and my fancy was high ; 
 See ! Beauty approaches with summer-flowers laden, 
 
 And strews them when nought but. the blackbii-d is 
 nigh ! 
 Thus, thus shall I rest, with a charm on my name, 
 In the shower-mingled sunshine of Love and of Fame !
 
 24 
 
 AX EYE IN ITS DAEK.GLANCIXG BEAUTY. 
 
 [On Miss II , ah-eady alluded to. See ante.] 
 
 Ajst eye in its dark-glancing beauty hatli sj^oken, 
 A lip hath been pressed like a rose-bud in dew, 
 
 And the clasp of a soft hand has thi-illed as a token 
 Through fibre and vein — that my Fanny is true ! 
 
 There's a tint of romance in the sunbeam that lightens 
 By turns the green yale, and the mountain's wild 
 hue ; 
 
 It comes fr®m the thoxight that internally brightens, 
 The heart-blessing thought — that my Fanny is true ! 
 
 There's a voice in the gale, as it sighingly wanders 
 Where the young buds of Spring open green on the 
 view ; 
 There's a voice in the stream, as it pxu'ely meanders, 
 Breathing fresh o'er the soul — that my Fanny is 
 true ! 
 
 The lark as he soars from the strained eye of wonder, 
 Or brushes the white cloud that streaks the fine 
 blue. 
 
 Sends doAvn his loud note to the choristers under, 
 And wood and vale ring with — my Fanny is true !
 
 25 
 
 soften, my song ! for a transport is given, 
 
 To which the best chords of the bosom are due ; 
 
 And sing like the gale on a rose-bank at even, 
 In a long sigh of bliss — that my Fanny is true ! 
 
 I SOUGHT THE HALLS. 
 
 1822. 
 
 [The halls meant were those of Eshton, -where Ellen Ellison — now :Mis. 
 Story — had resided. Set to music by Godby.] 
 
 I SOUGHT the halls, sweet EUen, 
 
 \VTiere thou wast wont to be ; 
 And I deemed, my dearest EUen, 
 
 They stiU were bright with thee. 
 As sun-hues linger on the hill 
 
 Long after evening falls. 
 So seemed the light of beauty stiU 
 
 To gild the lonely haUs ! 
 
 I sought the garden, EUen, 
 I sought the arbour fail' ; 
 
 And I voAv my dearest EUen, 
 Thy sweetness met me there.
 
 26 
 
 The brightest Eose had left the bower, 
 But still her favourite scene 
 
 Eetained the fragrance of the flower, 
 And told where she had been ! 
 
 EXPOSED m LIFE'S. 
 1822. 
 
 On the same. 
 
 Exposed in life's neglected vale, 
 To scorch in sun, or waste in gale. 
 The wild-rose tints so softly pale 
 
 That first attracted me, love — 
 unbefriended 1 take my aid, 
 Accept my shelter and my shade, 
 "VMiere suns shall but in gleams pervade. 
 
 And storms blow calm to thee, love ! 
 
 The summer leaves of Fortune now 
 Have clothed my every spreading bough ; 
 One ornament I want, and thou — 
 thou art that to nie, love ;
 
 Then come — and, by my ho]3es refined ! 
 No Oak that ever braved the wind, 
 So screened the Woodbine round him twined, 
 As I will shelter thee, love ! 
 
 I HAVE HEARD OF FAIR CLBiES. 
 
 \S22r. 
 
 [The home-sickness begins to disappear.] 
 
 I HAVE heard of fair climes Ijing nearer the sun, 
 Where the summer and autumn are blent into one, 
 Where the flowers in unfailing succession come forth, 
 And brighter of hue than the flowers of the north, 
 Where the fruit and the blossom adorn the same tree — 
 Yet Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me. 
 
 I have heard of the aziu-e enchanting all eyes, 
 The deep, cloudless blue of Italian skies — 
 But give me the wild heaven, now gloomy, now gay. 
 That T\ith shadow and svuishine still varies the day, 
 Forming scenes which a painter or bard loves to see — 
 And Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me !
 
 28 
 
 Can lands where the summer and autumn entwine, 
 Exhibit a contrast more pleasing than thine ? 
 Spring smiles in yon vale where the river is rolled, 
 And Autumn has hung yonder mountain with gold ; 
 Yon beech tree stands red on an emerald lea — 
 0, Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me ! 
 
 "Why talk of Circassia as Beauty's domain ? 
 
 Or why of the dark-glancing daughters of Spain ? 
 
 We have maids that might realise dreams of above, 
 
 Too lovely — if aught were too lovely — for love, 
 
 As sweet as then- Sjiring, as their moimtain-winds 
 
 free — 
 Yes ! Craven, green Craven, 's the land for me ! 
 
 m MAY'S EXPANSIVE ETHEE. 
 1823. 
 
 [On Ellen Ellison.] 
 
 In May's expansive ether 
 
 Moats many a downy cloud — 
 
 Some white and piu-e as silver. 
 
 Some edged and streaked wi' gowd.
 
 29 
 
 I care na for the gorgeous siglit, 
 Though fair as sight may be ; 
 
 My bonnie Craven lassie 
 Is the dearest sight to me ! 
 
 All yellow as the cloudlet, 
 
 My love's bright locks are laid, 
 And radiant as its silver 
 
 The neck and brow they shade. 
 The heart that beats within her breast 
 
 Is now na langer free — 
 My bonnie Craven lassie 
 
 Has bestowed her heart on me ! 
 
 The bloom is on the haA^i;horn, 
 
 The green leaf's on the tree, 
 The king-cup gems the meadow. 
 
 And the gowan stars the lea. 
 I care na for the charms o' spring. 
 
 Though fair those charms may be- 
 My bonnie Craven lassie 
 
 Is the dearest charm to me ! 
 
 On yonder bank a blossom 
 Is^mirrored in' the lake — 
 
 The next wild breeze that sweeps it 
 The shadow}' charm will break.
 
 30 
 
 But wliat wild breeze shall e'er efface 
 
 The irajn-ess here of thee ? 
 My bonnie Craven lassie 
 
 Thou art wealth and fame to me ! 
 
 IN MY HEY-DAY OF YOUTH. 
 
 1823. 
 
 In my hey-day of youth, when each pulse beat to glee, 
 
 I roved amang lasses o' ilka degree, 
 
 The gentle, the semple, the cauld, and the kind, 
 
 The neat country girl, and the lady refined ; 
 
 But when I looked out a companion for life, 
 
 I found nane to suit like my aia little Wife ! 
 
 She was heir to na wealth, but to balance it a', 
 Her tastes were na nice, and her wishes were la' ; 
 Her forbears were poor, but to tell it I'm fain, 
 She need na to blush for their deeds nor her ain ; 
 The tap o' the cassay they trod on thro' life. 
 And left their fair feme to my ain little Wife !
 
 31 
 
 By the ingle at e'en, when mj^ labour is o'er, 
 I draw my chair ben on a nice sanded floor. 
 Then I tell her a tale, or she sings me a sang, 
 And the lang winter nights are to us never lang. 
 While to keep a' things tidy 's the pride o' her life, 
 And I ca' her in rapture my ain little Wife ! 
 
 If there's gloom in her e'e — as a vapoiu' will rise 
 And darken the bluest o' Simmer' blue skies — 
 It stays na sae lang till it quite disappears. 
 Laughed aff by a love-bKnk, or melted in tears, 
 In tears that bring feehngs the sweetest in life, 
 As I clasp to my bosom my ain little Wife ! 
 
 'TIS NOT BY DAY. 
 
 1824. 
 
 'Tis not by da}-, hoAvever bright 
 The beauty of the day may be, 
 
 'Tis in the night, 'tis in the niglit, 
 My holiest musings dwell on Thee !
 
 32 
 
 'Tis true, tliy glorious hand I view 
 In every leaf that greens the tree ; 
 
 And not a floweret blooms in dew, 
 
 But wakes some lovely thought of Thee ! 
 
 'Tis true the mountain soaring high, 
 
 The river rolling to the sea, 
 The blue and boundless stretch of sky — 
 
 Bid the awed spirit turn to Thee. 
 
 But few and brief siich feelings are ; 
 
 From business and from day they flee ; 
 Ten thousand nameless chances jar 
 
 On bosom-chords, though tuned to Thee. 
 
 'Tis in the night, when nought around 
 The ear can hear, the eye can see ; 
 
 "When all seems laid in sleep profound, 
 Except my watching Soul and Thee ; 
 
 'Tis then, my God ! I feel thy power 
 And love, from all distraction free ! 
 
 My couch is Heaven in that high hour ! 
 
 Thou'rt round me — I am wi-apped in Thee !
 
 33 
 
 AVHERE, LOYED ONE! IS THY 
 DWELLING NOW? 
 
 1824. 
 
 [In memory of Miss Sarah Johnson, a fair pupil of mine, who died in her 
 thirteenth year. She was the daughter of the late Thomas Johnson, Esq., 
 of Eshton.l 
 
 Where, loved One ! is thy dwelling now ? 
 
 In scenes where thou wert wont to be, 
 Thy laughing eye, thy open brow, 
 
 Thy syljih-like form no more we see. 
 There's gi'ief around thy father's hearth, 
 Which time shall scarcely change to mii-th ! 
 
 There's weeping in thy father's haU — 
 Its chambers, which so lately rung 
 
 To thy Hght step or lively call. 
 Seem dark as if mth sable hung. 
 
 Too well their gloom declares that thou 
 
 Hast left thy father's dwelling now ! 
 
 When last I looked upon thy face. 
 Thy fair cheek wore a pallid hue ; 
 
 Yet kept thine eye its wonted gi-ace, 
 Ajid wildly free thy dark hair flew. 
 
 E
 
 34 
 
 I little thought whose breath had passed 
 Across thy features like a blast 
 
 I little thought that Death had blown 
 E'en then his sickening breath on thee ! 
 
 I little thought thy glance and tone 
 
 Then spoke and beamed their last for me ! 
 
 My parting word unthinking fell — 
 
 I dreamt not of a last farewell ! 
 
 But the same Moon, whose crescent beam 
 Beheld thee in accustomed bloom, 
 
 Was seen to pour her waning stream 
 Of dewy radiance round thy tomb : 
 
 loveliest and loved One, thou 
 Hast found a darksome dwelling now ! 
 
 1 went to where thy grave was scooped — 
 There children, seeming half to grieve, 
 
 Stood round, in gazing clusters grouped ; 
 
 I saw it, and could scarce believe 
 So dark and damp a cell could be 
 For aught so light and gay as thee ! 
 
 Yet so it was. I saw thee lowered, 
 
 And heard upon thy coffin-lid 
 With heavy sound the dull earth showered, 
 
 Till dust by dust was heaped and hid ;
 
 35 
 
 And looks I marked whose anguish said 
 Life's highest charm with thee was dead ! 
 
 Then fled our fi-ailest and oiir last 
 Illiision — that in which we think, 
 
 While ours the dust whence life has passed, 
 There still is one unshivered link. 
 
 That the grave broke ; and all of thee 
 
 Hath faded to a memory ! 
 
 There was a time when " in thy mirth" 
 Thou archly " bad'st me write on thee ;" 
 
 And now, lost flower of fairest bii-th, 
 ''I write — what thou shalt never see!" 
 
 Alas, how sad a song hath paid 
 
 Bequest scarce thought, and lightly made ! 
 
 But shall my song have mournful close ? 
 
 ! not for thee oui* tears should fall ; 
 Thou art where Spring eternal blows — 
 
 Thou art where God is all in all ! 
 Thine claim our grief ; but, loved One ! thou 
 Hast found a glorious dwelling now !
 
 r>o 
 
 THE WILD THYME STILL BLOSSOMS. 
 
 1824. 
 
 [Homil-heugh is the name of one of the Che\-iot Hills, in the vicinity of 
 "Wooler. At the foot of this mountain was fought the celebrated battle in 
 which Hotspur took Archibald, Earl of Douglas, and many others of the 
 Scottish nobility prisoners. The ultimate consequences of that conflict to 
 the House of Percy, are familiar to every reader of English history and of 
 Shakspeare. The mountain is endeared to me by recollections of a thousand 
 wanderings about it, in company with the subject of this IjTic — John 
 Smith, of Humbleton — the most beloved, as he was the first, of my 
 youthful friends. ] 
 
 The wild thyme still blossoms on green Homil-heiigli, 
 The daisy and crow-flower mingle there still ; 
 
 And the young, as in other years, climb it to view 
 The wanderings bright of the Glen and the TiU. 
 
 But where — where is He who delighted to view 
 
 The charms of that valley from green Homil-heugh. 
 
 Memory ! I need not invoke thee to roU 
 
 Away the dark mists of long years, and to bring 
 
 The light of that time on my sorrowing soul, 
 
 When together we roved in our Manhood's gay 
 spring ; 
 
 Too often, for happiness, pass in review 
 
 The days we have spent upon green Homil-heugh !
 
 37 
 
 How we talked ! as we loitered by dell or by shelf, 
 Or sat on some moss-covered crag in tbe sun — 
 
 We spoke not of station, we 8j)oke not of pelf, 
 
 AVe talked but of Bards and the Glory they won : 
 
 And bright were the hopes — ah, to both how untrue! — • 
 
 Our young bosoms cherished on gi-een Homil-heugh. 
 
 ! Avho could have thought, that beheld the fair 
 dawn — 
 
 Beheld of his Mind the first sjilendour unfurled — 
 That a dark cloud woidd o'er it so shortly be di-awn, 
 
 And its light be for ever eclipsed to the world ? 
 That the harp whose -s^ild strains he so daringly threw 
 So soon would be silent on green Homil-heugh ? 
 
 But 'tis so with all bright things. The rose newly 
 blown 
 Soon withers ; the Sunbeam is quenched in the 
 shower ; 
 The Rainbow just shines on the cloud, and is gone ; 
 The Lightning just flashes, and past is its power. 
 And the soul of my first friend hath vanished like dew 
 From the calm morning side of the gi'een Homil- 
 heugh !
 
 .38 
 
 A]I! WILL THERE A TLAIE COME. 
 
 1824. 
 
 Ah ! T\dll there a time come, when coldly above me 
 
 The earth of the valley I tread shall he laid ; 
 When the tears of the few that now cling to and love 
 
 me, 
 Unheeded shall fall — like the dew in the shade ? 
 
 When each charm, and each change, and each scene 
 it delights me 
 
 To note and remember, to me shall he o'er ; 
 When all that to song or to mnsing invites me, 
 
 To musing or song shall invite me no more ? 
 
 When rainbows o'er green, gleaming landscapes shall 
 brighten, 
 And melody warble from grove and from sky ; 
 When tempests shall howl, or grim thnnder-clonds 
 lighten, 
 And my breast give no throb, and no sparkle my 
 eye?
 
 39 
 
 When Springs shall refreshen the hues of the moun- 
 tain, 
 And Summers be-gem with yoirng blossoms the lea ; 
 And Autumns with red leaves bestrew the chill foun- 
 tain, 
 And white Winters dazzle — unwitnessed by me ? 
 
 So be it ! if, borne on the bright stream of ages, 
 The wreath I have gathered its freshness retain, — 
 
 Nor sink, tiU the chaplets of bards and of sages 
 Alike shall be lost in Eternity's main ! 
 
 BE STILL, MY WILD HEMT. 
 
 1825. 
 
 [On seeing a nu:al dance at Gargrave feast.] 
 
 Be still, my wdld heart ! in that throb there was sin, 
 For each throb of thine is another's by vow ; 
 
 And the maid 'twas my fortune to woo and to win, 
 Was fair as the fairest I look upon now.
 
 40 
 
 As light was her stejj, and as winningly shy 
 Her glances, as any commanding applause ; 
 
 And if a slight change hath come over her — why 
 Should he love her the less who himself is the cause? 
 
 All the rapture of hope — all the pain of suspense — 
 All the charm of pm-suit have been known to my 
 soul ; 
 
 And — crowned — shall I view with an envious sense 
 The pleasures of those that yet strive for the goal ? 
 
 No ! 'twas hut my heart that, ohlivious awhile 
 Leaped back to a time when its pulses were free ; 
 
 But — awakened — its beatings are true to the smile 
 Of Her whose warm heart is devoted to me ! 
 
 SHAKE FROM THEE THAT RAIN-DROP. 
 1825. 
 
 [The " spoiler" in the last stanza was my eldest daughter^then a child of a 
 
 year old.] 
 
 Shake from thee that rain-drop — as pure as dew, 
 And open, sweet violet, thy foldings blue ! 
 For the soft shower is over, the sun from the edge 
 Of the cloud hath streamed out on the young-leaved 
 hedge ;
 
 41 
 
 The song of the blaekbii-d is sweet in the larch ; 
 The sky-lark sings clear on the rainbow's high arch ; 
 The breeze is as gentle as breeze may be, 
 It would sport "ftdth, but never would injure thee ! 
 
 With her varied dress and her soothing hum, 
 To thee fi'om afar hath the ^nild bee come ; 
 She hath bent thy stalk — she hath dashed the rain 
 From thy head — and thy leaves expand again ; 
 And the blended perfumes which spread all around, 
 Ai'ise from the herbs of the moistened ground, 
 From sweet-brier bush, and from hawthorn-tree, 
 Are forgot in the fragi'ance exhaling from thee ! 
 
 The bee hath departed to other bowers, 
 
 To himi and to banquet on other flowers. 
 
 But a siu'er spoiler now is nigh, 
 
 With a rose-bright cheek, and a star-bright eye, 
 
 With hair Hke the sunbeams, and lips — but I pause, 
 
 For a father's pencil the portrait draws ; 
 
 Enough, that no lovelier hand can be. 
 
 Than the dear little hand that now seizes thee !
 
 42 
 
 MAEK, ELLEN, HOW FAIE. 
 
 1826. 
 
 Maek, Ellen, how fair on tlie wild-brier bush 
 
 The last single blossom appears ! 
 A rose of September, that ventures to blush 
 
 Where nothing defends it or cheers. 
 Though the sim be o'erclouded, the breezes be chill, 
 
 And though bitter showers o'er it have passed, 
 Round the green boughs that bear it — defying each 
 
 m— 
 
 Its balm and its beauty are cast ! 
 
 And seems it not, Ellen, as lonely it blooms, 
 
 Like the last of our fair summer friends. 
 Who clings to us still, though the atmosphere glooms, 
 
 And the tempest in fuiy descends ? 
 Yet it cannot, my love, be an emblem of thee : 
 
 When my youth and my fortime are past. 
 Thy love shall survive, and o'er life's withered tree 
 
 Its balm and its beauty be cast !
 
 43 
 
 I GANG FEAE THEE. 
 
 1826. 
 
 [I was musing on Northumberland, and humming the air of MacncU's song- 
 of " The Way for to Woo," when the last half stanza of the follo^ving Ij^ic 
 came spontaneously, as it were, and adapted itself to the music. I 
 thought it good enough to deserve an introduction, which is correct in 
 feeling, though not entirely so in fact. ] 
 
 I GANG frae tliee, gang- frae thee sadly, 
 Dear land where a bau-uie I played ; 
 I gang frae thee, gang frae thee sadly, 
 Dear land where my manhood has strayed. 
 And here in a last look — if tears wiU but let me — 
 I'U bear wi' me far a Strang picture o' thee ; 
 And go where I may, I will never forget thee, 
 The bonniest lands 'ill kythe barren to me. 
 
 Through vales where my fate bids me wander. 
 
 The streams may flow on wi' mair pride, 
 But nae charm wiU they hae, when I ponder. 
 The charms o' my ain Beaiunont-Side. 
 When wave their green woods in the dews o' the 
 morning, 
 I'U think o' the lang broom that yellows yon glen ; 
 
 When they talk o' theii' high hills and brag o' them 
 scorning, 
 
 I'U think o' the Cheviots, and scorn them again.
 
 44 
 
 My heart lias been lang cauld to beauty — 
 
 My first, only love lies in clay I 
 And I canna allow it a duty, 
 
 My breast that another should sway. 
 And yet, did I wander the -nide warl' ever, 
 
 I should ne'er meet wi' forms nor vri' faces to peer 
 The clean cottage maids that ted hay by yon river, 
 Or lighten the hairst-field wi' laugh and wi' jeer. 
 
 Fareweel to thee, land o' my childhood ! 
 
 When far frae thv beauties I dee, 
 My last wish, dear land o' my childhood, 
 Shall rise for a blessing on thee — 
 "Healthy," I'll cry, "gush thy streams frae their 
 fountains, 
 Bii'ds in thy broomy glens sing the lang day, 
 Lambs bleat alang the green sides o' thy moimtains. 
 And lasses bleach claes by ilk bonnie burn-brae!" 
 
 BEAUMONT SIDE. 
 1826. 
 
 (On Lanton Hill, as on Howsden, I kept sheep when a bo5-. It, too, over- 
 looks the Beaumont.) 
 
 Beaumont Side ! — The banks of Aire 
 Before that flash of memory fade ; 
 
 And Lanton Hills are towering there, 
 With Newton's vale beneath them laid.
 
 45 
 
 There wave tlie very roclv-sprimg trees 
 My curious youth with wonder eyed, 
 
 And here the long broom scents the hreieze — 
 The yellow broom of Beaumont Side ! 
 
 On these hill-tops, at break of day, 
 
 My feet have brushed the pearly dew, 
 And I have marked the dawn-star's ray 
 
 Lost in the orient's kindling blue ; 
 Then turned to see each neighbouring height 
 
 In Morning's rosy splendoiu'S dyed, — 
 While mists ascending, calm and white, 
 
 Disclosed the banks of Beaumont Side. 
 
 No passion then — and unpursued 
 
 The phantom hopes of Love and Fame ; 
 My breast, with piety imbued. 
 
 Admitted — knew — no other flame. 
 The hill, the stream, the flower, the tree. 
 
 The wandering cloud, and ether wide — • 
 All spoke of glorious things to me. 
 
 The lonely Boy of Beaumont Side ! 
 
 For then, as yet untaught to scoff 
 
 At all my simple sires believed, 
 I had not joined the Scorner's laugh. 
 
 Nor night instead of day received.
 
 46 
 
 Amid yon broom, my Bihle dear, 
 And David's harp my joy and pride, 
 
 I felt as Angels hovered near — 
 
 Was half in heaven on Beaumont Side ! 
 
 But shadows dim the sunniest hill, 
 
 And dark thoughts o'er my spirit sped — 
 For yonder lay the churchyard still, 
 
 With all its time-collected dead. 
 And ! to me it seemed so sad 
 
 For ages in the grave to 'bide. 
 No breeze to blow, no sun to glad ! — 
 
 My tears fell fast on Beaumont Side. 
 
 " Why weep, fond Boy ?" a kind voice said, 
 
 " 'Tis but the shell that wastes in earth." 
 I dashed away the tear just shed, 
 
 And knew me of immortal birth ! 
 — I ask not Glory's cup to di'ain, 
 
 I ask not Wealth's unebbing tide ! 
 for the Ijwocence again 
 
 My young heart knew on Beaumont Side !
 
 47 
 
 THE rOET'S HOME. 
 
 1828. 
 
 [On taking possession of a new house in Gargrave.] 
 
 'Scaped from a Hut, much too poetic, 
 
 Where, plpng still his art mimetic, 
 
 Sir Spicier sits, and looMng after 
 
 His prey, hangs webs jfrom wall to rafter — 
 
 Where he and I, with like enjoyment, 
 
 PiU'sued a similar employment, 
 
 That is, both lurked, with few to see us, 
 
 He to catch flies, and I ideas, 
 
 Which, caught, (to bear the semblance fiu'ther) 
 
 From bard and insect suffered murther. 
 
 — 'Scaped from that House to one much neater, 
 
 Much loftier, roomier, and completer, 
 
 (Heaven grant my Landlord cent, per cent. 
 
 H he will not enlarge my rent !) 
 
 I sit — a reeking glass before me — 
 
 A family round that half adore me — 
 
 And number up, Avith mind at ease, 
 
 The items of my premises.
 
 48 
 
 And, first, I have a house — to liiteli in 
 A rli>Tne, 't-svere better styled a Utchen — 
 Where in my week-day dress I sit, 
 Laugh at my -^ife, and show my wit. 
 The walls yet sparkle to my lamp — 
 May heaven protect us from the damp ! 
 But if it must destroy one life, 
 Suppose, just now, it take my wife- 
 Well, free again. I chat and rove 
 With Beauty in the moonlight grove, 
 Till my heart dances to the tune 
 Sweet of a second Honey Moon. 
 
 'Tis a most pleasant thought ! But stay ; 
 
 Suppose it just the other way — 
 Suppose it sj)ares my loving wife. 
 And takes her loving husband's life, 
 And, further, that another swain 
 Assumes the matrimonial rein, 
 And drives the team I drive at present — 
 By Jove ! this thought is not so jileasant. 
 
 I have a scullery, where, each Monday 
 That comes to sweep the dirt of Sunday, 
 Finds Ellen, not in best of moods, 
 Plashing among her frothing suds, 
 While cock or spigot hoiu-ly squirts 
 The water for the Poet's shii-ts.
 
 49 
 
 I have a cellar — not a deep one, 
 
 But yet of depth, enough to keep one 
 
 A cask or two of gin, or whisky, 
 
 "Which rh}Tiaes to what it makes us — frisky. 
 
 My Parlour next the verse demands, 
 
 A portrait o'er the chimney stands, 
 
 But whose ? Why mine — by country artist 
 
 Ta'en when the Bard was at the smartest, 
 
 That is, when in his wedding dress — 
 
 And if these tints his face express. 
 
 By Phoebus' head ! I cannot think 
 
 The bard is any common drink. 
 
 There's a calm sparkle in the eye, 
 
 That speaks somewhat of dignity ; 
 
 A musing lip ; a whisker tight ; 
 
 A forehead not amiss for height. 
 
 It lacks in breath — but this is stuff; 
 
 For I have witnessed oft enough 
 
 A broader and a loftier sconce 
 
 O'ertop the eyebrows of a dunce. 
 
 But I digress. For one or two. 
 
 My parlour, though but small, will do ; 
 
 Especially when Ellen's hand 
 
 Sets on the board the spirit-stand, 
 
 Each bright decanter filled with liquor, 
 
 To toast my Landlord and the Yicar ; 
 
 Or, if a loyal mood it bring. 
 
 Old England's patriotic King. 
 
 G
 
 50 
 
 Now, reader, walk up stairs — but hope 
 Thou not the first-seen door to ope. 
 The next expand. My girls in this 
 Dream every night their dreams of bliss, 
 These snowy curtains round them spread — ■ 
 Two fames in a fairy bed ! 
 The third and last, which — ^half in jest 
 In earnest half — we style the best, 
 Serves but the hospitable end, 
 To lodge a stranger or a friend. 
 Did Mitchell* leave the Tyne's fair side, 
 Or GoiTELEY f from the Wansbeck ride, 
 Or Hall, I with eloquence at will, 
 Come from the borders of the Till, — 
 This chamber should receive, and steep 
 Their senses in delicious sleep ! 
 
 I have a garden — 'tis but small — 
 Surrounded by a six-feet wall : 
 Its walks fuU trim with box and gravel. 
 On which the nicest foot might travel. 
 'Tis dark and bare — ^but come in Spring, 
 These elms shall then no shadow fling ! 
 These walls with blossom clothed shall be 
 By many an autumn-planted tree ; 
 While many a garden flower smiles by, 
 To lixre the bee and butterfly ! 
 
 * Mitchf U — the editor of the Newcastle Magazine. + Gourley— master of 
 the Corporation School, Morpeth, t Hall — the dissenting-mioister of Crook- 
 ham. — All good-hearted men, and all now under the t\u-f.
 
 51 
 
 Such my new Residence ; and jet 
 It was with, something like regret 
 I left the old one ! — There, I've been 
 For years contented and serene ; 
 There bloomed my girls — the damps it shed 
 Ne'er turned to pale their cherub red ; 
 And there my rapt and musing eye, 
 Touched by the glamour, Poesy ! 
 Hath ta'en its rude and ochre' d wall 
 For one belonging princely haU, 
 And every cobweb's waving fold 
 For cloth of silver or of gold ! 
 Yes ! it is certain, that the bard 
 To house or hall pays light regard. 
 Where'er he dwelleth — be his roof 
 Pervious to storm or tempest-proof — 
 There throng the shapes his magic raised, 
 There bend the forms his songs have praised, 
 Unseen by all but him, they come, 
 Brighten his light, or gild his gloom — 
 And, blest Avith these, the same his lot, 
 "Whether in Castle or in Cot !
 
 52 
 
 THERE'S A DARK EOUR COMING. 
 
 1828. 
 
 [Beflecting on the fate of poor John S , of Humbleton. His love was a 
 
 Miss H , of "Wooler, and to her I conceived he might have thus ad- 
 dressed himself.] 
 
 There's a dark hour coming, 
 
 WMch thou, so kind and dear, 
 In all thy beauty blooming, 
 
 Shalt fail to charm or cheer ! 
 The shade it casts before it. 
 
 Its very shade is di-ear — 
 And my soul as it comes o'er it. 
 
 Feels a deep, prophetic fear ! 
 There's a dark hour coming ! 
 
 The honour oft applauded, 
 
 The heart aU truth to thee, 
 The genius men have lauded 
 
 Will soon be lost in me. 
 A star at once o'erclouded. 
 
 Whose beam was fair to see — 
 The sun in darkness shrouded — 
 
 ! nought can emblem be 
 Of the dark hour coming !
 
 53 
 
 Its charm when friendship loses, 
 
 When love is felt no more ; 
 When glory and the Muses 
 
 Have seen their influence o'er ; 
 When I view with hate or terror 
 
 The friends I loved before, 
 When my laugh they hear with horror 
 
 And, unthanked, my state deplore, — 
 ! that dark hour's coming ! 
 
 OXE APEIL MOM. 
 
 1828. 
 
 [Rofltlam Dean was the " valley"— not properly so called— that " bloomed 
 before me."] 
 
 One April morn I musing lay, 
 
 My eyelids closed "without my knowing — 
 Above me was a sky-lark gay. 
 
 Beside me was a streamlet flowing. 
 
 That bu'd seemed just the very bird 
 In mine own land that caroled o'er me ! 
 
 That streamlet's voice the same I heard 
 When one sweet valley bloomed before me.
 
 54 
 
 I started — to my feet I sprung 
 As if to fiad my former world ; 
 
 — 'Twas but a Craven bird that sung, 
 'Twas but a Craven stream that pui-led ! 
 
 REPLY TO AN EPISTLE FROM 
 MR. GOURLEY. 
 
 1828. 
 
 {Mr. Goiirley, already mentioned in a note, was a self-taught mathematician, 
 and a thirty years' intimate friend and correspondent of mine.) 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Your favom' reached me duly, 
 For which, of course, I thank you truly, 
 And now address me to the task 
 Of answering all you kindly ask. 
 
 " How are you ?" Well. " And how your 
 
 wife?" 
 Never was better in her life. 
 " Thank Grod ! But for another query. 
 Your children, how?" Alive and merry.
 
 55 
 
 "Prolonged be every pure enjoyment! 
 
 And now, what is the Bard's employment? 
 
 Spends he his time, as usual, gaily ? 
 
 Or, settled to a plodder daily, 
 
 Centres his every scheme in self, 
 
 His only object grasping pelf? 
 
 Is Poesy his loved pursuit ? 
 
 And if so, when will come the Fruit ? 
 
 The Blossoms ^ lived a single day 
 
 Then passed — like other flowers — away. 
 
 Say will the Fruit, when gathered, cheer 
 Our banquets for at least a year ? 
 How stand your politics ? I know it. 
 The politics of genuine poet 
 May with propriety be ta'en 
 Eather as light whims of the brain, 
 Than principles by labour wrought 
 Prom the deep mine of soHd Thought. 
 But do you stand a red-hot tory ? 
 Or, floating with the tide, will Story 
 Seek (to adopt the day's expression) 
 The calmer harbour of concession ? 
 Your thoughts, opinions, freely state' em." 
 Then, here they follow seriatim. 
 
 Pirst, of employment I've enough. 
 Of avocations quantum svff. 
 
 * A small collection of poems entitled "Craven Blossoms."
 
 56 
 
 Like Goldsmith's juggler, when one trick 
 Begins to make the public sick, 
 I'm able from my treasured store. 
 To try them with a huncb'ed more. 
 And sooth to tell without dissembling 
 I sometimes see with fear and trembling 
 The likelihood, in sj)ite of all 
 My hundred tricks, of sudden fall ; 
 And envy, in my di-ead of failiu-e. 
 The destiny of common Tailor ! 
 
 You long have known me " skilled to rvile," 
 
 As master of a village school. 
 
 A useful post, but thankless still — 
 
 Of which the ancients thought so ill, 
 
 They held the man to whom 'twas given, 
 
 An object of the wrath of heaven. 
 
 — By fools beset, by idiots judged, 
 
 His pains despised, his payments grudged, 
 
 Rivalled by things, whom juster doom 
 
 Had placed in farm-yard or at loom, 
 
 (For 'tis as true as parsons preach 
 
 That men who ne'er were taught, can teach !) 
 
 Hard is his lot, to own the truth. 
 
 Condemned to train our rising youth. 
 
 Yet even in this pictvu-e dark 
 
 The eye some streaks of light may mark — 
 
 The common mob, whose grovelling natui-e 
 
 Would for Hj'perion choose a Satyr,
 
 57 
 
 By loftier mind or station awed, 
 Will sometimes properly applaud, 
 Following, like sheep, the judging few — 
 And lucky Merit gets his due. 
 
 Learn, next, that I am Parish Clerk — 
 
 A noble office, by St. Mark ! 
 
 It brings me in six guineas clear, 
 
 Besides et ceteras, every year. 
 
 I waive my Sunday duty, when 
 
 I give the solemn, deep Amen, 
 
 Exalted there to breathe aloud 
 
 The heart-devotion of the ci*owd. 
 
 But the fun ! when Christmas-chimes 
 
 Have ushered in the festal times, 
 
 And sent the Clerk and Sexton round 
 
 To pledge their friends in di'aughts profound. 
 
 And keep on foot the good old plan, 
 
 As only Clerk and Sexton can ! 
 
 Nor less the sport, when Easter sees ; 
 
 The daisy spring to deck the leas ; 
 
 Then, claimed as dues by Mother Church, 
 
 I pluck the cackler from the perch ; 
 
 Or, in its place, the shilling clasp 
 
 From grumbling Dame's slow-opening grasp. 
 
 But, Visitation-day ! 'tis thine 
 Best to deserve my votive line — 
 Great Day ! the purest, brightest gem. 
 That decks the Year's fair diadem !
 
 58 
 
 Grand Day ! that sees me costless dine, 
 And costless quaff the rosy wine, 
 Till seven Church- wardens doubled seem, 
 And doubled every candle's gleam, 
 And I — triumphant over time. 
 And over tune, and over rhyme — 
 Called by the gay, convivial throng. 
 Lead, in full glee, the choral song ! 
 — I love thee, brandy, on my soul ; 
 And, rum, thou'rt precious in the bowl ; 
 "Whisky is dear, because it tells 
 Of the bright dew of Scottish fells ; 
 But nought commands the poet's praise 
 Like wine — for which the Parish pays ! 
 
 For Song — 'tis still my loved j)ursuit, 
 And you shall soon possess the Fruit. 
 But whether it will keep, to cheer 
 Your banquets for a month, or year. 
 Let time decide — or sages pure 
 That sentence give on literatiu'e. 
 — Critics in every age have tried 
 The endless question to decide 
 Of "What is Poetry ?" and stiU 
 It busies many a learned quill. 
 Poets themselves, seduced to quit 
 Theu' high and native walks of wit, 
 Have stooped to cramp and to confine.
 
 59 
 
 In school-taught terms, their Art Di\'ine, — 
 
 When they had best performed their part, 
 
 And honoured most their glorious art, 
 
 By pointing out some passage, fraught 
 
 With Taste, ■n'ith Genius, and with Thought, 
 
 Where heart, and soid, and fancy give 
 
 Their mingKng hues to glow and live — 
 
 And saying : ' ' Find who will the why, 
 
 Bvit this, we feel, is Poetry." 
 
 Thus I, who little heed the rules 
 
 By critics made for rhyming fools. 
 
 Have formed, though o'er my second bottle, 
 
 As sure a test as Ai-istotle — 
 
 Read Shakspeare's glowing iDage to see 
 
 What is undoubted poetry ; 
 
 And then this paragraph^ God wot, 
 
 If you would see — what it is not. 
 
 My Harp was made from stunted tree, 
 
 The growth of Glendale's barest lea ; 
 
 Yet fresh as prouder stems it grew, 
 
 Aud cli-ank, with leaf as green, the dew ; 
 
 Bright showers, from Till or Beaumont shed, 
 
 Its roots with needfid moisture fed ; 
 
 Gay birds, Northumbrian skies that wing, 
 
 Amid its branches loved to sing ; 
 
 And purple Cheviot's breezy air 
 
 Kept up a life-like quivering there.
 
 60 
 
 From Harp thence framed, and rudely strung, 
 
 Can auglit but lowly strain be flung ? 
 
 No ! if, ambition led, I dream 
 
 Of striking it to lofty theme, 
 
 All harshly jar its tortured chords 
 
 As plaining such should be its lord's ; 
 
 But all its sweetness waketh still 
 
 To lay of Border stream or hill ! 
 
 To Ceaven's emerald dales transferred, 
 That simple Harp with praise is heard. 
 The manhest sons, the loveliest daughters 
 That flourish by the Aire's young waters, 
 By hurrying Ribble's verdant side. 
 And by the Wharf's impetuous tide. 
 Laud its wild strains. And, for this cause, 
 "While throbs my breast to kind applause — 
 Nay, when, beneath the turf laid low, 
 No kind applause my breast can know, 
 The Poet's blessing, heart-bequeathed. 
 O'er thy domains, green Craven ! breathed, 
 ShaR be to every hill and plain 
 Like vernal dew, or summer rain. 
 And stay with thee, while bud or bell 
 Decks lowland mead or upland fell ! 
 
 Thus have I scribbled on, my friend, 
 Till Ellen hints 'tis time to end ; 
 My nails worn to the quick with gnawing, 
 My caput sore with — with — with clawing.
 
 61 
 
 (What words we bards are forced, at times, 
 
 To press into the corps of rhymes !) 
 
 My conscience, how the quizzer laughs ! 
 
 During the last two paragraphs. 
 
 These symptoms, as poetic known, 
 
 She says have quite outrageous grown ; 
 
 And threatens or to quench my taper, 
 
 O'erturn my ink, or burn my paper. 
 
 So to prevent these doings rude, 
 
 I think it better to conclude, 
 
 And aught unanswered or perplexed, 
 
 To clear and answer in my next. 
 
 Meantime I wish you Peace — Love — Glory ! 
 
 And am, 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 EOBEET STOEY.
 
 G2 
 
 TWENTY YEARS PAETED. 
 1828. 
 
 [My father, in his grave, is supposed to address my mother— just laid beside 
 him.] 
 
 Twenty years parted, 
 
 Thoiigli forty years tried, 
 And found still true-hearted — 
 
 Return to my side ! 
 And quiet and deep 
 Shall be thy long sleep 
 A\Tiere the heart is at rest, and the tear is dried ! 
 
 From trials and woes 
 
 That so long have been thine, 
 
 Come, taste the repose 
 
 Which the grave hath made mine — 
 
 And quiet and deep 
 
 Shall be thy long sleep 
 Where no blast ever comes, if no sunbeam shine ! 
 
 With want, one long strife 
 
 'Twas our lot to maintain. 
 Till we quitted a life 
 
 Undisgraced by a stain ;
 
 63 
 
 But quiet and deep 
 Shall be oui* long sleep, 
 Till the last Morn's dawn see us wake a^ain ! 
 
 BEEATHE, BREzVTIIE ON MY IIEAKT. 
 
 1829. 
 
 [On revisiting Roddam Dean . ] 
 
 Breathe, breathe on my heart, breathe on my 
 heart, 
 
 Ye flowers of a valley so loved of yore ! 
 I come but to gaze — but to gaze and depart. 
 
 And I ask ye the pulse of my youth to restore ! 
 For my heart is so languid, so weary, so low, 
 So dry, and so withered ! — But breathe as ye blow, 
 Your beauty into it — cool — dewy — and Oh ! 
 
 It will waken to all its old feelings once more. 
 
 "Breathe, breathe on my heart, sweet crow-flower, 
 breathe. 
 As thou streakest the turf with the gold of thy 
 bloom ! 
 And ye, purple blossoms, that gem the dark heath, 
 freshen my soul with your mountain perfume !
 
 64 
 
 The primrose hath, vanished ; the violet too, 
 Hath passed from the walk with its leaflets of blue ; 
 And of aU the gay blossoms of broomwood, but few 
 Remain with their hght in the glen's verdant gloom. 
 
 "Yet breathe on my heart, ye lingerers, breathe ! 
 
 Ye have rapture within your moist foldings for me ! 
 And thou, stately fox-glove, thyseK a bright wi-eath 
 
 Of blossoms the lovehest, I call upon thee ; 
 From thy string of sweet bells — a most fairy-Hke 
 
 string — 
 The soft, silent music of beauty fling ! 
 It will enter my heart like a song in the spring — 
 
 The first that is poured from the fresh-budding tree ! 
 
 " Breathe, breathe on my heart, wild thyme of the 
 hill. 
 
 That lovest to bloom on the verge of the glen ! 
 Breathe, every sweet floweret befringing the riU, 
 
 Or namelessly starring the green of the fen ! 
 But chiefly, ye roses, profusely that flaunt. 
 Ye woodbines, that welcome me back to my haunt, 
 The charm and the perfume of other years grant — 
 
 breathe on my heart as ye breathed on it then !" 
 
 I stood, as I spoke, on the brow of the dell, 
 
 AVhere oft I had loitered in long vanished years ; 
 
 And here waved the forest, and there rose the feU, 
 Which the songs of my youth had described without 
 peers !
 
 65 
 
 The flowers I apostrophised, over me cast 
 The sweets they had shed in the bright summers past, 
 And, o'ercome by the reflux of feeling at last, 
 I sank on the tnrf, and bedewed it with tears ! 
 
 THE DEAD STOOD BY. 
 1830. 
 
 [The " two youthful friends" in the following stanzas, were William 
 Thompson, a fellow-reuper in the fields of Roddam, and John Smith, of 
 Humbleton. The " lovely vision" was Jcanie Kennedy, of Keveley, on 
 the Brcamish. ] 
 
 The Dead stood by my couch last night ! 
 
 (The H\ing of another sphere !) 
 And my raised spii-it, at the sight, 
 
 Felt nmch of awe, but nought of fear ; 
 Por though, e'en in my dream, I knew 
 
 Immortal Forms bent o'er my bed, 
 They were so like themselves ! the true — 
 
 The fair — the reverenced ! — Could I dread ? 
 
 So like themselves ! and yet they had 
 A look they wore not when alive — 
 
 It was not stern, it was not sad, 
 
 Though sternness seemed with gi-ief to strive.
 
 66 
 
 It was a mournful seriousness — 
 A pity grave — most like the air 
 
 Which., when compassion they express, 
 We deem an Angel's eyes may wear ! 
 
 A tall old man stood next my face — 
 
 Well in his thin, dark, furrowed cheek, 
 And forehead mild, my soul could trace 
 
 The features loved in childhood weak. 
 I thought on the paternal cot — 
 
 The cii'cle roujid its evening flame — 
 And my lips moved, bvit murmured not — 
 
 I could not speak my Father's name ! 
 
 Two youthful Friends beside him stood, 
 
 Whom early death had snatched away ; 
 The one — of those who humbly good, 
 
 Seek the mild virtues to disj)lay. 
 He moved in no eccentric course, 
 
 Allured by Passion or by Pride ; 
 He knew no vice, felt no remorse, 
 
 But meekly lived, and calmly died. 
 
 The other — how different He ! 
 
 Him Grenius cherished as a son ; 
 Th' unfading wreath of Poesy 
 
 He looked on as already won.
 
 67 
 
 Through \inti*ied regions phiined to range, 
 His muse had just essayed to fly, 
 
 When he exchanged — a gTeat exchange ! — 
 Grlory on earth, for bliss on high. 
 
 A once-loved Form stood next and last, 
 
 A lovely \Tsion — pure — and still — 
 Whose li"vdng charms had all surpassed 
 
 That bloomed by Breamish or by Till. 
 She seemed no fairer than of old, — 
 
 But then there was o. fixedness 
 Of beauty on her cheek, that told 
 
 It never could be more — or less ! 
 
 My very heart within me yearned 
 
 To see these \asitants divine ; 
 Nor was it long before I learned 
 
 Their spirits held discourse with mine ! 
 There was no word, or turn of eye ; 
 
 Upon my ear no music stole ; 
 But yet there was communion high — 
 
 The silent talk of soul ■with soul ! 
 
 My past career they marked -with blame, 
 Its thoughtless faults, its deeper crimes ; 
 
 They bade me quit the race of Fame, 
 And run for nobler prize than Time's.
 
 68 
 
 "The fame," tliey said, "by man bestowed, 
 Fills not the high immortal soul ; 
 
 The glorious wreath conferred by God, 
 
 Shall bloom — when earth has ceased to roll ! 
 
 " Death is at hand — that throwing down 
 
 Of barriers which the soul confine — 
 When the pure heart shaU. gain a crown : 
 
 "Why not that heavenly crown be thine ? 
 By prayer — by prayer — unfile thy heart, 
 
 And join us in eternity ! — 
 For ! retain this truth — Tiiou art, 
 
 Ajo) k^eveb canst thou cease to be !"* 
 
 • These words form the moral of "The Pelican. Island"— the finest of 
 all the fine poems of James Montgomery. 
 
 " Thou art, and thou canst never cease to be !
 
 GO 
 
 WOMAN, FAIK WOMAJ[. 
 
 1830. 
 
 "WoMAX, fair Woman, thou breakest ou man 
 
 As the da-wn of a bright summer day 
 Shines forth on a vapour uncoloured and wan, 
 
 And kindles it up by its ray — 
 Till quite metamorphosed, it rests in the sky, 
 
 A radiant and piu-iiied thing — 
 And meet, as it seemeth to Fancy's bold eye, 
 
 An Angel to lure on the wing ! 
 
 Woman, fair Woman, thou breakest on man. 
 
 Like that summer da■^^^l beaming above, 
 And man is that vapour uncoloured and wan. 
 
 Till touched and ilhimed by thy love. 
 Then, changed and enkindled, he glows in thine eye, 
 
 From all that degraded him free — 
 High-thoughted, and pure as the cloud in the sky, 
 
 Yet wishing no Angel but Thee !
 
 70 
 
 •f- IT IS SAVEET TO PERCEIVE. 
 1831. 
 
 It is sweet to perceive the fii-st efforts of Spring ; 
 
 To watch the buds tenderly, timidly ope ; 
 To feel at one's heart the piu-e freshness they bring", 
 
 Till the languid heart leaps to the promise of Hope ! 
 Of sj)ring talks yon blue sky, of spring this green land, 
 
 Of spring the gay warblings these valleys that fiU — • 
 Sweet proof that the Mighty Ai-tificer's hand 
 
 Impels the machine of the imiverse still ! 
 
 God ! dost thou not rule in the armies of heaven ? 
 
 Thy impulse the stars in their coiu'ses obey ; 
 The lightnings themselves, when the dark cloud is riven 
 
 Flash fate as thou biddest, or harmlessly play ! 
 And hast thou relinquished the cui-b and control 
 
 Of man ? Hath thy government ceased from the 
 world ? 
 Then whence this imquietness, madness of soul ? 
 
 And why are those ensigns of battle unfurled ? 
 
 ! with the strong voice that can still the wild sea, 
 Sjjeak peace to the hearts and the passions of men! 
 
 With the power that hath bidden the winter-clouds flee 
 Let the simshine of joy gild their dwellings agaia !
 
 71 
 
 And with the soft breath that awakens the sprmg, 
 Breathe over the mind of the nations, Lord ! 
 
 That genuine freedom which comes not from king-, 
 Nor is won, or destroyed, by the conqueror's sword! 
 
 But if, for some purpose inscrutable. Thou 
 
 Wilt see over Europe wild Anarchy burst, 
 ! let not my country her honoured neck bow 
 
 To the yoke of that Despot — the vilest — the worst ! 
 Give wisdom to guard our old strengths that have stood 
 
 The beatings of time, as her rocks the rude sea, 
 And Albion shall ever o'erlook the blue flood. 
 
 The fii-st of the nations — the Isle of the Free ! 
 
 0! BLEST IS THE HEARTH. 
 1832. 
 
 Blest is the hearth, and delightful the home 
 
 Where Honour and Virtue preside ; 
 Where the Husband's as kind as the youthful Bride- 
 groom, 
 
 And the Wife is -as fond as the Bride !
 
 71i 
 
 Tlimxgh the Lloom may be fading that lived on her 
 cheek, 
 
 And the fire of his glance may be colder, 
 The MixD still is there, true affection to speak, 
 
 And the mind never grows any older ! 
 
 THE FEW CORN FIELDS. 
 
 [These lines ivcro addressed to Margaret, or, as I liked better to call her, 
 Peggy lUchrirdson, a young and prettj' girl of Caldcr, on the Roddam 
 estate, with whom I reaped more than one harvest, and who was the 
 heroine of a juvenile poem of mine.] 
 
 The few corn-fields that Craven sees 
 Like patches on her landscape green, 
 
 "Wave yellow now in snn and breeze, 
 Inviting out the sickle keen. 
 
 But who the sickle bears afield ? 
 
 I see no fair and youthful band, 
 The peaceful weapon promjit to Avield, 
 
 And clear — with mii-th — the waving land.
 
 A single reaper — (past belief!) 
 Plies awkwardly his lonely toil ; 
 
 He makes the band, he binds the sheaf, 
 And rears the shock — A^ithout a smile ! 
 
 Yet e'en this sight of single field 
 And single reaper, brings to me 
 
 A mood to which I like to jdeld — 
 A dream of Eoddam fields and thee. 
 
 On Roddam's harvest land, who now 
 Bid the hot day unheeded fly ? 
 
 Is there a Maiden fair as thou ? 
 Is there a Lover fond as I ? 
 
 Dost recollect — when, side by side, 
 'Twas oiirs to lead the jovial band — 
 
 "With what delight, and heart-felt pride, 
 I saw thee grace my dexter hand ! 
 
 Dost recollect — 'mid sickles' jar — 
 
 How rang, at jests, the laughter-chorus? 
 
 Our line, the while, extending far, 
 And di-iving half a field before us ! 
 
 Dost recollect, at resting-time. 
 
 Announced by Roddam's village clock, 
 
 (Methinks e'en now I hear the chime!) 
 The squeeze beside the yellow shock ? 
 
 K
 
 74 
 
 Dost recollect, wlien evening came, 
 The dance got up with, ready glee ? 
 
 How active grew each wearied frame ! 
 How lightly then I dance^ with thee. 
 
 Dost recollect — when half asleep 
 
 Thy mother and thy grumbling sire — 
 
 The pleasant watch we used to keep 
 Por hours beside the smothered fire ? 
 
 For e'en the fair Moon's radiance pure, 
 That trembled through the window blue, 
 
 Along the cottage furniture 
 
 Too strong a light — for lovers — threw. 
 
 But where art thou ? and where am I ? 
 
 And Eoddam's corn-fields, where are they ? 
 Ah ! where the days when thou wert nigh, 
 
 The rainbow of my darkest day ? 
 
 For fair thou wert ; though ne'er, perchance, 
 So fair as my young fancy drew thee ; — 
 
 I see, e'en yet, the roguish glance 
 
 That linked my captive heart unto thee ! 
 
 And when I think of thee, I scarce 
 Can think of thee as differing aught 
 
 From her who once inspired my verse — ■ 
 Though in myself a change is wrought.
 
 T5 
 
 The reaper's part that once I bore 
 Untu'ed, I could not bear again ; 
 
 And did thy sire make fast the door, 
 I could not enter at the pane. 
 
 The toilsome day wotdd slowly pass ; 
 
 Keflection nought covild bring but woe ; 
 And for the evening dance, alas ! 
 
 One Scottish reel would make me blow. 
 
 Suppose us met in Roddam field — 
 I verging to my fortieth year, 
 
 And thou not far behind — to wield, 
 As once we did, the sickle clear. 
 
 We could not choose but laugh — or weep ; 
 
 The last would be my first employment, 
 To feel emotions — long asleep — 
 
 Ee-wakening but to past enjoyment ? 
 
 Is that the hand I loved to grasp ? 
 
 Thine cannot be that cheek so wan ! 
 Nor thine that waist ! I used to clasp 
 
 A waist that my two hands could span ! 
 
 Alas ! the truth we might have known, 
 But would not, flashes on us now — 
 
 That YOUTH MUST FLY ; for it hath flown, 
 And ceased to love have I and thou !
 
 70 
 
 On Roddam fields another race 
 
 The part we took of old, have ta'en ; 
 
 They toil — or toy — in each dear place 
 That ne'er shall meet our glance again? 
 
 Thus when a l^oy on Beaumont Side, 
 (A scene that is not strange to thee) 
 
 I saw the heath-bloom in its pride 
 Bend to the kiss of mountain bee : 
 
 And bees and blooms, no doubt, are rife 
 By Beaumont still ; l)ut never — never — 
 
 ♦Shall those I saw in earlv life 
 
 Be seen again by that sweet river ! 
 
 — ^Well ; time does but to us award 
 The fate by millions felt before ; 
 
 And / am Roddams youthful hard. 
 Thou Calder s fairest Jlotver no more !
 
 77 
 AGAIN THE SWEETEST SEASON. 
 
 1832. 
 
 Agats the sweetest season wakes, 
 Again the bud is on the tree — 
 
 A sight, my Ellen, which it makes 
 Me pleased and sad at once, to see. 
 
 " I feel the joy which Nature feels, 
 As in my youth's departed prime ; 
 
 I feel — what every shrub reveals — • 
 The tender beauty of the time. 
 
 "But ah! to think — while Nature keeps 
 All unimpau'ed her mighty power, 
 
 Clothing as richly plains and steei)s 
 As in the earth's primeval hovu' — 
 
 *' To think that I, if natural length 
 Of years withhold me from the urn, 
 
 With feebler pulse and waning strongtli, 
 Must hail each future spring's return ! 
 
 " To think that, laid at last in clay. 
 No more for me shall earth be clad 
 
 In all the young spring's fresh array — 
 My sj)irit sinks, and I am sad !
 
 78 
 
 Prompt was my Ellen's kind reply 
 To check the low, despondent strain : 
 
 '^ Nay, for a smile exchange that sigh," 
 She said, *' and triumph, not complain 
 
 *< Spring-flowers are types of human bliss, 
 So beautiful — so frail their forms : 
 
 Nor do we name our woes amiss — 
 
 The blight of frosts, the crush of storms. 
 
 *' Our spring-time flies with smile and song, 
 Swift as the sun-gleam o'er the lea ; 
 
 But ! "What words may tell the long, 
 Dark, winter-time, of misery ? 
 
 " From life's long blast 'twere very sweet 
 To feel, with every spring that blows, 
 
 We draw more near the calm retreat 
 In which the weary find repose. 
 
 "But shall we stoop from Paynim founts 
 To draw the solace Paynims drew ? 
 
 No, no ! the Christian's spirit mounts. 
 And soars above yon vault of blue. 
 
 <' There sees, in a serener clime, 
 A fairer spring evolve its bloom, 
 
 Untarnished by one touch of time — 
 Unsaddened by a single tomb !
 
 n 
 
 '' Wliere happy souls — their troubles o'er, 
 Their weariness and worldly strife — 
 
 Bathe in the streams for evermore 
 Whose every sivell is bliss and life ! 
 
 "Now, love, exult, to think, with me, 
 Each spring- bvit sees us nearer rise 
 
 To that Land of Felicity 
 
 Its beauty faintly t^^iiies !" 
 
 WETHERCOTE CAVE. 
 1833. 
 
 [This is a remarkable fissure in a rock, rather than a caro, into ^hich a tor- 
 rent is constantly poured. I was forcibly sti-uok \rith the contrast between 
 this scene of noise and tumult, and the quiet and silence of the church and 
 churchyard of Chapel-le-Dale, which are within a little distance of it.] 
 
 This rugged descent, and this hon-or sublime, 
 The gloom of these caves excavated by Time ; 
 This far fall of waters which, crushed by theii' fall, 
 Are hovering — in mist — round each moss-covered 
 
 wall; 
 The roar of their tortures, ere upward they swoU 
 Over rocks that seem tinted with colours of Hell ! — 
 And these shadows shall loiu', and those waters shall 
 
 rave, 
 Till the last trumpet echoes o'er Wethercote cave !
 
 80 
 
 What calmer, what holier emotions prevail 
 In the hreast that beholds thee, sweet Chapel-le-Dale 
 And ! when I think on the struggle, the strife, 
 The pomp, and the pride, and the nonsense of life. 
 And know that all ends, when the turmoil is past. 
 In the quiet and calm of the churchyard at last, — 
 The toils of the learned, and the feats of the brave, 
 Seem the vain noise of waters in Wethercote cave ! 
 
 WITH BOUNDING STEP. 
 1833. 
 
 [These lines are founded on the following fact :— Some thirty years ago, two 
 boys, sons of a gentleman in Jlalham, left theii- home in search of birds' 
 nests. Arriving at the top of a loftj- crag, called Cam Scar, the elder, an 
 adventiirous little fellow of five or six years old, descended the tremendous 
 precipice, and ha\-ing secured a hawk's nest, was returning to the simmiit, 
 when, stooping to pluck a knot of cowslips, he lost his hold and fell. His 
 brother, too young to understand what had happened, found his body at 
 the foot of the rock, and after repeatedly shaking it, returned home, quite 
 unconcerned. " I shook him very hard," said he, in answer to his father's 
 inquiries, "but he was sound asi.ekp."] 
 
 "With bounding step, and laughing eye. 
 Young Edgar sjirang his sire to hail — 
 
 The child had rambled far and high 
 Among the crags of Malhamdale. —
 
 81 
 
 "See, father, what a pretty wreath 
 Of flowers ! — I woxild their names I knew !- 
 
 I found this hright one on the heath, 
 Its golden leaves all moist with dew. 
 
 " This, father, is a primrose pale, 
 
 I knew it in its hazel bower — 
 But every child within the dale 
 
 Knows, as I think, the primrose-flower. 
 
 " 0, this small bud 'twas hard to spy ! 
 
 Deep in a mossy cleft it grew : 
 With nought to look at, save the sky, 
 
 It seems to have imbibed its blue !" 
 
 Not yet, perchance, had Edgar stayed 
 
 The prattle, to a parent dear ; 
 But — "Why," the anxious father said, 
 
 "Is Henry, with his flowers, not here?" 
 
 <■ ' My brother ? 0, I had forgot, ' ' 
 
 The Kttle rosy boy replied, 
 " I left him in the -wdldest spot — 
 
 Asleep — yon mighty crag beside." 
 
 * ' Asleep, my boy ?"— " Yes, father. We 
 A hawk had startled from a chink ; 
 
 And, on the crag's top leaving me. 
 
 My brother clambered round its brink. 
 
 L
 
 82 
 
 " Soon did I hear his shout of glee — 
 The nest became his instant prize ; 
 
 When clambering back his way to me, 
 A knot of cowslips caught his eyes. 
 
 " He stooped, and disappeared. Some time 
 I stood and watched the hazel shoot, 
 
 By which my brother up might climb ; 
 At last I sought the crag's green foot. 
 
 " I found him lying on the sward. 
 The grassy sward beneath the steep ; 
 
 I shook, and shook him very hard — 
 But, father, he was sound asleep." 
 
 The father shrieked the lost one's- name ! 
 
 Young Edgar heard, and held his breath ; 
 For o'er him, with a shudder, came 
 
 The thought that he had been with — ^Death 
 
 He led them to the fatal spot. 
 
 Where, still and cold, his brother lay, 
 
 Within his hand the cowslip knot 
 That lured his heedless foot astray. 
 
 That cowslip-knot shall never pour 
 Its sweets again on summer gale, 
 
 And that poor boy shall never more 
 CKmb the wild crags of MaUiamdale.
 
 83 
 I KNOW TIIOU LOV'ST ME. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ["Written after reading some sermons by the late Dr. Adam Clarke.] 
 
 I KNOW thou lov'st me, hast at heart 
 My mortal and immortal weal ; 
 
 That mine hath been a thankless part, 
 I bitterly and deeply feel. 
 
 Pure was the light that fiUed my soul 
 In boyhood — for the light was thine ; 
 
 But soon, too soon did error roll 
 Its darkness o'er the brilliant shine. 
 
 In pride of heart, as manhood came, 
 I sought me paths abhorred by thee ; 
 
 Forsook thy worship and th}^ name ; — 
 But thou hast ne'er forsaken me ; 
 
 My Father's God ! I recollect 
 Escapes in that abandoned time, 
 
 And o'\\-n and bless the hand that checked 
 M}- course upon the verge of crime.
 
 84 
 
 Was this not for my Father's sake ? 
 
 For thus of old thy promise ran, 
 That thou wouldst ne'er thy favour take 
 
 From offspring of the righteous man. 
 
 In bloom of being, one by one, 
 I saw my young companions die ; 
 
 Thy work in me was not begun — 
 I was unfitted for the sky ! 
 
 Yet not by shock of crushing ill 
 
 Spok'st thou "in thunder" from above; 
 
 To me thy Mercy — ^iji the " still. 
 
 Small voice" of blessings — whispered love. 
 
 The hand that made the heart, full well 
 Its natm-e knows. Like early rain, 
 
 On mine's diy soil thy goodness fell, 
 And made it soft to bloom again ! 
 
 Blest in my basket and my store, 
 
 Blest in my children, wife and home, 
 
 Ifeel thou lov'st me — and no more 
 Would I from thee perversely roam.
 
 85 
 
 THE ISLES AllE AWAKE! 
 
 1834. 
 
 [These lines wore first published in the Standard of December 10, 183-1, and 
 were thence transfeiTed to the pages of every Conservative newspaper iii 
 the three kingdoms. During the General Election of 1835, they were again 
 brought out, and again they made the tour of the periodical press. In South 
 Lancashire, in particular, many thousand copies of them were circulated ; 
 and ha\-ing been hitherto printed anonymously, they were now attributed 
 to the Earl of Ellesmere — (then Lord Erancis Egerton) — one of the success- 
 ful candidates for the representation of that district, iris lordship's dis- 
 claimer of the authorship was made in a way highly gratifying to the real 
 writer, and led to the dedication of a collection of my poems to his lordship. 
 
 Hark ! heard ye that sound as it passed in the gale ? 
 And saw ye not yonder Destructive turn pale ? 
 'Twas the heart-shout of Loyalty, fervent and true ; 
 'Twas the death-knell of Hope to himself and his crew : 
 waft it, ye breezes, and far let it ring, 
 That the Isles are awake at the voice of the King ! 
 
 Long years have passed over, in which, Mith a sigh, 
 The good man looked on as the kicked sat high ; 
 And half he forgot, in the depth of his gi'ief, 
 That the joy of the bad hath the date of a leaf : 
 Thank God, it is bhghted ! and true men may sing, 
 Since the Isles are a^Aake at the voice of the Iving !
 
 86 
 
 The tide of our love never elbbs. "We loved on, 
 "WTien the gloom of ill counsels o'ershadowed his 
 
 throne ; 
 We loved, when the sun of our Monarch grew dim ; 
 We sorrowed, yet not for ourselves, but for him ; 
 And self hath small part in the raptures that spring 
 To see the Isles wake at the voice of the King ! 
 
 He hath spoke like his Father — "The Altae shail 
 
 STAJ!ro !" 
 
 Which England re-echoes from mountain to strand ; 
 The dark heaths of Scotia the burden prolong, 
 And the green dales of Erin burst out into song ; 
 For her harpies of strife and of blood have ta'en wing^ 
 And the Isles are awake at the voice of the King ! 
 
 THE CHURCH OF OUR FATHERS. 
 
 1835. 
 
 [This lyric followed immediately on the preceding one, and was almost 
 equally popular. Set to music by Robert Guylott.] 
 
 EifCiiiCLED by trees, in the Sabbath's calm smile. 
 The church of our fathers — how meekly it stands ! 
 
 villagers, gaze on the old, hallowed pile — 
 
 It was dear to their hearts, it was raised by their 
 hands !
 
 87 
 
 Who loves not the place where they worshijjped 
 their God ? 
 
 Wlio loves not the ground where their ashes repose ! 
 Dear even the daisy that blooms on the sod, 
 
 For dear is the dust out of which it arose ! 
 
 Then say, shall the church that our forefathers built. 
 
 Which the tempests of ages have battered in vain, 
 Abandoned by us fi.'om su})ineness or guilt, 
 
 say, shall it fall by the rash and profane ? 
 No ! — Perish the impious hand that would take 
 
 One shred from its altar, one stone from its towers ! 
 The life-blood of Martj^-s hath flowed for its sake. 
 
 And its fall, if it fall — shall be reddened ^^ith ours. 
 
 THE BEIDE IS AAV AY. 
 1835. 
 
 [On the inniTiasrc! of Miss M , of the \'icaragc, Gargrave. Set to music 
 
 by Kicliard Limpus, Jun.] 
 
 The Bride is away — and there does not breathe one 
 Within the glad sound of these bells. 
 
 Who feels not as if viith that lady were gone 
 Some charm from the spot where ho dwells ;
 
 88 
 
 There does not breathe one but who feels at his heart 
 
 Two currents of sentiment met, 
 And who hardly knows whether the tear that would 
 start 
 
 Is the offspring of Joy or Eegret ! 
 
 The Bride is away — ^like a bird from the bower, 
 
 In which 'twas the sweetest that sung ; 
 Like a flower she hath passed, like a violet flower. 
 
 That perfumed all the place where it sprung ! 
 And she charms other hearts with her bloom and her 
 song, 
 
 But though of her presence bereft. 
 The thought of her goodness and loveliness long 
 
 Will be sweet in the hearts she hath left !
 
 80 
 
 STOP, STOr THE PASSING-BELL. 
 
 1835. 
 
 (I heard the passing-bell one momina;. It was tolling: for Mi-s. Coultlmrst, 
 of Gargrave House — a lady respected by aU. "What must her husband 
 feel to hear these sounds !" I said, and wrote the lines.) 
 
 Stop, stop the passing-bell ! 
 
 Painfully, too painfully, 
 It strikes against the heart, that knell : 
 I cannot bear its tones — they tell 
 
 Of misery, of misery ! 
 All that soothed and sweetened life 
 In the Mother and the Wife — 
 All that would a charm have cast 
 O'er the future as the j)ast — 
 All is torturing in that kneU ! 
 Stop, stop the passing-bell. 
 
 Stop it — no ! But change the tone. 
 And joyfully, ay, joyfuUy, 
 
 Let the altered chimes ring on. 
 
 For the spirit that hath floAni 
 Exult ingly, exultingly ! 
 
 She hath left her couch of pain ; 
 
 She shall never feel again 
 
 M
 
 90 
 
 But as ang-els feel — afar 
 Cliined Iboyoiid the morning star, 
 Agony and death unknown ! 
 Let the joyful chimes ring on ! 
 
 THE WIVES AND THE MOTHERS 
 
 OF BllITAIN. 
 
 1835. 
 
 [Set to music by — Johnson, of Pi-oston, in Lancashire, and — for pi-ivate 
 circulation — by Elias Chadwick, Esq., then of Sainton Hall, Manchester.] 
 
 Let each fill his glass, fill it up to the brim, 
 
 For my toast is well worthy a full one, 
 Nor would I give much for the feeHngs of him 
 
 'Who shoidd deem it a vapid and dull one : 
 For him not a wine cup deservedly foams. 
 
 Whatever gay room he may sit in ; 
 I give you the "Women that brighten our homes — 
 
 " The Wives and the Mothers of Britain !" 
 
 'Tis a toast comprehensive — it leaves no one out 
 Whose smiles make an Enghsh hearth pleasant, 
 
 From the fair cottage-matron that, rosy and stout, 
 DeHghts the bold heart of the peasant —
 
 91 
 
 From her to the dame of the stateKest hall 
 
 Our proudest nobihty sit in, 
 And up to the Queex, who presides over all, 
 
 The Wives and the Mothers of Britain ! 
 
 Nor mil we forget the sweet rose-buds that blow 
 
 Beneath the kind eye of those mothers ; 
 Whose hearts are their own, yet not long may be so, 
 
 But devotedly, meekly, another's. 
 Let us hope that their sons will be patriots true, 
 
 Like those of the room that we sit in ; 
 And still be it felt there is reverence due 
 
 To the Wives and the Mothers of Britain ! 
 
 THE WANE OF THE DAY. 
 
 1835. 
 
 (This was a birth-day Song, ■mitten on completing my fortieth year. I 
 fancied myself old.) 
 
 THE heart is not so light 
 In the wane of the day, 
 
 And the eye is not so bright 
 In the Avane of the day ;
 
 92 
 
 The ear hath duller grown 
 For the swell of nuisic's tone, 
 
 And the dance's charm is gone 
 In the wane of the day ! 
 
 The sweet spring hath its buds 
 
 In the wane of the day, 
 "Where the primrose decks the woods 
 
 In the wane of the day ; 
 The mead is flushed with gold, 
 And the lark is on the wold, 
 But he sings not as of old — 
 
 In the wane of the day ! 
 
 Yet I have some ties to life 
 
 In the wane of the day ; 
 I've a fair and frugal wife 
 
 In the wane of the day ; 
 And when round my evening hearth 
 Mix my Kttle band in mirth, 
 I'm the hapj)iest man on earth 
 
 In the wane of the day !
 
 93 
 
 THE AXCIENT BAEOKS. 
 
 1836. 
 
 ("N'olimms logos Ancline mutari !" was the patriotic doclaration of the 
 Aneiont Barons to King John. This lyric has been set to music by J. P. 
 Knight.) 
 
 The ancient Barons of the land 
 
 Composed a hauglity ring, 
 Wlien— mail on breast and blade in hand — 
 
 They stood before the King ; 
 And, danntless in their country's cause, 
 
 Their high resolve avowed — 
 "We will not that old England's laws 
 
 Be changed by court or crowd ! 
 
 " In other lands, at slightest shock, 
 
 The civil fabric falls ; 
 In ours eternal as the rock. 
 
 It rears its massive walls ; 
 A barrier to convulsion forms. 
 
 Firm as our Island's shore, 
 Wliich has roUed back ten thousand storms, 
 
 And. will ten thousand more ! 
 
 " To guard its towers from age to age, 
 Brave men their last have breathed ; 
 
 To us, as our best heritage, 
 It was by them bequeathed.
 
 94 
 
 And, mark us, Sire ! to its defpiiofi 
 
 Our arms — oiu' lives — vre vow ; 
 And it may fall in ages hence — 
 
 We Swear it shall not now !" 
 
 They kept their oath, those gallant men ! 
 
 The structure still is ours, 
 Though twice three hundred years since then 
 
 Have overswept its towers. 
 A glorious barrier still it forms, 
 
 Fii-m as our Island's shore, 
 Wliich has rolled back ten thousand storms, 
 
 And shall ten thousand more ! 
 
 IT IS SAD, VEEY SAD. 
 
 1836. 
 
 (I had been at Liverpool. It was night, and there was deep snow on the 
 groiuid. While coming over Blackstone edge, in a stage coach, I wrote 
 these lines.) 
 
 It is sad, very sad, thus without thee to roam ; 
 It is sad, very sad, when the heart is at home ! 
 My dearest — ^yes, deaeest ! that word it shall be, 
 For it has a sweet meaning when spoken of thee ! 
 My dearest, yes, dearest ! &c.
 
 95 
 
 My dearest, I've been where the wild billows roll, 
 And I am where the scene should enrapture my soul 
 But, unmoved by the beauties of land and of sea, 
 My soul finds them tasteless — ungazed on by thee ! ; 
 My dearest, yes, deaeest ! &c. 
 
 Are my gii-ls and my boys all as rosy and gay, 
 
 Is my kind wife as well as when I came away ? 
 
 Are ever the questions returning to me ; 
 
 And soon be they answered by them and by thee ! 
 My dearest, yes, dearest ! that word it shall be, 
 For it has a sweet meaning when spoken of thee ! 
 
 THE FEIENDS THAT I LOVED. 
 1836. 
 
 The fi-iends that I loved I love still — but no more 
 Those friends of my bosom illumine my door ; 
 ! what can it be that has made them so cold, 
 Who bore me such love and affection of old ?
 
 96 
 
 My soul is the same — by misfortune unbowed, 
 It pities the poor, it despises the proud ; 
 And still are my feelings the same as of old ; 
 ! what can it be that has made them so cold ? 
 
 It is true that my visage is pallid and worn — 
 It is true that my garments are faded and torn — 
 And perhaps I'm so altered, they cannot descry 
 The man at whose table they feasted so high ! 
 
 I was once of each party the life and the soul, 
 My sallies were voted as bright as my bowl ; 
 And sometimes the reason I bitterly ask, 
 Why the wit left my head when the wine left my 
 cask? 
 
 Well, mind them not, Ellen ! — One friend I have still, 
 Who, kind in good fortune, is kinder in ill ; 
 And whose smile, like a glimpse of the sun in a 
 
 shower, 
 Can brighten Adversity's gloomiest hour !
 
 97 
 
 SWEET BEAUMOXT SIDE. 
 1836. 
 
 [Set to a very beautiful air by my late friend Mr. "Wood, of Gargrave, and 
 published with accompaniments by J. W. Thirlwall.] 
 
 Sweet Beaximont Side, and Beaumont Stream ! 
 
 Though, ■winds of Avinter round me blow, 
 I cannot think, I cannot di'eam, 
 
 With you that it is ever so. 
 On Flashy Fell the blast may rave, 
 
 The drift may whirl on Frozen Aire ; 
 No winter binds the Beaumont's wave, 
 
 No storm enshrouds a mountain there ! 
 
 Sweet Beaumont Side, and Beaumont Stream ! 
 
 Ye come to me in visions clear. 
 And ever as ye were ye seem ; 
 
 Change cannot touch a scene so dear ! 
 On Howsden heights for ever bloom, 
 
 The flowers that lure the mountain bee ; 
 By Beaumont Side the yellow broom 
 
 For ever waves — in light — to me ! 
 
 Sweet Beaumont Side, and Beaumont Stream! 
 
 There is so much of gloom and ill, 
 That it is soothing thus to deem 
 
 Earth bears one spot of sunshine still ;
 
 98 
 
 To feel that — while my hopes decline, 
 And joys from life's bleak waste depart- 
 
 One bright illusion — yet — is mine, 
 
 One changeless landscape of the heart ! 
 
 IT IS SWEET ON THIS FAIE BARK. 
 1836. 
 
 (Written at sea— off the coast of Essex.) 
 
 It is sweet on this fair bark to lean, 
 And gaze upon the emerald sea, 
 
 Whose wavelets — breaking from the green- 
 Seem snow-wreaths on an April lea, 
 
 Or birds — for so will Fancy veer — 
 
 That brightly dive, and re-appear ! 
 
 There's beauty on the tinted brine. 
 Which is not boiinded by the coast ; 
 
 Eor yon delightful shores are thine, 
 My native land, my pride, my boast. 
 
 The peerless land where Freedom smiles, 
 
 The glorious Queen of Ocean's Isles !
 
 99 
 
 YOUR NAME MAY BE NOBLE. 
 1836. 
 
 Your name may be noble, unsullied your race 
 As the com-se of tbe mountain-rill pm-e from its 
 spring, 
 
 And you may have done notbing tbat name to disgrace, 
 But you are not a Briton, if false to your King ! 
 
 You tell me of Freedom, I worship it too ; 
 
 Without it, my life were a valueless thing ; 
 But I find it consistent -o-ith Loyaxty true, — 
 
 And you are not a Briton, if false to your Kmo ! 
 
 You tell me of Exglajstd — I'm proud of her name ; 
 
 To all that is bright in her story I chng ; 
 But it was under Monarchs she gathered her fame, — 
 
 And you are not a Briton, if false to your KrxG ! 
 
 The flock may be false to the shepherd that leads it 
 Each morn during summer to pasture and spring ; 
 
 The cliild to the parent that fondles and feeds it, 
 But ne'er will a Briton be false to his King !
 
 100 
 
 LAY HIM BY HIS FATHER! 
 1836. 
 
 [The " father" alluded to in this elegy, was the late Thomas Aiiderton, of 
 Gargrave, a gentlemaai universally respected.] 
 
 LAY tini by his father, 
 
 The mourned with many tears ! 
 Alas ! we would have rather 
 
 He had seen his father's years : 
 But death will often gather 
 
 All ages to his fold — 
 Then lay him by his father, 
 
 The young man by the old ! 
 
 Lay the son beside the father. 
 
 The branch beside the tree ! 
 We will not weep ! — but rather 
 
 Say — " Eest ye j)eacefully, 
 Till God — our shepherd — gather 
 
 His loved ones to his fold ; 
 Then eise — both son and father, 
 
 The young man and the old!"
 
 101 
 SHE IS FALLING BY GEIEF. 
 
 1836. 
 
 [On seeing the late Mrs. L , of Seacombc, near Liveriiool.] 
 
 She is falling by grief, 
 
 Like a rose in its prime, 
 Ere the bloom of its leaf 
 
 Bears a token of time, 
 Wliicli wastes every minute, 
 
 Yet not from decay, — 
 But a canker within it, 
 
 That eats it away. 
 
 No fairer draws breath ; 
 
 And no purer bore name. 
 Till one WTong step brought death 
 
 To her peace and her fame. 
 Grod ! yet to A^dn her 
 
 From thoughts that o'er-prey, 
 From the canker within her 
 
 That eats her away !
 
 102 
 
 THE VOAVS THOU HAST SPOKEX. 
 1836. 
 
 [Set to music by Frank de Fonblanque.] 
 
 The vows thou hast spoken 
 
 As oft as we met, 
 Thougli ligMsomely broken, 
 
 Tliou ne'er slialt forget ; 
 But fly where thou wilt, 
 
 Thou shalt bear with thee still 
 A feeling of guilt. 
 
 And a presage of ill ! 
 
 The mild moon on high 
 
 Shall thy falsehood upbraid, 
 For she looked from the sky 
 
 "When the last vow was made. 
 The morn with its light 
 
 Shall remind thee of me, 
 And my wi-ongs shaE. be bhght 
 
 On the da}^ and on thee ! 
 
 Another may hearken 
 
 Thy suit -ndth a smile, 
 And I may not darken 
 
 Thy hopes for a while ;
 
 103 
 
 But, far from thee never, 
 I'll mix with thy kiss — 
 
 Intruding for ever 
 
 Between thee and bliss ! 
 
 Deem not I'd inflict 
 
 All this woe upon thee ; 
 Nor beKeve I predict 
 
 What I gladly would see. 
 ! it will not abate, love, 
 
 One sorrow of mine, 
 To know that a fate, love, 
 
 Yet darker is thine ! 
 
 THE MUSIC OF ANOTHER SPRING. 
 
 1836. 
 
 (Written during sickness.) 
 
 The music of another spring 
 
 I hear, that thought not to have heard ; 
 And seems it as no bird on wing 
 
 Sung ever like yon early bii'd !
 
 104 
 
 Amid the silence of the morn, 
 
 In these sweet notes, that thi-ill my heart, 
 A hope is to my bosom born — 
 
 I shall not — yet — from earth depart ! 
 
 Fair earth — when spring-flowers round me bloom ! 
 
 Sweet time — when spring-birds round me sing ! 
 ! but the grave's a thought of gloom. 
 
 When all the land is gay with spring. 
 
 I SAW HER IN THE VIOLET TIME. 
 
 1837. 
 
 (On hearing of the death of Miss Hogarth — second daughter of George 
 Hogarth, Esq., and sister-in-law of Charles Dickens — whom I had seen in 
 high health the year before. It has been often copied and circulated.) 
 
 I SAW her in the violet time, 
 
 When bees are on the wing, 
 And then she stood in maiden prime- 
 
 The fairest flower of spring ! 
 Her glances, as the falcon's bright, 
 
 Had archness in their ray ; 
 Her motion and her heart were light 
 
 As linnet's on the spray !
 
 105 
 
 'Tis come again, the violet time, 
 
 When flits the mountain bee ; 
 And others stand in maiden prime, 
 
 But where — ! where is She ? 
 Alas ! the linnet now may sing 
 
 Beside her early tomb ! 
 Alas ! the fairest floAver of sj)ring 
 
 Hath perished in its bloom ! 
 
 But no, but no ! That maiden now, 
 
 Immortal and serene, 
 Wears glory on her noble brow 
 
 That " eye hath never seen !" 
 That flower, too soft for this world's air. 
 
 Transplanted in its prime. 
 Blooms now where it is always fail-, 
 
 And always violet time !
 
 106 
 
 THE HILLS OF MY BIRTH-PLACE. 
 1837. 
 
 [On revisiting my native county.] 
 
 The hills of my birth-place I gazed on once more ! 
 And Cheviot — their Monarch — subhnie as of yore, 
 With the snow for his mantle, the cloud for his 
 
 crown. 
 On the white vales beneath him looked royally down ! 
 How my eyes grasped his bulk, till they filled, and 
 
 grew dim ! 
 How I di-ank every breeze that was wafted from Him ! 
 
 That moment of feeling, so painfully dear, 
 
 Which thus to my eyes sent the heart-gushing tear, 
 
 — A moment collecting and pouring the whole 
 
 Of the Past in a torrent at once on my soul — 
 
 As I stood in abstraction, absorbed, and alone, 
 
 I would not have changed for the pomp of a throne ! 
 
 The torrent subsides when its sources are drained ; 
 The ocean rolls back when its height is attained ; 
 And feeling, in bosoms that years cannot dull, 
 Must ebb from the heart when its channels are fidl.
 
 107 
 
 liine ebbed, but 'twas soon to flow faster — for yet 
 There were scenes to be viewed, there were friends to 
 be met ! 
 
 The warm hearts of Wansbeck, how Avarm were they 
 
 stiU! 
 How bright were the faces by Glen and by Till ! 
 My Beaumont — I saw but her mountains of snow, 
 But knew that her broomy stream murmured below ! 
 And Tweed — although Winter was curbing its speed, 
 No ice chilled the welcome I met with on Tweed ! 
 
 Shall Eoddam be passed ? Ah ! in that dearest spot, 
 Though I cannot forget, I am all but forgot ! 
 Still, she has her old dell, and she has her old stream. 
 And a fairer*'' to haunt them than e'er blessed my 
 
 dream ; 
 And proudly I ween that my fame shall be there, 
 All fresh in her greenwoods — while greenwoods are 
 
 fair ! 
 
 Ay, my fame may be there ; but ! never again 
 
 Shall I con, in her greenwoods, the rapturous strain ! 
 
 For me each dear river all vainly -will pour ; 
 
 Old Cheviot himself I shall visit no more ; 
 
 And the loved friends that dwell by those mountains 
 
 and streams. 
 Henceforward, alas, will but people my dreams ! 
 
 * The "fairer to haunt them" was the laily whose death is lamented in 
 the succeeding Poem
 
 108 
 
 THOUGH ALMOST TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 1837. 
 
 (On the death of Mrs. RodJam of Roddam. She was one of those beings 
 described by Moore, as 
 
 . . . . " too lovely to remain, 
 Creatures of light we never see again I") 
 
 Though almost twenty years have passed 
 
 Since I in Eoddam " loved and sung" — 
 Though, fame attends the lyre at last 
 
 That first amid her woodlands rung — 
 My heart and soul are still the same ; 
 
 No scene of hers can I forget ; 
 In spite of distance, time, and fame, 
 
 My sweetest thoughts are Eoddam's yet ! 
 
 Where -wdnds a glen and purls a rill, 
 
 To her my fancy hack they take ; 
 AVhere frowns a crag and towers a hill, 
 
 I love them for old Cheviot's sake ! 
 The birds I hear, the flowers I see. 
 
 Have charms that not to them belong — 
 These speak of Eoddam's bloom to me. 
 
 And those of Eoddam's woodland song I
 
 109 
 
 Alas, alas, for Eoddam now ! 
 
 Alas for Eocldam's lord tlie most ! 
 Of shadowy brake and sunny brow 
 
 The brightest, dearest charm is lost ! 
 Low is the Lady of the Hall, 
 
 Whom I beheld so lately there, 
 The loveKest and the best of all 
 
 That ever graced the scenery fair ! 
 
 I gazed, and thought for poets build 
 
 Most gorgeous castles on the cloud, 
 And with the rays of Fancy gild 
 
 Trivimphal arch and turret proud — 
 I thought how she, with kind regard. 
 
 Might give old hopes again to bloom, 
 Might patronise her House's Bard : 
 
 She sleeps within her House's Tomb ! 
 
 Green o'er that Tomb ah-eady gi'ow 
 
 The laurels due to valiant deed ; 
 A gentler wreath we mingle now 
 
 As Beauty's and as Virtue's meed. 
 "We bring each bloom from Eoddam Dell 
 
 That scents its depth, or gems its verge, 
 And bid the Lyre of Eoddam swell 
 
 To ring the Flower of Eoddam' s dirge.
 
 110 
 
 THE UNION WOrJvHOUSE. 
 1837. 
 
 (Written in a desponding mood. The names are those of my children, most 
 of whom are now beyond the reach of want and of workhouse tjTanny ! I 
 cannot resist saying that the Right Honourable Matthew Talbot Baines 
 ■was the first Minister who, by his humane and enlightened management, 
 rendered the New Poor Law Act tolerable to the English people.) 
 
 A House they've built on yonder slope 
 
 Huge, grim, and prison-LLke, dull ! 
 With grated walls that shut out Hope, 
 
 And cells of wretched paupers full. 
 And they, if we for help should call, 
 
 "Will thither take and lodge us thus ; 
 But, Ellen, no ! Their prison wall, 
 
 I swear it, was not built for L^s ! 
 
 We've lived together fourteen years ; 
 
 Three boys and four sweet girls are ours ; 
 Our life hath had its hopes and fears, 
 
 Its autumn blights, its summer flowers ; 
 But ever Avith determined front. 
 
 And heart that scorned in iU to bow. 
 Have we sustained Misfortune's brunt : 
 
 We never quailed — nor will we now !
 
 Ill 
 
 Our eldest hope — our Sally — she 
 
 Who steals from e'en her play to books ; 
 God ! in yon Bastile to see 
 
 The sweetness of her modest looks ! 
 And Esty, who hath Httle mind 
 
 For hooks when there is time to play, 
 Her little heart would burst to find 
 
 The same dull prison every day! 
 
 His father's picture, too, my Bob, 
 
 My double both in head and heart — 
 And Bill, whom it were sin to rob 
 
 Of his red cheek and emulous part — 
 And Fanny with her craftiness — 
 
 And Jack who screams so very low — 
 Shall they put on their prison-dress ? 
 
 My dear — my dear — they SHAiiL not go ! 
 
 They shall not go — to pine apart, 
 
 Forgetting kindredship and home ; 
 To lose each impulse of the heart 
 
 That binds us wheresoe'er we roam ! 
 And we, whom God and Love made one, 
 
 Whom Man and Law would disunite, 
 We will not. Famine's death to shun. 
 
 Sleep there, or wake, a single night ! 
 
 Still is their act — in something — mild : 
 Though 1 no more must share your rest, 
 
 They would permit yonv infant child 
 To — tug at an exhausted breast !
 
 112 
 
 And Jack would cease, poor hny ! to scream, 
 Awed by some keeper's rod and threat ; 
 
 While, sunk in cribs, the rest would dream 
 Of days — too well remembered yet ! 
 
 Away ! on Exglajstd's soil we stand ; 
 
 Otir means have, erst, supplied the poor 
 We have claims on our father-land : — 
 
 No, no — that right is ours no more ! 
 But we will die a Beggar's death, 
 
 Rather than pass their hated wall ! 
 On some free hill breathe out our breath — 
 
 One nameless grave receiving all ! 
 
 FADED LEAF. 
 
 1837. 
 
 Faded leaf ! faded heart ! 
 
 The summer hue of both is gone ! 
 The storms oifate may do their part. 
 
 The storms of ivinter ravage on ! 
 The heart — the leaf — have felt the worst ; 
 
 No further bhght can either know ; 
 And — all unfeared — shall o'er them bui'st 
 
 The future wind, the future woe ?
 
 113 
 
 Unlike the leaf in June's caress ! 
 
 Unlike the heart when sorrow-free ! — 
 But yet there springs from hopelessness 
 
 A stern, defj^ing energy ! 
 For- — the worst known, and scorned the worst, 
 
 The man hath nought to fear below, 
 And asks not — recks not — when shall burst 
 
 The future wind, the future woe ! 
 
 THE ROSE OF THE ISLES. 
 1837. 
 
 (This song was written on the occasion of Her Majesty's accession to the 
 throne. Those who, like the author, are old enough to remember the late 
 Princess Charlotte, will feel the comphnient impUedm the allusion to her. 
 A younger generation cannot.) 
 
 The Crown that encircles Victoria's brow, 
 
 Transmitted thi'ough ages of fame. 
 To its claims on our love adds a sweeter one now, 
 
 Derived from her sex and her name. 
 And the Sceptre she wields in her delicate hand, 
 
 As she stands in the sunshine of smiles, 
 Hath a spell to array all the Might of the Land 
 
 Around the fair Rose of the Isles !
 
 114 
 
 Not a word of division shall burthen our breath, 
 
 Of the parties or views we prefer ; 
 Howe'er we may differ in feeling or faith, 
 
 We are one — in devotion to Her ! 
 Our Charlotte in all but her sadness of doom, 
 
 May she live in the sunshine of smiles ! 
 And never may sorrow-blight fall on the bloom 
 
 Of the beautiful Eose of the Isles ! 
 
 I WAS BORN IN A COT. 
 1837. 
 
 I WAS born in a Cot, and in one I may die ; 
 
 So lived and so perished my fathers obscure ; 
 But no Peer of his lineage is prouder than I, 
 
 For my fathers were honest, and loyal, and poor ! 
 
 I envy not — covet not — title and sway ; 
 
 Yet 'tis pleasant to think that to aU they are free, 
 That — thanks to the laws of my country ! the way 
 
 To her honours is open — ay, even to me.
 
 115 
 
 I'm content to be part of society's root, 
 
 To find that the branches which over us wave, 
 
 Derive from lis foliage, blossom, and fruit, — 
 And give us again all the strength that we gave. 
 
 And never, when clamour and menace are lou.d 
 Against all that is noble, and all that is high, 
 
 Will I lend my voice to the cry of the crowd — 
 I know the result of that reasonless cry ! 
 
 I know that the lightning their madness would laimch, 
 Though meant but to injure the loftiest shoots, 
 
 Condiicted that instant from twig and from branch, 
 Would glance to, and shiver the trunk to the roots! 
 
 AN ENGLISHMAN'S WIFE. 
 1838. 
 
 (Written for a Bazaar Volume, dedicated to the late Queen Adelaide.) 
 
 The merry bells ring, and the merry boys shout, 
 The^matrons are gazing from window and door ; 
 
 For a blithe wedding train the old Chui'ch hath poxu'ed 
 out. 
 And the gi-oen lane is crowded behind and before.
 
 116 
 
 A fair Village Maiden hath promised to-day, 
 To love and to cherish her Chosen through life ; 
 
 And she Avalks by his side in her hridal array, 
 To be from this moment an Englishman's Wife. 
 
 And ! if he knows it, a treasure he gains 
 
 To which all the gems of Groleonda are dim, 
 A counsellor kind, who in pleasures or pains, 
 
 Will think for his welfare, exist but for him ! 
 His children to train " in the way they sholdd go," 
 
 To ward from his dwelling the entrance of strife, 
 To soothe him in anger, to solace in woe, 
 
 Is the duty — the boast — of an Englishman's Wife ! 
 
 Scarce heeded the light of a long sunny day, 
 
 We love, when the sky is o'erclouded, to mark 
 A sun-biu'st on hill or on shaded vale play — 
 
 A type of her love when his atmosphere's dark ! 
 Her smile, in success which unheeded may beam, 
 
 Will shine hke that sun-burst when sorrows are 
 rife. 
 Ay, pour round his death-bed itseK a bright gleam ! — 
 
 Eor true to the last is an EngUshman's Wife. 
 
 It is so in the cottage ; and who can forget 
 How deeply 'twas so in the Palace of late, 
 
 When, by the sad couch of her dying lord set, 
 
 Queen Adelaide's watchfulness sweetened his fate?
 
 117 
 
 Unwearied and sleepless — ^her task to fulfil, 
 
 She sat and she soothed the last tremours of life ; 
 
 And her love for onr "William endears to us still 
 That Model Eevered of an Englishman's Wife ! 
 
 I BLAME THEE NOT, WORLD 
 1839. 
 
 I BLAME thee not, World ! that thy judgments refuse 
 me 
 
 The laureate wreath I have coveted long ; 
 I have rather to thank the kind hearts that excuse 
 me 
 
 The times I have teased them with efforts in song. 
 The vision that lured me of Grlory's effulgence 
 
 Hath passed — ^like the bow from the cloud of the 
 shower ; 
 I find, after years of self-cheating indulgence. 
 
 That the wish to be great I mistook for the potver. 
 Then adieu to the hope, to my bosom so pleasing. 
 
 Of being remembered and talked of when gone ; 
 And adieu to the hope, more ambitious, of seizing 
 
 The mind of the future, and moulding its tone !
 
 118 
 
 Adieu to those fond aspirations, but never — 
 
 While breath is within me — farewell to the Muse ! 
 It were easier to turn from its channel yon river, 
 
 Than me from the course that she taught me to 
 choose. 
 I must still feel the changes of sky and of season, 
 
 Be alive, like the birds, to each impvdse they bring, 
 And, heard or not heard by the children of reason, 
 
 Must at times, like those wild-birds, full-heartedly 
 sing ! 
 But adieu to the hope, to my bosom so pleasing. 
 
 Of being remembered and talked of when gone ; 
 And adieu to the hope, more ambitious, of seizing 
 
 The mind of the future, and moulding its tone ! 
 
 Perchance with myself lies the blame of bereavement 
 
 Of the long-cherished dream of celebrity won : 
 Like the birds I have lived, and no worthy achievement, 
 
 They say, without care — without labour — is done. 
 Hence in song, as in life, I too nearly resemble 
 
 The light-hearted lyrists that sing in the glen, 
 "Whose note, though it may bid the young bosom 
 tremble, 
 
 Wants the bold trumpet-tone that electrifies men. 
 Then adieu to the hope, to my bosom so pleasing, 
 
 Of being remembered and talked of when gone ; 
 And adieu to the hope, more ambitious, of seizing 
 
 The mind of the future, and moulding its tone !"
 
 119 
 
 DEAE HUDSON. 
 1840. 
 
 Dear Hudson, a winter of time has gone by 
 
 SiQce last we were seated together ; 
 But my soul never shrunk for the scowl of the sky, 
 
 And it still bids defiance to weather ! 
 But why should I hint at my griefs, 'mid the light 
 
 That from wine and true friendship we borrow ? 
 We wont have a word but of pleasure to-night — 
 
 We can talk of our troubles to-morrow. 
 
 What's the want men so shun, or the wealth they so 
 crave, 
 
 That a care about either should bind us ? 
 A good name is the thing, which, surviving the grave, 
 
 Shall leave its long perfume behind us. 
 One hour — be futurity gloomy or bright — 
 
 This hour shall be sacred from sorrow ; 
 We wont have a word but of pleasure to-night — 
 
 We can tallc of oui- troubles to-morrow.
 
 120 
 
 INGLEBORO' CAVE. 
 
 1840. 
 
 (This wonderful subterranean vault — or rather succession of irregular vaults, 
 is but poorly described in the following stanzas. It was then a recent dis- 
 covery. It is the property of James "WiUiam Farrer, Esq., of Ingleboro' 
 Hall.) 
 
 Lover of Nature ! whose feet have pervaded 
 
 The wildest recesses where verdure has birth, 
 And whose eyes have beheld, from these mountains 
 unshaded. 
 
 The grandeur of ocean, the beauty of earth. 
 Deem not, though thy pleasures be pure and abiding 
 
 That thou hast exhausted the whole she e'er gave ; 
 Gro, enter yon rock, whence the waters are gliding, 
 
 Ajid witness the wonders she works in the cave : 
 
 Go then, and alone, wouldst thou feel the scene rightly, 
 
 The Poet, invisibly joining thy side. 
 Shall talk with thy soul, shall be moral or sprightly. 
 
 And summon his spii'its to light thee and guide ! 
 Look up ! the green day-light yet blends with the 
 lustres 
 
 Sprite-furnished, and gleaming along the dark 
 wave ; 
 Smooth rock hung with pendants like icicle-clusters — 
 
 What ceiling can vie with the roof of the Cave ?
 
 121 
 
 But on ! — The clay fades ; and the lights, borne before 
 us, 
 
 The brighter appear, and the richer by far ; 
 For see them beneath us, beside us, and o'er us, 
 
 Reflected from diamond, water, and spar ! 
 If splendour thou lovest, 'tis here in profusion, 
 
 More pure than in courts, for it doth not deprave ; 
 And shouldst thou point out that the whole is illusion, 
 
 I ask, is illusion confined to the Cave ? 
 
 On, on ! — The lights pause. Is yon black rock the 
 ending ? 
 
 No, no ; thou hast farther, and fairer, to view ; 
 So, foUow we must where the elf-lights — descending, 
 
 Half show a low vault. Don't they burn a bit blue? 
 Start not ! there's no ghost, I assure you, to fear, sir; 
 
 But stoop — lower yet — ^if thy head thou wouldst 
 save : 
 Pride sometimes gets checked in his onward career, sir, 
 
 And Humility'' s well in the world,][and the Cave. 
 
 But hark ! there is music ! All fairy-like stealing. 
 
 It comes on the ear, as from distance it came : 
 'Tis Natiu-e's own harmony, fitfuUy peaKng, 
 
 And this for her Palace, the Goddess may claim. 
 Look round ! 'tis enchantment ! surpassing whatever 
 
 The tales of the East on young fancies engrave ; 
 So, now for description, my friend, if thou'rt clever — 
 
 Keflect me in song this State-room of the Cave. 
 
 Q
 
 122 
 
 Wliat song shall reflect it ? — A gem-studded ceiling, 
 
 On columns of crystal appearing to lean ; 
 Sides flashing with brilliants ; the wide floor reveal- 
 ing 
 
 A pure water-mirror that doubles the scene ; — 
 Away ! 'tis prosaic, where all should be sparkling. 
 
 And rugged, where Music shoiild breathe through 
 the stave ; 
 But see ! my torch-bearers have left us, and — darkling 
 
 — We follow the light as it winds up the Cave. 
 
 Then on ! — ^We are now at the roots of the mountain, 
 
 Where Nature, as knowing the pressure, has 
 thrown 
 A bold massive arch o'er the line of the fountain. 
 
 An arch d la Gothic — ere G-othic was known ! 
 Here rest we before — into day-light returning — 
 
 We return, too, to cares and to topics more grave : 
 And mixing a bowl while the elf-lights are burning. 
 
 Let us drink to the health of the lord of the Cave.
 
 123 
 
 SHE SHALL NOT DIE. 
 
 1841. 
 
 [On the death of Mrs. Hudson, wife of the gentleman to whom a preceding 
 song is addressed. ] 
 
 **She shall not die — as thousands die — 
 
 To Le forgot ere long ; 
 The poet's friend shall claim a sigh 
 
 While lives ih.e poefs song 1" 
 
 Such was the inward vow I made, 
 When o'er my hour of mirth 
 
 The tidings flashed, that cold was laid 
 The kindest heart on earth. 
 
 Then winter wrapped the land in snow ; 
 
 The summer decks it now ; 
 Yet unawaked one note of woe. 
 
 And unfulfilled my vow. 
 
 And ah ! unless the poet could 
 
 Take all of sweet and fair 
 That summer sheds by vale and wood, 
 
 And all the music there —
 
 124 
 
 Coiild take from flowers their fairest hues, 
 Their sweetest notes from birds, 
 
 And by some magic skill transfuse 
 The whole into his words — 
 
 How should he hope, in phrases meet, 
 
 His tribute to prefer ? 
 Or how reflect the virtues sweet 
 
 That lived and bloomed in Her ? 
 
 Vain effort ! She who sleeps below. 
 
 Must sleep unsung as now — 
 Stni unawaked one note of woe. 
 
 And unfulfilled my vow. 
 
 Save for these rhymes, which, unrej)roved, 
 
 May this proud boast prolong — 
 " He had a friend too much beloved, 
 
 Too DEEPLY mourned, FOR SONG !"
 
 125 
 
 SPARE THE KIND HEART. 
 
 1841. 
 
 [On reading Lord R-ancis Egerton's address to the Electors of South 
 Lancashire, in which he alluded to the infirm state of his health. Tliis 
 Nohleman, since known as the Earl of Ellesmere, has died while these 
 sheets were in the press. The lines may now, alas ! stand as a slight but 
 sincere tribute to his memory.] 
 
 SPAEE the kind heart long to beat as it does, 
 Instinct with all feelings delightful and pure ! 
 
 And spare the clear head, now so needful to us. 
 Who battle our birth-right to save and secure ! 
 
 When the agents of E\il are active and rife, 
 When Treason, or Tolly, presides at the helm, 
 
 We ask thee, Heaven ! to leave us a life 
 Devoted and bound to the weal of the realm ! 
 
 We ask thee to leave us that something, of which 
 Crowds feel the effect, though they guess not its 
 cause. 
 
 Which, preceding his eloquence flo-ndng and rich. 
 In look and in bearing still wins, while it awes ! 
 
 We ask thee to leave us that eloquence, filled 
 With all that Refinement and Genius infuse — 
 
 As soft as the dew from a spring-mist distilled, 
 And sweet as the harmonies breathed by the Muse-
 
 126 
 
 Coining, not like a summer-stream swollen by rain, 
 A torrent that fails when the shower- cloud is gone, 
 
 But a fount-suppKed river, that roUs through the 
 plain, 
 And, strong but yet gentle, in sunshine rolls on ! 
 
 We ask thee to leave us that character, bright 
 With virtues not drawing their lustre from birth, 
 
 But blending with that aU the charm of their Hght, 
 To brilliance of Name adding brilliance of Woeth. 
 
 Yes ! spare the kind heart long to beat as it does, 
 Instinct with all feehngs dehghtful and pure ! 
 
 And spare the clear head now so needful to us, 
 When battling our birth-right to save and secure ! 
 
 YON LASS YE SEE. 
 1841. 
 
 Yon lass ye see sae lightly trip, 
 She has, nae doubt, a rosy lip. 
 And ye might, maybe, like to sip 
 
 Its hineyed dews yere lane, lad ; 
 
 But she isna like my ain wife. 
 My ain, ain, ain wife. 
 There's nane like my ain wife — 
 
 I'll say't and say't again, lad !
 
 126 
 
 Yon lassie has a bright blue e'e, 
 Wi glance sae pawky and sae slee, 
 And ye might, maybe, like to see 
 Its love-blinks a' yere ain, lad ; 
 But she isna like, &c. 
 
 • 
 
 A rosier Kp, a pawkier e'e 
 Its mine to prize, and mine to prie, 
 And ! a heart that's a' for me, 
 For me, and me alane, lad ! 
 There's nane like, &c. 
 
 When blasts o' cauld misfortune blaw, 
 And puirtith's showers around me fa'. 
 Her bonnie smile gleams thro' them a', 
 Like sunshine in the rain, lad ! 
 There's nane Hke, &c. 
 
 And then wi' buds she's decked my bower 
 
 As bonnie as the mither-flower, 
 
 And placed wi' them, its past my power 
 
 To say how proud and fain, lad, 
 I sit beside my ain wife, 
 My ain, ain, ain wife. 
 There's nane hke my ain wife — 
 
 I'll say't and say't again, lad."
 
 128 
 
 THE DAY IS GME. 
 
 1842. 
 
 [These lines allude to a freak of mine when a hoy of nine years.] 
 
 The day is gane when I could keep 
 
 Step wi' the lave by the Ha' -house fire ; 
 The day is gane when I could sleep 
 
 Sound as a top in barn or byre. 
 I'm altered noo in mind and mood ; 
 
 In loftier things I seek my joy ; 
 I've gotten a name wad mak' some prond ; — 
 
 But the Minstrel's no the Minstrel's Boy ! 
 
 I hate the warl's heartless mass, 
 
 Vile, dirty dross their end and aim ; 
 Yet I — if I erect wad pass — 
 
 Maun steep my soul in filth like them. 
 For time brought luve, and luve brought care, 
 
 And care brings meilde o' annoy : 
 I'd gie some coin to wear ance mair 
 
 The lightsome heart o' the Minstrel's Boy !
 
 129 
 
 SING TO ME NO MODISH TUNE. 
 
 1842. 
 
 [Calder Fair is the name of an air whicli was a great favourite with the 
 dancers in my young days.] 
 
 SING to me no modish tune, 
 But some old Scottish air, love ; 
 
 And would you give my heart a hoon, 
 Then sing it Calder Fair, love ? 
 
 1 know that tasteful ears would scorn 
 A thing so simple and so worn ; 
 
 But pleasant dreams to me are borne 
 In the notes of Calder Fair, love ! 
 Then sing to me, &c. 
 
 Again I lead the village dance, 
 
 Or join the village ring, love ; 
 Again I mark the roguish glance 
 That Peggy used to fling, love. 
 The reeling and the revelry. 
 The wooing and the witchery, 
 RetiU'n in all their truth to me 
 When that old air you sing, love. 
 Then sing to me, &c. 
 p.
 
 130 
 
 It throws me back the years long fled 
 On Memory's mirror true, love ; 
 
 The married are again unwed, 
 The faded bloom anew, love ; 
 
 Her stately shape my Mary shows, 
 
 And blooms my Jeanie's lip of rose ; 
 
 Ay — forms that now in dust repose. 
 Are passing in my view, love ! 
 
 Then sing to me, &c. 
 
 Nor while your notes those years restore, 
 Need you have doubts of me, love ; 
 
 I would not wish to live them o'er. 
 Nor what I've been to be, love ; 
 
 With pleasure, but without regret, 
 
 I see my loves in memory yet ; 
 
 For aU their beauties here are met — 
 I clasp them aU in thee, love. 
 
 Then sing to me, &c. 
 
 A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 1842. 
 
 There was gloom, there was grief, in the year that is 
 
 sped ; 
 But 'tis gone — and we loill not speak ill of the dead ! 
 Many joys it has left us, in friends that are dear, 
 And we'U wish one another a happy new year !
 
 131 
 
 Many joys it has left lis ; but some it has ta'en — 
 There were faces we never shall look on again ; 
 Kind hearts ever ready to welcome and cheer, 
 That now cannot wish us a happy new year ! 
 
 And some we must think of, the fi-iends of our soul ! 
 Though far they may be from our board and our bowl ; 
 We know they have hearts that are warm and sincere, 
 And we'U Avish them, though absent, a happy new 
 year ! 
 
 For those that are with us — their glances attest 
 That the same tide of feeling is high in each breast ; 
 That one chain of kindness links all that are here, 
 As we wish one another a happy new year ! 
 
 Then, old friend, take my hand, and be sure — when 
 
 I clasp — 
 There is heart in its pulse, there is soul in its grasp ! 
 And if you could doubt it, this truth-speaking tear 
 Will tell how I wish you a happy new j^ear !
 
 132 
 
 MUTE IS THE LYRE OF EBOE. 
 
 1842. 
 
 " We bring oiir years to an end, as it were a tale that is told." 
 
 Psalms. 
 
 ( On the death of John Nicholson, well known in the North as ' ' The Airedale 
 Poet." His life has been forcibly written by my friend John James, and 
 prefixed to a posthmnous edition of the poet's works — published for the 
 benefit of his widow and children. Mr. James is himself distinguished by 
 a " History of Bradford," which has been pronounced one of the very best 
 local histories extant. ) 
 
 Mute is the Lyre of Ebor ! cold 
 The Minstrel of the streamy Aire ! 
 
 The " years " are passed, the " tale " is told 
 Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare ! 
 
 The tale is told — what is the tale ? 
 
 The same that still the ear hath won, 
 As oft as, in life's humbler vale. 
 
 Genius hath found a wayward Son. 
 
 First comes the magic time of life, 
 
 When Boyhood sees nor dreams of gloom ; 
 
 And when within the breast are rife 
 
 Thoughts that are made of Hght and bloom !
 
 133 
 
 Tiien Youth will all its biu'iiing hopes 
 Of fame and glory ne'er to die, 
 
 When manfully with fate he copes, 
 And will not see a peril nigh. 
 
 At length he gives to public gaze 
 
 The transcrijpt of his glowing thought ; 
 
 And wdgar marvel, high-born praise. 
 Seem earnests of the meed he sought. 
 
 Now round him crowd, where'er he wends, 
 His mind yet pure and undebased, 
 
 The countless troop of talenfsjriends. 
 Men who affect — but have not — taste. 
 
 These bid him press to eager lips 
 The double poison of their bowl — 
 
 Flatteries that weaken as he sips. 
 
 And draughts that darken sense and soul ! 
 
 ^&" 
 
 for a voice to rouse him up. 
 To warn him ere too late it be, 
 
 That Frenzy mantles in the cup. 
 And that its dregs are — Misery ! 
 
 Days pass — years roll — the novelty 
 That charmed at first, is faded now : 
 
 And men that sowjht his hour of glee. 
 Repel him wdth an altered brow.
 
 134 
 
 Wliere is the bard's indignant breath ? 
 
 Alas, the bard, from habits learned 
 Is powerless to resent ; and Death 
 
 Kindly receives him — spent and spumed ! 
 
 Talk ye of Fame ? ! he hath borne 
 Contempt, alive ; but praise him, dead ! 
 
 Ay, mourn him — whom ye left to mourn ! 
 Grive bim a stone — ^ye gave not bread ! 
 
 No more. The old, sad tale is told 
 
 Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare ; 
 
 For mute is Ebor's Lyre, and cold 
 The Minstrel of the streamy Aire ! 
 
 I WOULD NOT PASS FKOM EARTH. 
 
 1842. 
 
 (This is the last piece of verse I composed in Craven.) 
 
 I WOULD not pass from Earth 
 In the sweet spring-time, 
 
 When all fair things have birth 
 In our Northland clime ! 
 
 When the forest's song is new ; 
 
 When the violet blooms in dew ; 
 
 When the living woods are seen 
 
 In their first and freshest green ;
 
 135 
 
 When the laughing mead unfolds 
 A hue that shames the gold's ; 
 When each hawthorn-hedge, in blow 
 Seems a wreath of summer snow ; 
 When the azure river glides 
 Thi'ough flowers that fringe its sides, 
 And, crowding rich and rife, 
 Drink thence exvdting life ; — 
 
 ! I would not vanish then 
 From the world of living men ! 
 
 1 know that, after death, 
 
 The Soul shall draw her breath 
 
 In a purer, finer air. 
 
 And 'mid scenes surpassing fair ; 
 
 But I feel — and be it said 
 
 Not profanely ! — might I tread 
 
 The vales of Heaven, e'en then 
 
 I should dream of earth again ! 
 
 So deep, here, the love-trace 
 
 Of nature and of place. 
 
 That my musings would come back 
 
 To their old and hallowed track, 
 
 Leave the pure life-waters there 
 
 For the Beaumont and the Aire ! 
 
 For beautiful is earth 
 
 In the sweet spring-time, 
 
 When all fair things have bii-th 
 In our Northland clime !
 
 136 
 
 POOR MAEY. 
 
 1842. 
 
 ["Poor Mary" was Mary Batty, of Skipton,— a fail- pupil of mine.] 
 
 In spring, alas ! poor Mary dies, 
 Ere many springs have found her ; 
 
 An early-bhghted flower she lies, 
 AVhen all is blooming round her ! 
 
 Yet consolation gilds the tear 
 "With which her fate we ponder : 
 
 She never caused a sorrow here, 
 And ne'er -will meet one yonder ! 
 
 ABOVE THE LINE OF LAMPS. 
 1843. 
 
 [Written in London.] 
 
 Above the line of lamps, above 
 
 The smoke that dims the evening air. 
 
 The Moon, whose beams I used to love, 
 Is shining now as calmly fair —
 
 137 
 
 I cannot doubt — as when site smiled 
 Upon me in some Northern glen, 
 
 Or by some mountain vast and wild, 
 
 Where rocks were — not rock-hearted men. 
 
 And even now on many a spot — 
 
 Still loved, though left — she glances down ; 
 Beheld by, but beholding not, 
 
 My friends in hamlet and in town. 
 
 I would I were upon her sphere ! 
 
 And were with powers of vision blest, 
 Extensive as her beams and clear ! — 
 
 ! where would, then, my vision rest ? 
 
 Not on the stars — though Mystery 
 Sat 'mid their orbs, my gaze to draw ! 
 
 Not on the seas — though gloriously 
 
 Flashed thence the pomp of Night I saw ! 
 
 But on the hills, and by the streams. 
 Whose very names are song to me ; 
 
 And round the homes, where fancy dreams 
 Warm-hearted friends of mine may be. 
 
 On Cheviot, sung in many a lay ; 
 
 By Beaumont, named in few but mine ; 
 By Till, that past the ruins gray 
 
 Of Etal leads its silver line ; 
 s
 
 138 
 
 By AVansbeck, rippling on its course ; 
 
 By Tyne, that mirrors banks so fair ; 
 By streamy Aire's romantic source ; 
 
 And by the Eibble — dear as Aire ! 
 
 Hallowed by Friendship and the Muse, 
 O'er them mine eyes would rove or rest : 
 
 For I am one who never lose 
 One kind emotion of the breast. 
 
 Let the cold sons of Reason claim 
 The praise of science and of art ; 
 
 All art, all science, and their fame, 
 
 Are nothing — ^weighed against the Heart ! 
 
 IT NE'ER WAS SPAK'. 
 
 1844. 
 
 [Written in one of the fields of lloddam . ] 
 
 It ne'er was spak', but aft was looKd ; 
 
 I ken'd it in your e'e, Jeanie ; 
 An' for the luve to me ye bore, 
 . I've often thought o' thee, Jeanie.
 
 139 
 
 AYhile faces, ance preferr'd to thine, 
 
 I willingly forget, Jeauie ; 
 Thy sonsie look o' unsought luve, 
 
 I mind and prize it yet, Jeanie ! 
 
 An' now I'm in the field we reap'd, 
 An' sigh to think ye're gane, Jeanie ; 
 
 For finer form there might ha been — 
 But kinder heart was nane, Jeanie ! 
 
 THE BOMIE PINK FLOWER. 
 
 1844. 
 
 [The hill alluded to in the followinG: lines is the Lanton Hill so often 
 mentioned. I saw the flower and wrote the song in 1844. It has been set 
 to Music by Mr. Waller, with accompaniments by Thirlwall.] 
 
 I CAM to the hill whare a boy I had wandered 
 
 An' high beat my heart when I traced it again ! — 
 As up its steep side — now an auld man — I dandered, 
 
 I stopp'd whare a bonnie Pink blossom' d its lane. 
 It seem'd a wee star lighted up amang heather ! 
 
 My first thought said — " Pu' it, an'^ bring it away," 
 But a tenderer pleaded — " How soon it wad wither ! 
 
 ! leave it to bloom on its ain native brae !
 
 140 
 
 " For wlia kens," pled the Thought, " but this bonnie 
 flower bloomin', 
 
 May hae some kin' o' feelin' or sense o' its ain ? 
 It 'ill change wi' the lift, be it smiKn' or gloomin'. 
 
 Exult in the sunshine, an' droop in the rain. 
 An' wha kens that it hasna some pleasure in gi'ein' 
 
 Its bloom to the e'e an' its sweets to the day ? 
 That it hasna a secret an' sweet sense o' bein F" — 
 
 Sae I left it to bloom on its ain native brae ! 
 
 Wad the young man but learn frae this simple 
 narration, 
 
 When he meets ■v\a' a bonnie lass bloomin' her lane, 
 To think — that tho' i^oor, an' tho' lowly in station, 
 
 The lass has a heart he may please, or may pain ! 
 Then, if he can mak' her a wife, let him tak' her, 
 
 An' bear her in joy an' in triumph away ! 
 But ! if he canna — beguile her he manna. 
 
 But leave her to bloom on her ain native brae !
 
 141 
 mm AULD FRIEN'S. 
 
 1844. 
 
 (The gentleman whose death called forth these linos— the " Dear Hudson" 
 of a very ditfercnt song in this collection— was, without one exception, the 
 best man I ever knew. His enthusiastic friendship for myself, his disin- 
 terested zeal for my reputation and success— I shall never forget. Nor has 
 he all died ! On my last visit to Yorkshire, I found his spirit stiU ani- 
 mating his friends, and meeting me at every turn, with the welcome of the 
 years that are past. 
 
 "Alas, how different— yet how like the same !") 
 
 MoNY auld frien's to ToAvn come, in kindness, to me, 
 Wi' the heart in the hand, an' the soul in the e'e ; 
 An' blithely I meet them, as aft as they ca' ; 
 But there's ane that comes never — the dearest of a' ! 
 
 There's aften some failin' where maist ane wad lean ; 
 Some mickle '11 praise when but little they mean. 
 You felt his heart beat in ilk word he let fa' ; 
 But that kind ane comes never — the dearest of a' ! 
 
 It isna the distance — that soon wad be pass'd ; 
 Its nae fit o' cauldness — that short while wad last ; 
 Its the stern grip o' Death that keeps Hudson awa', 
 An' he will come never — the dearest of a' ! 
 
 My ain day is closin', and I, too, maun dee ; 
 I scarce care how soon — if wi' him I may be ! 
 For nane but guid fellows around him 'ill draw, 
 And bo they a' monarchs, he's King o' them a' !
 
 142 
 
 LET US BE FPJENDLY? 
 
 1845. 
 
 ("Written for an annual dinner party, chiefly composed of certain oflicials 
 of the Houses ofParhament.] 
 
 LET US be friendly ! since brief is life's day, 
 And seldom undimmed by some trouble its ray, 
 'Twere folly in rancour or strife to employ 
 One moment that might be devoted to joy. 
 Impressed with, this truth are the hearts that meet 
 
 here, 
 For a banquet of friendship and mirth once a year ; 
 And no strife shall intrude, and no rancour ensue, 
 For '' Be friendly" 's the word when I'm dining with 
 
 You. 
 
 At home we have cares — but we leave them to-day ; 
 In the world there is business — 'tis not in our way ; 
 Our business goes on, when our joys are improving. 
 And our care is, to see that the bottles keep moving ! 
 The Queen, be she happy ! — we're happy as she ; 
 The Lords, be they wise — are they wiser than we ? 
 And as for the Commons, I hold it quite true, 
 
 1 am not of the Commons when dining with You !
 
 143 
 
 Then fill a round bumper, and each, in his place, 
 Drink ^Aith me — to the weaij of the whole human 
 
 race! 
 Whatever his colour, his cHme, or* his creed, 
 Be he savage or civilised, fettered or freed. 
 Each man upon us hath the claim of a brother ! 
 And if you can be touched by the woes of another. 
 You will pledge me with feelings befitting and due, 
 Nor allow them to part — when I've parted fi-om You ! 
 
 WE OFTEX LAUGHED AT FANNY. 
 
 1846. 
 
 We often laughed at Fanny, 
 
 But we loved her while we laughed ; 
 She was so odd a mixture 
 
 Of simplicity and craft. 
 Whate'er she thought she uttered. 
 
 And her words — she " reckon' d nou't" 
 Of the fine flash talk of London — 
 
 Hers was Yorkshire out and out !
 
 144 
 
 While her little schemes of cunning, 
 
 Wliich she thought so veiled, were still 
 As ohvious as the channel 
 
 Of the pTirest mountain rill. 
 Thus her heart being good and gentle, 
 
 And transparent all her craft, 
 We often laughed at Fanny, 
 
 But we loved her while we laughed ! 
 
 A short life was my Fanny's, 
 
 And slight the warning given ! 
 But her sins were those of childhood, 
 
 And her spirit is in Heaven. 
 All through her words, when dying, 
 
 Ean a vein of solemn thought ; 
 And we felt how wise was Fanny, — 
 
 We had laughed more than we ought. 
 Yet even in those moments 
 
 Came out a phrase, a word. 
 That reminded us of periods 
 
 AVhen the same with mirth we heard. 
 And we oft recall her sayings. 
 
 Her plaj-fulness and craft ; 
 But now — 'tis odd — Ave weep the most 
 
 At what the most we laughed !
 
 145 
 
 MY WILLIAM. 
 
 1846. 
 
 My "William died in London, 
 
 In London broad and brave ; 
 His Kttle life was but a drop 
 
 Dashed from her mighty wave ! 
 And few there were that mourned my boy, 
 
 When he went to his grave. 
 
 &* 
 
 Few moiu-ned — and when we laid him 
 In his earth-bed cold and low, 
 
 No hireling Mute, I said, shoidd stand 
 In mimicry of woe ; 
 
 But genuine tears, from eyes he loved, 
 Flowed forth — as still they flow. 
 
 I thought — ^but that was weakness — 
 
 I had rather seen him laid 
 In the distant, rural, green churchyard 
 
 Near which a child he j)layGd, 
 AVith daisies o'er the turf to bloom, 
 
 And no duU walls to shade. 
 
 T
 
 146 
 
 How shall we e'er forget him ? 
 
 His eye, instinct with light — 
 His cheek's fair bloom, which Death itseK 
 
 Found it most hard to bhght — 
 His little manly bearing — all 
 
 That made our cottage bright ! 
 
 Above a boy ambitious, 
 
 To learn, to work, to rise — 
 Beyond his years considerate, 
 
 And ominously wise — 
 how I prized him ! Noiv, it seems 
 
 That halfl did not prize. 
 
 London ! fatal London ! 
 
 How proud to come was I ! 
 How ]Droud was he ! how proud were all ! 
 
 And all have come — to die ! 
 Pass on, sad years ! and close the tale 
 
 With its best Avords — " Here lie"
 
 147 
 
 THE CHAIN IS BROKEN, FATHER. 
 
 1847. 
 
 [Supposed to be addressed to her father by Mrs. D , (who had been un- 
 happily married,) on the death of her mother.] 
 
 The chain is broken, Fatlier, 
 
 That bound together three ; 
 The middle link is taken ; — 
 
 But thou art left to me, 
 And I to thee, my Father ! 
 
 And here I promise thee, 
 That ne'er was truer Daughter found, 
 
 Than thou shalt find in me ! 
 
 I have no tie to life, Father ; 
 
 Save thee, I have not one ! 
 I bear indeed the name of wife, 
 
 But husband I have none. 
 I name not tliis regretfully — 
 
 All that is over now — 
 I name it but to let thee see 
 
 That my sole tie art Thou !
 
 148 
 
 And I will tend thee, Father, 
 
 As long as I have breath ; 
 And if it please my Mother's God, 
 
 I'll tend thy bed of death. 
 Then, the last tie dissevered, 
 
 I'll follow her and thee, 
 Where Love shall join the links again 
 
 That bound together three / 
 
 SLEEP, MY MARY! 
 1847. 
 
 [Music by Thirlwall.] 
 
 Sleep, my Mary ! sleep, my Mary ! 
 
 Sleep, though darksome be thy bed ; 
 Sleep my Mary ! sleep, my Mary ! 
 
 Sleep, though round thee lie the dead ! 
 Sleep ! — To this bed comes not nigh 
 
 Tortured night, or troubled day ; 
 Tearless sleep, the dead that lie 
 
 Eound thee — how harmless they !
 
 149 
 
 Sleep, my Mary ! sleep, my Mary ! 
 
 Dream not thou art left alone — 
 Listen, Mary ! listen, Mary ! 
 
 Well was once my footstep kaown ! — 
 Hush ! — That sob was much too loud ; 
 
 Glad I am the grave is deep ! 
 It would pain her in her shroud, 
 
 Could she hear her father weep ! 
 
 Sleep, my Mary ! sleep, my Mary ! 
 
 Dead thou art not — scarce removed ; 
 Still, my Mary ! still, my Mary ! 
 
 Thou art living, thou art loved ! 
 Living still — at least to me, 
 
 Still before my inward eye ; 
 Loved — as nothing else can be ! 
 
 Loved — till life and memory die !
 
 150 
 
 'TIS SWEET TO ESCAPE. 
 
 1847. 
 
 [Music by the same.] 
 
 'Tis sweet to escape from tlie noise of the city, 
 And spend one free day with a few we hold dear, 
 
 Who — all of them pleasant, and some of them witty, 
 Are siu'e to make that day the gem of the year. 
 
 The Thames that rolls by with its freightage of 
 treasure. 
 Must ebb — while we sit — in its changeful career ; 
 But no ebb shall take place in our spring-tide of 
 pleasure, 
 Till the sun has gone do-wn on this gem of the year ! 
 
 If the days we have passed had their trouble or sorrow. 
 If the heart had its pang, and the eye had its tear. 
 
 Sad thought may return with the gloom of to-morrow ; 
 Such thought shall not sully this gem of the year ! 
 
 'Tis a banquet of Friendship, which after-reflection 
 The deeper shall hallow, the more shall endear ; 
 
 For long shall come back on each pleased recollection 
 The beauty and light of this gem of the year !
 
 151 
 
 AT PAEKER'S TOMB. 
 
 1848. 
 
 [I knew the late Mr. Parker, of the Iff, in the West-Riding of Yorkshire, 
 well. He deserved every word of the character I have given him ia the 
 Epitaph.] 
 
 At Parker's Tomb — exulting — say : 
 He from the riglit ne'er swerved, 
 
 But, faitlifuUy and well, "his day 
 And generation" served. 
 
 Unwarped by censure or applause ; 
 
 Still firm, however tried ; 
 The world's amount of vii'tue was 
 
 Diminished when he died ! 
 
 His death was mourned by friends untold. 
 
 And e'en his foes confess. 
 That now the Queen's dominions hold 
 
 One honest man the less.
 
 152 
 
 MY BAEK IS ON THE TYNE. 
 
 1849. 
 
 (Founded on an old Northumbrian song, of which I never heard more than 
 the tune and chorus : 
 
 " . . . . Till the tide come in, till the tide come in, 
 We'll kiss a bonny lassie till the tide come in." 
 Set to music by Alicia Bennett.) 
 
 My bark is on the Tyne, and the wind blows fair ; 
 The tide is rising fast, and I've little time to spare ; 
 But, before the latest moment, to part would be a sin ! 
 So we'll kiss, my bonny Mary, till the tide come in. 
 Till the tide come in, till the tide come in, 
 We'U kiss, my bonny Mary, tiU the tide come in. 
 
 But why that filling eye, and that pale drooping brow ? 
 I cannot bear those sighs, love ! I pray suppress them 
 
 now. 
 Let all without seem pleasiu'e, though all be sad within, 
 And we'll kiss, my bonny Mary, till the tide come in. 
 Till the tide come in, &c. 
 
 I thank thee for that smile, it is simshine to me ; 
 And I'll keep it in my heart when I'm far away at 
 
 sea ; 
 It will Kghten on my watch when the lonely hours 
 
 begin ! 
 So we'll kiss, my bonny Mary, till the tide come in. 
 Till the tide come in, &c.
 
 153 
 
 It will lighten on my watcli, like a moonbeam on 
 
 deck ; 
 It will shine if there be battle, it will gleam if there 
 
 be wreck ; 
 It will nerve my soul in danger, an honoured name 
 
 to "odn ! 
 So we'll kiss, my bonny Mary, till the tide come in. 
 Till the tide come in, &c. 
 
 Again that eye is filled ! Well, unblamed it now 
 
 must be ; 
 But weej) not long, my dearest ; and breathe oft a 
 
 prayer for me ! 
 That prayer shall safe return me from the storm's or 
 
 battle's din, 
 To woo my bonny Mary till the tide come in ! 
 Till the tide come in, &c.
 
 154 
 
 SCORN NOT THE PLOUGH. 
 
 1849. 
 
 scoEN not tlie Plough ! wMcli for ages hath been 
 
 The boast of this Isle of the Free ; 
 And for ages to come, when our tombstones are green, 
 
 Our posterity's boast let it be. 
 Oiu- cottons and silks we might give to the moth, 
 
 Nor be much the worse oif, you'll allow ; 
 The loom, after all, can but fm-nish his Cloth, 
 
 The Man is sustained by the Plough ! 
 
 It was well with our sires when their -«ives s^mn the 
 fleece 
 That at church and at market they wore ; 
 "When the loom — still domestic — was clicking in 
 peace 
 On the flags of the cottager's floor. 
 And though manners have changed, yet let worst 
 come to worst. 
 We could live as they lived, even now ; 
 For garb is but second, food ever is first, 
 And our food is produced by the Plough !
 
 155 
 
 When England •vraged war — as again she may do, 
 
 And conquered as conquer she will, 
 Whence came the brave bands that, on red Waterloo, 
 
 Kept her soil the free soil it is still ? 
 All fresh from the country — not pale from the toAvns, 
 
 They marched, as they still would, I trow ; 
 The fine healthy men of the dales and the downs, 
 
 The broad-shouldered sons of the Plough ! 
 
 THE SEASONS IN PASSING. 
 
 18i9. 
 
 The seasons, in passing, one sweet moral bring, 
 And well — if he marked it — would man do ; 
 
 " Spread pleasure — Uke me," is the language of 
 Spring, 
 " Make all hearts as glad as you can do !" 
 
 The Summer but varies it : " Make each heart glad, 
 Treat all with the warmth of affection ; 
 
 My sun sliines alike on the good and the bad. 
 And shall you dare to think of selection V" .
 
 156 
 
 The Autumn repeats it : " My stores are for all ; 
 
 But should one, in the scramble, get favour. 
 Let him share it with those to whom little may fall. 
 
 And what's left will have all the more savour !" 
 
 And Winter affirms it — while shaking the door, 
 And binding the stream with his fetter : 
 
 " Keep the cold that I bring, from the hearths of the 
 poor. 
 And your own "wdll burn brighter and better !" 
 
 ¥ 
 
 So speaks every Season that comes and departs, 
 To the bosoms of all men appealing — 
 
 Alas, that it touches so few of our hearts ! 
 That so many continue unfeeling ! 
 
 What a world it would be, if — less mindful of pelf — 
 We esteemed every neighbour a brother ; 
 
 And if each, while he did a bit good for himself, 
 l>id a little bit, too, for another !
 
 157 
 
 IN YOUTH OUR FATHERS. 
 
 1849. 
 
 (For Her Majesty's birth-day.) 
 
 In youth, oiu* fathers sought the wood, 
 
 Or cKmbed the hill at dawning gray ; 
 Our mothers, in their maidenhood. 
 
 Donned their best garb to greet the May. 
 And though old rites have passed away, 
 
 The May is still with honour seen — 
 We love the Month that brings the day, 
 
 The natal day of England's Queen. 
 
 Our fathers twined the blossomed bough 
 
 To deck their chosen Queen of May ; 
 To ours, their love Three Kingdoms vow, 
 
 An Empire's millions homage pay ! 
 Their May-Queen reigned a single day. 
 
 Then passed, unnoticed, o'er the green ; 
 Through all the year we own the sway, 
 
 And bless the rule of England's Queen !
 
 158 
 
 May brings, at eve, the loveliest star, 
 
 At eve, the moon of softest ray ; 
 In May, the night's the fairest far. 
 
 The sweetest morning breaks — in Ma3^ 
 Then brightest blooms the woodland spray, 
 
 Then purest lies the dew-drop sheen — 
 As Nature's self would grace the day 
 
 That graced the world with England's Queen ! 
 
 MY BLESSING ON. 
 
 1851. 
 
 (In the fann-liouse of Threestoneljum, among the Cheviots, I have seen three 
 generations of the same family, and have spent many happy hoiirs with all 
 of them. 
 
 My blessing on yonder wild mountains, 
 
 On yonder wild valley between, 
 And on the sweet cot and its fountains, 
 
 The sweetest by wanderer seen ! 
 How gladly — the world's weary ranger — 
 
 My days in that cot could I spend, 
 AVhose door ne'er was barred on a stranger, 
 
 Whose bed — ne'er denied to a friend !
 
 159 
 
 The morn o'er the moorland was shining, 
 
 A morn without one streak of gloom — • 
 'Twas splendour with beauty combining, 
 
 The blending of sunshine and bloom ! 
 And the cot had each spell — when I found it, 
 
 The heart and the fancy to win ; 
 For all mountain charms were around it, 
 
 And all mountain virtues within ! 
 
 sweet was the flower of the heather, 
 
 As it bloomed in the sun and the dew ; 
 But a sweeter flower there he may gather, 
 
 "Who goes with a pure hand and true ! 
 For that cot has some lovelier blossoms 
 
 Than even the heather supplies — 
 The father's good heart in their bosoms, 
 
 The mother's kind glance in their eyes !
 
 160 
 
 WHO WOULD KOT BE VVMD OF OLD 
 ENGLAND? 
 
 1853. 
 
 Who would not be proud of old England, 
 
 With her great heart both tender and strong ? 
 
 Aj'^e ready to soften at sorrow, 
 Aye ready to kindle at wrong ! 
 
 To her friends a tall rock of the desert, 
 Whose fount with sweet water o'erflowg ; 
 
 An Etna in red-hot eruption, 
 
 And darting round death — to her foes. 
 
 Those rights which the nations stiU sigh for, 
 
 She, ages ago, made her own : 
 No slave she permits in her borders. 
 
 No tyrant she brooks on her throne ! 
 
 Supreme on her own mighty Island, 
 
 With the sea for her subject, she stands ; 
 
 And millions obey her and love her, 
 Who never set foot on her sands ! 
 
 We are loath to think Liberty mortal — 
 
 Undpng we hold her to be ; 
 Yet Liberty's life is bound uj) with 
 
 The life of this Queen of the sea !
 
 161 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO GrTIIRUM 
 THE DANE. 
 
 TO SIR WALTEE SCOTT. 
 
 SoTJL of the Last and Mightiest 
 
 Of all the Minstrels — be thou blest ! 
 
 For that thou hast bequeathed to me 
 
 A great and glorious Legacy, 
 
 Such as no other single mind — 
 
 Save Shakspeare's — ever left behind I 
 
 One, not of earth, or earth-born gold, 
 
 In acres broad, or sums untold, 
 
 "UTiich may by heii-s be wasted, may 
 
 By lawless force be swept away. 
 
 Or meanly filched by legal stealth ; 
 
 But a bequest of Mental Wealth ! 
 
 Left, not to me alone, although 
 
 As much my own as if 'twere so ; 
 
 And yet, high thanks to art divine, 
 
 As much the world's as it is mine : 
 
 E'en like the air, or like the sun, 
 
 Enjoyed by all, engrossed by none ; 
 
 Diffused, unspent, entire, though shared — 
 
 All undiminished, unimpaired ; 
 
 Ordained to rouse emotions hich. 
 
 And charm — till England's language die !
 
 162 
 
 ! when at first I saw the Tale 
 Which tells of the redoubted Gael, ' 
 And of the bard^ whose harp woiild wake 
 To soothe the Lady of the Lake, 
 
 1 did not read — That term were weak 
 The process of the hour to speak. 
 Page after page, thy words of flame 
 To me — without a medium — .came ! 
 
 The instant glanced at, glanced the whole 
 Not on my sights biit on my soul ! 
 And, thus daguerreotyped, each line 
 Wni there remain while life is mine ! 
 I deemed that lay the sweetest far 
 That ever sung of love and war ; 
 And vowed that, ere my dying day, 
 I would attempt such lovely lay. 
 But I was yomig, and had forgot 
 How difierent were from thine, Scott ! 
 My genius, and my earthly lot. 
 
 What though my ear, in boyhood's time, 
 Delighted, drank the flo\\Ting rhjone ? 
 Though then, Hke Pope, no fool to fame, 
 " I lisped in numbers," for they came, 
 And waked, uncensured, unapproved, 
 An echo of the strain I loved ? 
 And what though, in maturer days. 
 With none to judge, and few to praise.
 
 163 
 
 • Survived and ruled the impulse strong-, 
 And my heart lived and moved in song ? 
 Still — poor, unfi-iended, and untaught, 
 A Cyclops in my Cave of Thought, 
 Long sought I round, ere glimpse of day 
 Consoled me with its entering ray. 
 At length it came ! and then I tried 
 To wake my Harp in lonely pride. 
 
 My Harp was made from stunted tree, 
 
 The gro"\vth of Glendale's barest lea ;^ 
 
 Yet fresh as prouder stems it grew. 
 
 And drank, with leaf as green, the dew — 
 
 Bright showers, from Till or Beaumont shed, 
 
 Its roots with needful moisture fed ; 
 
 Gay bu'ds, Northumbrian skies that wing. 
 
 Amid its branches loved to sing ; 
 
 And purple Cheviot's breezy air 
 
 Kept up a life-like quivering there. 
 
 From Harp, thence rudely framed and strun"-, 
 
 Ah ! how should strain Kke thine be flunfr ? 
 
 H, moved by young ambition's dream, 
 
 I struck it to some lofty theme, 
 
 All harshly jarred its tortiu'ed chords, 
 
 As 'plaining such should be its lord's ; 
 
 But all its sweetness wakened stiU 
 
 To lay of Northern stream or hill ! 
 
 To Craven's emerald dales transferred, 
 
 That simple Harp with praise was heard.
 
 164 
 
 The manliest sons, the loveliest daughters, 
 That flourish by the Aire's young waters ; 
 By gentle Eibble's verdant side, 
 And by the AVharfe's impetuous tide. 
 Lauded its strains. And for this cause. 
 While thi-obs my breast to kind applause — 
 Nay, when, beneath the turf laid low. 
 No kind applause my breast can know — 
 A Poefs hlessimj, heart-bequeathed. 
 O'er the domains of Craven breathed. 
 Shall be to every hill and plain 
 Like vernal dew, or summer rain, 
 And stay with her, while bud or beU 
 Decks lowland mead, or upland fell!* 
 
 There — mindful still of thee — I strove 
 
 To frame a lay of war and love. 
 
 I roused old heroes from the lu-n ; 
 
 Bade buried monks to day return ; 
 
 And waked fair maids, whose dust had lain 
 
 Ages in lead, to bloom again ; 
 
 My grateful wish to pour along 
 
 Those emerald dales the charm of song, 
 
 And do for Malham's Lake and Cave 
 
 What thou hadst done for Katrine's wave. 
 
 Not that the pride impelled me now 
 
 That had inspired my youthful vow ; 
 
 I would but some like notes essay, 
 
 Not rashly wake a rival lay !
 
 165 
 
 But years of gloom and strife came on ; 
 
 Dark omens girt the British Throne ; 
 
 The Disaffected and the Bad, 
 
 Who hopes from wild commotion had, 
 
 Grave towns to tumult and to flame, 
 
 And treason wrought — in AVilliam's name ! 
 
 That was no time, in idle lays. 
 
 To kindle feuds of other days — 
 
 I tuned my Harj) to Order's cause, 
 
 And sung for Britain's King and Laws !* 
 
 For party ? Ay ! hut party then 
 
 Was led by England's greatest men — 
 
 By Him, ^ to save his country born. 
 
 By Him, '' whom all the people mourn ; 
 
 'Twas graced by Staivley's* noble name, 
 
 And vaunted that of ' gallant Gtraeme.'" 
 
 Men — far too high, too pure, too proud. 
 
 To flatter either court or crowd ; 
 
 Men — moved by patriotic zeal, 
 
 And seeking nought but England's weal ! 
 
 Dull were the head could style the man 
 
 Who followed ihem, a partisan. 
 
 Ear from thy Tweed — my birth that claims— 
 
 I find myseK on regal Thames ! 
 
 The swans that Spencer loved to sing, 
 
 Before me prune the snowy wing ; 
 
 In Surrey woods, by moonlight pale, 
 
 I list to Thomson's nightingale ; ' "
 
 166 
 
 Use tlie same walks that Collins used, 
 
 And muse, where Pope himseK hath mused ! ' ^ 
 
 What wonder if the wish, that burned 
 
 So strong in youth, in age returned ; 
 
 And — 'mid such scenes — my Harp again 
 
 Took up the long-abandoned strain ? 
 
 But ah ! when of the high design 
 
 Is traced at length the closing line, 
 
 I say not — How unlike to thine ! 
 
 (The forward child of youthful pride, 
 
 That bold Presimiption long hath died) 
 
 But — How unhke to that which first 
 
 On my enraptvired Fancy burst. 
 
 When, fresh and fair, my untried theme 
 
 Pose — like a landscape in a dream ! 
 
 That landscape hath familiar groAvn, 
 
 And half of its romance is floA,vn. 
 
 Thvis regions new, in distance seen, 
 
 Have sunny vales of smoothest green. 
 
 And mountains which, as they ascend, 
 
 With the blue sky so softly blend, 
 
 That — giving nought of earth to view — 
 
 They seem to be ethereal too ! 
 
 But, visited, the change is harsh ; 
 
 The vales that looked so smooth, are marsh ; 
 
 Brushwood and heath the hills array ; 
 
 And rock and quagmii-e bar the way ! 
 
 Yet round that marsh, who seek the vale, 
 
 May violet find, or primrose pale ;
 
 167 
 
 Yet on those hills, who choose to climb, 
 May meet the crow-flower or the thyme ; 
 While e'en the rock for buds has room. 
 And e'en the cjuagmire boasts its bloom ! 
 
 And, well I hope, that Northman ne'er 
 
 Will lend a cold fastidious ear. 
 
 To hear a Native Bard rehearse 
 
 In the good old heroic verse. 
 
 How, bold of heart and strong of hand, 
 
 His Danish Fathees won NoRTnuMBEELA^'D. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1 Eoderick Dhu. 2 Allan-Bane. 
 
 » Glcndale, one of the minor divisions of the coiuity of Northuiiilierland, 
 takes its name from the small stream of the Glen. 
 
 4 This, and the preceding paragi-aph, have ah-eady appeared in the Ejiistlc 
 to Gourley ; hut to have omitted them here, woidd have marred the Intro- 
 duction. 
 
 •^ I ti-ust that this will not he considered a too ostentatious allusion to a 
 numher of loyal and patriotic lyrics, which successively appeared in most of 
 the learUnj journals of the day, and which, in their coUooted form, went 
 through three editions. 
 
 6 The Duke of Wellington. 7 The late Sir Eobert Peel. 
 
 8 Now the Earl of Derby. Sir James Graham. 
 
 I Thomson's fondness for the song of the nightingale is well luiown. He 
 was in the hahit of sitting at his open window lialf the summer night, entran- 
 ced with its unrivalled music. The name of CoUins, in my mind, is 
 inseparably connected with that of Thomson, by his beautiful Elegy on the 
 death of the latter. 
 
 I I I allude to Batter.sea, the lanes and walks of which must ha\-e luen 
 familiar lo the great iK)et, from his frequent \ibits to the mansion of his friend, 
 Lord BoUngbroke, at that place.
 
 IfiR 
 
 FAIREST OF ALL STAES. 
 1852. 
 
 [In memory of Sarah, my eldest daughter — the same who plucked the violet 
 in 18i5. See page 40.] 
 
 Fairest of all Stars ! Star of the Even ! 
 
 See'st thou a Soiil pass — faii'er than thou ? 
 Brief though the time since she left us for Heaven, 
 
 Perhaps, in her journey, she passes thee now ! 
 Angels she wants not to guide or attend her, 
 
 Certain and safe is her path through the skies ; 
 Ray as she was from the Source of all splendour. 
 
 Back to that Source she — instinctively — flies ! 
 
 Spirits will hail her ; sisters and brothers 
 
 Give to her greeting a joyful response — 
 ! will they talk of their father and mother's 
 
 Death-darkened home — which was bright with 
 them once ? 
 Talk of it, blest ones ! early selected ! 
 
 Memories of sadness, no sadness will bring ; • 
 Joy will seem sweeter for woes recollected, 
 
 As Winter, remembered, adds beauty to Spring !
 
 169 
 
 THE PEERAGE OF INDUSTEY. 
 
 1853. 
 
 CWritten for, and recited at, the opening of the gi-eat Model Mill of Saltaire, 
 near Bradford, where about four thousand guests, nearly three thousand 
 of whom were Mr. Salt's own woik-people, sat do^Ti to a sumptuous dinner, 
 all in one room. The lines have been circulated wherever the English 
 language is read — a distinction as much above theii- merit, as was the 
 liberality— worthy of the "Lord of Saltaire" — with which they were ac- 
 knowledged.) 
 
 To the praise of tlie Peerage liigh liarps have been 
 strung', 
 
 By Minstrels of note and of name ; 
 But a Peerage we have, to this moment unsung, 
 
 And why should not thet/ have their fame ? 
 'Tis the Peerage of Industry ! Nobles who hold 
 
 Their patent from Nature alone — 
 More genuine far than if purchased with gold, 
 
 Or won, by mean arts, from a throne ! 
 And of Industry's Nobles, what name should be first, 
 
 If not his whose proud banquet we share ? 
 For whom should our cheers simultaneously burst, 
 
 K not for the Lord of Saltaire ? 
 For this is his praise — and who merit it not. 
 
 Deserve no good luck shoidd overtake them — 
 That while making his thousands, he never forgot 
 
 The thousands that helped him to make them !
 
 170 
 
 Tlie Peer who inherits an ancient estate, 
 
 And glads many hearts with his pelf, 
 "We honoiu' and love ; but is that man less great, 
 
 Who founds his own fortune himself ? 
 Who builds a town round him ; sends joy to each 
 hearth ; 
 
 Makes the workman exult 'mid his toil ; 
 And who, while supphdng the markets of Earth, 
 
 Enriches his own beloved soil ? 
 Such a man is a Noble, whose name should be first, 
 
 In our heart — in our song — in our prayer ! 
 For svich should our cheers simultaneously burst, 
 
 And such is the Lord of Saltaire ! 
 Eor this is his praise — and who merit it not. 
 
 Deserve no good luck should overtake them — 
 That while making his thousands, he never forgot 
 
 The thousands that helped him to make them !
 
 171 
 
 YOU HAVE HEARD. 
 1853. 
 
 [For the fairy tale of the Whistle, see Thorp's " Yule-tide Stories." Music 
 by Jay.] 
 
 *' You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart 
 who stood, 
 While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline, 
 "You have heard of the Danish boy"s whistle of 
 wood — 
 I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine !" 
 
 "And what would you do with it? Tell me!" she 
 said. 
 While an arch smile played round her beautiful 
 face; 
 " I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair 
 maid 
 Would fly to my side, and would here take her 
 place." 
 
 *' Is that all you wish it for? That may be yours 
 Without any magic," the fair maiden cried ; 
 
 " A favour so slight one's good nature seciu'es !" 
 And she playfully seated herself by his side.
 
 172 
 
 *' I would blow it again," said tlie youtli, " and the 
 charm 
 "Would work so, that not even Modesty's check 
 Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm !" 
 She smiled, and she laid her fine arm round his 
 neck. 
 
 *' Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine 
 Woidd bring me, the third time, an exquisite bliss — 
 You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of 
 mine, 
 And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a 
 kiss. 
 
 The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee — 
 
 "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd 
 make ! 
 
 For only consider, how silly 'twould be 
 
 To sit there and ivhistlejor — what you might take !"
 
 WE EEAR NO WAR-DEFYING FLAG. 
 1853. 
 
 We rear no war-defyiug flag, 
 
 Though armed for battle still ; 
 The feeble, if he like, may brag- — 
 
 The powerful never will. 
 The flag we rear in every breeze. 
 
 Float where it may, or when, 
 Waves forth a signal o'er the seas 
 
 Of — " Peace, Good- will to men !" 
 
 For arms, we waft across the waves 
 
 The fruits of every clime ; 
 For death, the truth that cheers and saves : 
 
 AVhat mission more sublime ? 
 For flames, we send the lights afar 
 
 Out-flashed from press and pen ; 
 And for the slogans used in war. 
 
 Cry — "Peace, Good- will to men!" 
 
 But are there States who never cease 
 
 To hate or envy ours ? 
 And who esteem oiu- wish for peace 
 
 As proof of waning poA^-ers ?
 
 174 
 
 Let them but dare tlie trial ! High 
 Shall wave our war-flag then ! 
 
 And woe to those who change our cry 
 Of " Peace, Good- will to men!" 
 
 BRING OUT THE OLD WAR-FLAG. 
 
 1854. 
 
 Bring out the old War-flag ! Long, now, it has lain, 
 
 Its folds — rich with glory — all piously furled ; 
 And the hope of our heart was, that never again 
 
 Should we see it float forth in the wars of the world. 
 For still we remembered the blood, and the tears. 
 
 Both real — for sight, not imagined — for song. 
 That dimmed e'en its triumphs thi-ough many dark 
 years. 
 
 When it waved in the battles of Eight against 
 Wrong ! 
 
 But down with regrets ! or leave them to our foes, 
 Whose outrage forbids us at peace to remain — 
 
 And up with it now from its honoured repose, 
 
 'Mid the cheers of a people that cheer not in vain !
 
 175 
 
 They elieer to behold it once more coming forth, 
 
 The weak to defend from the sword of the stro 
 For — true to its fame — the first flae; of the North 
 ^ill but 
 Wrong 
 
 Will but wave in the battles of Eight against 
 
 Take, Warriors of Freedom, the flag we bestow, 
 
 To be shortly unfurled at the trimipet's wild breath! 
 We give it you stainless ; and Britons, we know, 
 
 Will bring it back stainless, or clasp it in death ! 
 But why talk of death, save of death to our foes, 
 
 When ye meet them in conflict — too fierce to be 
 long? 
 ! safe is the War-flag, confided to those 
 
 Who fight in the battles of Eight against Wrong !
 
 176 
 
 SHE TEIED TO SMILE. 
 1855. 
 
 ' ' The Empress endeavoured to smile, in ackiiowledg-ment of the cheers, 
 but her feelings overcame hor : she threw herself back, and gave way to a 
 flood of tears." — Report of the attempted assassination of the French 
 Emperor.] 
 
 She tried to smile, for site would fain 
 Have so received Iter people's cheers ; 
 
 But her heart found the effort vain, 
 And it gushed o'er in copious tears. 
 
 Above the Empress, in that strife. 
 
 Arose the Woman and the Wife. 
 
 She turned to her imperiled mate 
 
 With — who shall say what mingled pangs ?- 
 On whose attempted life the fate 
 
 Of Europe, at this moment, hangs — 
 How looked he when thus sorely proved ? 
 He was the only one unmoved ! 
 
 Heaven-raised, Heaven-shielded, there he sat, 
 Impassive as the mountain rock — 
 
 A thousand storms may blaze round that, 
 It stirs not at the mightiest shock. 
 
 The fountain in its breast may quiver — 
 
 Its asjiect is the same for ever !
 
 177 
 
 And hides not He, beneath, that cold 
 » Cabn front, a tender fountain too ? 
 And felt he not how sweet to hold 
 
 The empire of a bosom true ? 
 And deemed he not each tear a gem 
 Worth all that grace his diadem ? 
 
 hapj)y in this double sway 
 
 Of heart and empire ? Thou canst boast 
 That were the empire wrenched away, 
 
 The heart left, there were Kttle lost ; 
 The heart which blesses now th}- lot, 
 Would make a palace of a cot ! 
 
 MY BLESSING ON BRADFORD. 
 
 My blessing on Bradford ! though smoky it be, 
 No town in broad Yorkshia-e is dearer to me : 
 It is dear for the Past when full often a guest, 
 I sat at its board with the friends I loved best ; 
 AVhen wine made our many Symposia divine. 
 And the kindness was even more prized than the wine. 
 It is dear for the Present ; for though I am thrown 
 In this vast and cold desert of brick and of stone, 
 
 Y
 
 178 
 
 With leagues interposed between Bradford and me — 
 If a hundi-ed old friends from the country I see, 
 Be sure of that hundi-ed (most ask me to dine !) 
 The noble Bradfordians make ninety and nine ! 
 Then can I but love it ? though dark be its wa-eath, 
 I know what is warming and shininff beneath ; 
 Its Genius to me is a gloom-chasing spell, 
 And the light of its Friendships doth darkness dispel. 
 
 OUR NIGHTINGALE'S FAME. 
 
 1855. 
 
 When a Knight of the old time was wounded in war, 
 
 His lady-love flew to the field where he lay. 
 Had him carefully borne to some castle afar, 
 
 And tended his sick couch by night and by day. 
 Pure, pure was the love that her fair bosom held. 
 
 And pure was the feeling that woke at her name ; 
 But our own time has seen her devotion excelled. 
 
 And her brightest fame darkened by Nightingale's 
 fame.
 
 179 
 
 It was not a lover whose pallet she smoothed, 
 
 She phed not her task in a castle's proud room ; 
 The poor wounded soldier she tended and soothed, 
 
 'Mid the hospital's fetid and comfortless gloom ! 
 She talked to him — dying — of life beyond earth, 
 
 Tin the soul passed, in joy, from the war-shattered 
 frame ; 
 And for this she had left her fair home and bright 
 hearth ! — 
 
 ! Mortal ne'er merited Nightingale's fame ! 
 
 The purest of earthly love ever is mixed 
 
 With something of earth. On the one side all soul, 
 All sense on the other, it hovers betwixt, 
 
 And — touching on both — bears a taint through the 
 whole. 
 But her love was free from the human alloy ; 
 
 'Twas a flame from the Holiest's altar of flame ! — 
 She went forth an Angel of Mercy and Joy, 
 
 And Angels might covet our Nightingale's fame !
 
 ISO 
 
 SEBASTOrOL IS LOW! 
 
 1855. 
 
 How eagerly we listen 
 
 For the tidings which., we know, 
 Must thunder from the Euxine — 
 
 Of the Russian's overthrow, 
 Of the struggle, of the carnage, 
 
 Redly heaping friend on foe — 
 When the last assault is over 
 
 And Sebastopol is low ! 
 
 Think ye we fight for glory ? 
 
 We won it long ago ! 
 Or for a wider empire ? 
 
 No — by our honoiu' — no ! 
 But we fight for Freedom's empire- 
 
 Ancl that shall wider grow, 
 When the last assault is over, 
 
 And Sebastopol is low !
 
 18T 
 
 O'er the nations darkly pining 
 
 In serfdom's night of woe, 
 See ! the clouds are being scattered, 
 
 And the dawn begins to glow ! 
 And the lark of Freedom — singing — 
 
 Through sunny skies shall go. 
 When the last assault is over, 
 
 And Sebastopol is low ! 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not those boomings, 
 
 Repeated deep and slow ? 
 'Tis the voice of Freedom's triumph — - 
 
 It is struck — the glorious blow ! 
 And all through merry England 
 
 Brave songs, to-night, shall flow ; 
 For the last assault is over, 
 
 And Sebastopol is low !
 
 182 
 
 THE ZEPHYR OF MAY. 
 
 1856. 
 
 [A song- of the Peace.] 
 
 The spring will bring peace, as it brings the fine 
 weather, 
 The war and the winter will both have blown o'er ; 
 And joys, like the flowers upon greensward and 
 heather. 
 Will bloom o'er the land in profusion once more. 
 Fair eyes, dim "ndth weeping now, then will be bright 
 again — 
 No dewy violets brighter then they ! 
 True hearts that are heavy now, then will be light 
 again — 
 Dancing like leaves in the zephyr of May ! 
 
 Alas, there are hearts that, the higher our gladness, 
 
 The deeper will sink in their fathomless woe ; 
 There are eyes to which spring will bring nothing but 
 sadness. 
 Since it cannot bring those whom the war has laid 
 low !
 
 183 
 
 But God will pour balm into bosoms despairing ; 
 
 The Mourner, in time, will look ujpward and say — 
 *' He died a brave death ! he won peace by his daring !" 
 
 And a proud sigh wiU blend with the zephyr of 
 May. 
 
 With flag by foes riddled, but ! never captured, 
 
 Our warriors will bound again o'er the sea-foam ; 
 And the loved ones, left woful, will meet them, 
 enraptured, 
 And in triumph bear each to his now-honoared 
 home. 
 We have proved to the world — and the world will re- 
 member — 
 That to conquer in battle we still know the way ! 
 But though we — to the foe — are the blast of Decem- 
 ber, 
 We are — to the vanquished — the zephyi- of May !
 
 184 
 
 FOEGIVE ME, MY NATIVE HILLS! 
 
 1856. 
 
 [Written after visiting Alnwick Castle.] 
 
 Forgive nie, my native hiUs, 
 Whose breezes fan my brow ; 
 
 And my native streams and rills, 
 Forgive your Minstrel now ! 
 
 A sj)ell is working in my brain 
 
 And overpowers your own, 
 WMcli fails to wake, or bring again. 
 
 Emotions dead, or flown. 
 
 I do not in each lone place kneel, 
 
 As I — aforetime — knelt ; 
 I cannot gaze, I cannot feel, 
 
 As then I .gazed and felt. 
 
 On all your Avell-known forms I glance, 
 
 Which yet I hardly view ; 
 For still comes one sweet countenance 
 
 Between my eyes and you !
 
 185 
 
 It beams from Lanton's grassy liill, 
 
 It glances from the Grlen, 
 And in the Beaumont's mirror still 
 
 It fades, and comes again ! 
 
 'Tis in yon mist, which Newton Torr 
 
 Now lowers, now iipdraws. 
 And lo ! the mist is mist no more — ■ 
 
 But Beauty's veil of gauze ! 
 
 Forgive me ! Ye are still my pride, 
 
 Yoiu- charms I still prefer ; 
 But now my soul will not divide 
 
 The worship due to Her, 
 
 "Who charms b}' condescension, yet 
 
 Ne'er seems to condescend ; 
 In whom are all the graces met. 
 
 And all the virtues blend ; 
 
 Wlio in her halls, but yesterday, 
 Eeceived yoiu- humble bard, 
 
 And deigned some words of praise to say, 
 Each word — a life's reward !
 
 186 
 
 A BEING THERE IS. 
 1857. 
 
 A Being tliere is, of whose endless existence, 
 
 No sane mind e'er doubted, or harbovu'ed a doubt ; 
 
 A Being with, whom there is no time, no distance ; 
 Who pervades all within me, pervades all without. 
 
 In my brain, at this instant. He marks every motion 
 Of thought — as if no thought were moving but 
 mine ; 
 Yet sees, the same instant, each whim and each 
 notion 
 In every quick brain from the poles to the line ! 
 
 Nor, while He is watching Earth's myriads, can it 
 Be said that from any one orb He is far ; 
 
 No, He is as near to yon beautiful planet, 
 His essence imbosoms the furthest lone star ! 
 
 The furthest lone star ? It is language that labours — 
 
 No star is, to Him, either furthest or lone ; 
 And the star we deem lone, may have millions of 
 neighboiu's, 
 "Whose beams ne'er have yet through our atmos- 
 phere shone !
 
 187 
 
 These love-peopled worlds are the bright emanation 
 Of goodness yet brighter, which words would but 
 dim ; 
 
 And the meanest intelligent life in creation, 
 
 Hath the care, the protection, the kindness of Him ! 
 
 If we think that He leaves us, we then are forgetting 
 That He is the fixed, the unchangeable One — 
 
 The sun leaves not us, when it seems to be setting, 
 'Tis we who are turning away from the sun ! 
 
 OUR SAXON FATHERS! 
 
 1858. 
 
 [Sot to music by G. W. Marten. Piililished in the Journal of Part 
 Music, and recently performed in Exeter Hall by the Jfational Choral 
 Society. — Ed. ] 
 
 OiTR Saxon fathers built a bridge 
 
 With piers and arches massive, 
 Which now hath stood for many a year 
 
 To flow and flood impassive. 
 From every treacherous inland foe, 
 
 From every bold sea-rover. 
 It was their pride and boast to guard 
 
 The bridge that bore them over.
 
 188 
 
 The Norman clutclied it ; but the pride 
 
 Our sires had learned to cherish, 
 Disdained submission, and they swore 
 
 To win it back or joerish. 
 They met in arms at E-unnjonede, 
 
 Prepared to stain the clover. 
 Had not the tyrant pelded up 
 
 The bridge that bore them over. 
 
 The Stuart seized it for himself. 
 
 And fi-om the peoj)le blocked it ; 
 He on the centre placed a gate, 
 
 And trebly barred and locked it. 
 The people rose. A thunder-cloud 
 
 Seemed o'er the place to hover, 
 Then burst ! — and gate and block had left 
 
 The bridge that bore them over. 
 
 Time weareth all. Some rifts may claim 
 
 A wise examination, 
 A stone decayed may be replaced ; 
 
 Not touched the old foundation ! 
 let us swear — hand locked in hand 
 
 From John o' Groat's to Dover — 
 To keep, 'gainst home and foreign foes, 
 
 The bridge that bears us over !
 
 189 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 1858. 
 
 [Eecited at the FrccmaRons' Tavern, London, on the occasion of the 
 celebration of the Duke of Northumberland's birlh-day, tht^ 15th 
 December.— Ed . ] 
 
 We come not here all selfislily, 
 
 From sense of favours s]io^\ni ; 
 For that too independent, we 
 
 A nobler impulse own. 
 We come to pay such, homage here 
 
 As honest men may pay 
 To ONE they honour and revere, 
 
 On this his natal day ! 
 
 To flatter greatness which is based 
 
 On rank and wealth alone — 
 "SATiy, we should feel oxu^selves disgraced, 
 
 Although it filled a throne ; 
 But when 'tis based on native worth. 
 
 And shines with native rays. 
 We then were " earthy — of the earth," 
 
 If we forbore to praise !
 
 190 
 
 And here no flower of song there needs ; 
 
 For all our hearts attest, 
 That but to simply state his deeds, 
 
 Would he to praise him best. 
 But who, in tracing back the past, 
 
 Can haK his deeds compute, 
 Whose" sjTapathies embrace the vast, 
 
 And touch the most minute ! 
 
 Whate'er in science and in art 
 
 Exalts his native land. 
 He cherishes with hand and heart — • 
 
 Warm heart, and open hand. 
 Where'er song blooms, like vernal shower 
 
 His patronage distils, 
 Down to the very lowliest flower 
 
 That decks Northumbrian hills ! 
 
 The sailor, far on ocean's foam, 
 
 For him bids prayer ascend ; 
 The little swimmer, nearer home, 
 
 Knows weU his princely friend. 
 When o'er the coasting vessel's deck 
 
 Hath burst th' engulphing wave, 
 A beacon to the humblest wreck 
 
 'Tis his to shine and save.
 
 "V\^iile his ancestral Towers receive 
 
 Fresh gTandeur from his taste, 
 No poor man's dwelling will he leave 
 
 To Time's incessant waste. 
 Proud to adorn — as who woidd not ? — • 
 
 The home that Hotspur knew, 
 He loves to give the peasant's cot 
 
 Its meet adornment too. 
 
 Means all but boundless others boast — 
 
 Who boasts, like him, a Mind 
 That studies how his wealth shall most 
 
 And best befriend mankind ? 
 And be his fairer self named here — 
 
 No deed we justly laud 
 He ever does, but she is near, 
 
 To prompt it, or applaud ! 
 
 Then to his health a bumper fill ! 
 
 And when the glass we raise, 
 We feel that, praise him as we 'waU, 
 
 We cannot over-praise. 
 And when — long hence ! — he quits life's walk. 
 
 Life's duties nobly done, 
 A far Posterity shall talk 
 
 Of Good Duke Algerkon !
 
 192 
 
 BURNS' CENTENARY FESTIVAL, 
 AN ODE. 
 
 ["Written expressly for, and recited at, the Alloway Festival, in "Burns' 
 Cottage," 25tli January, 1859.] 
 
 I. 
 
 "Wliat moves fair Scotland ? Tell me wliy 
 
 Her realm of old renown 
 Hears everywliere one festive cry 
 
 In country and in town ? 
 What stirs lier peasantry, that they 
 
 The long procession crowd ? 
 And what hath mixed with theii" array 
 
 The high-born and the proud ? 
 Wherefore hath Science poured her sons 
 
 To swell and grace the throng ? 
 And Poesy her noblest ones 
 
 That charm the land with song ? 
 Tell me what cause together brings 
 
 A Nation's wealth and worth ? 
 Commemorate they the birth of Ejngs ? 
 
 No, no ! a Peasant's birth ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A Peasakt ! born to teach the great 
 
 That, honoured as they are. 
 There may be found in low estate 
 
 Men — their superiors far ;
 
 193 
 
 And that while Royalty transmutes 
 
 Liegemen to lords at will. 
 Nature selects and institutes 
 
 A Peerage grander still ! 
 To teach the patient sons of toil 
 
 That they have that within, 
 Which makes the Tillers of the soil 
 
 And all above them, kin ; 
 That they are born with rights to scan, 
 
 And, if need be, to save ; 
 That each — the least — is stiU a Man 
 
 Whom none dare make a slave ; 
 That though the accident of bir&i 
 
 A different rank hath given. 
 They have -with them a common earth, . 
 
 With them, a common Heaven ! 
 — High teachings ! and exemplified 
 
 On many a Scottish sward, 
 Where rich and poor, with equal pride, 
 
 Applaud their Peasant-Bard ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Not mournfully — as if his death 
 
 Were still a recent woe — 
 We mingle where he first drew breath 
 
 A hundi-ed years ago ; 
 Not mournfully, but jo-\-fully, 
 
 Exultingly we meet — 
 Above our heads his " lift sae hie," 
 
 His land beneath our feet !
 
 194 
 
 Ay, his ! for time — wliate'er beside 
 
 Its ravage overturns — 
 Will leave this land its name of pride, 
 
 " The Land of Eobert Burns !" 
 His ! for your bard was not of those 
 
 Bright meteors — brief as bright ; 
 The Light that erst in Ayrshire rose 
 
 Is an undying Light ! 
 'Tis burning, shining, — shedding still, 
 
 Where'er its beam extends, 
 A brighter tint on vale and hill 
 
 Than fairest sunshine lends ! 
 His ! for the King of Scottish song 
 
 His Banner here unfurled ; 
 And round it now — as subjects — throng 
 
 The men that move the world ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 enviable Triiimph ! Nor 
 
 To Scotland now confined — 
 The Peasant-Bard, your own no more, 
 
 Belongs to all mankind ! 
 Veiled in the tongue which many a strain 
 
 To every Scot endears, 
 But which, till Bttens began his reign, 
 
 Was strange to Southern ears —
 
 195 
 
 Veiled in tlie language of the North, 
 
 His genius burst its shroud, 
 Like sunshine from the cloud went forth- 
 
 The brighter for the cloud ! 
 And now his words — each word a ray — 
 
 O'er earth their splendoiu-s dart. 
 But win theii- first and easiest way 
 
 To Engla]st)'s sister heart. 
 His love of right, his hate of wrong, 
 
 His quenchless freedom-thu-st, 
 "VVTiich made this bard of burning song 
 
 Of Freedom's bards the Fii-st — 
 His lays on woman fair and pure, 
 
 Our best gift from above, 
 Which ever will his rank insure, 
 
 First of the bards of Love — 
 Find there congenial feelings rife 
 
 That burn and bind till deatli. 
 Where Love is held the sold of life, 
 
 And Liberty the breath ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Triiunph dearly purchased ! Ye 
 Who garnish now his tomb, 
 
 And — pondering on the misery 
 Which closed his early doom —
 
 196 
 
 Are prone to say " If we liad been 
 
 Existent in liis day, 
 We would not, like our sires, have seen 
 
 The bard so pass away !" 
 More humbly think, nor harshly blame 
 
 What seems indeed a crime — 
 Ye view him in the light of fame, 
 
 And through the haze of time ; 
 Ye care not now the faults to see 
 
 With which his life was charged, 
 And which a diill malignity 
 
 Then blackened and enlarged ; 
 Nor can ye tell how few of those 
 
 Who might have sought his weal, 
 Were ever cognizant of woes 
 
 His Pride would not reveal. 
 Then gently blame, if blame ye must, 
 
 But, first, inquire with care, 
 Are ye to Living Worth more just 
 
 Than your forefathers were ? 
 Go — if ye slight yoiu* gifted ones 
 
 Till quenched their sacred fires. 
 Go — earn that censure from your sous 
 
 Ye lavish on your sires ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I leave his woes. The Muse's gold 
 
 Is ever tried by fixe ; 
 In sufiering she is wont to mould 
 
 Her Masters of the lyre.
 
 197 
 
 And wlio would shun his woes, could he 
 
 Secure the fruit they bore — 
 His country's love from sea to sea, 
 
 And fame for evermore ! 
 I leave his faults. To dwell on them 
 
 Good men will little reck ; 
 The lorighter that we find the gem, 
 
 The darker seems the speck. 
 And thousands pass — unblamed — from sight, 
 
 Far deeplier stained than He, 
 Whose genius ;yields, itself, the light 
 
 By which the stains we see ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Nor will I seek, presumptuously, 
 
 The curtain to updraw 
 "Which covers that Eteenity 
 
 No mortal ever saw. 
 But I — for one — will ne'er believe 
 
 That his Great Heart which, here, 
 Was formed to grieve with those that grieve, 
 
 And longed to dry each tear ! — 
 Which loved the true, the pure, the good. 
 
 In cottage or in hall, 
 And sang, in many a glorious mood, 
 
 The loves and joys of all ! — 
 Which hated all things bad and base, 
 
 All fraud and falsehood spurned, 
 Ajid 'gainst th' Oppressors of his race 
 
 Its keenest arrows tvirned ! —
 
 198 
 
 Which warmly felt, and widely poured, 
 
 The freeman's, patriot's flame, 
 Till Scotland grew a " household word" 
 
 Extensive as his fame ! — 
 I never will believe that — beat 
 
 That Grreat Heart where it may — 
 It beats in aught but bliss complete, 
 
 In God's eternal day ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 pause ! — We know not what new powers 
 
 Departed spirits gain. 
 Nor whether with this world of ours 
 
 Their sympathies remain ; 
 But if remembrance do survive 
 
 The severance from the clay ; 
 If feeHngs, ruling when alive. 
 
 Retain their wonted sway ; 
 If souls have consciousness on high 
 
 Of things that here take place. 
 And, wth invigorated eye, 
 
 Can dart their glance through space ; — 
 Who knows ! Our Poet now may bend 
 
 His eye on scenes like this, 
 And Scotia's gathered homage lend 
 
 A heart-swell e'en in bliss !
 
 199 
 THAT BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT! 
 
 I860. 
 
 (Probably the last 'smtten poetry by Story. — Ed.) 
 
 " That beautiful thotiglit!" I exclaimed, as I mused 
 Beneath a spring sky, with a moon full and bright, 
 
 And as a thought — new, or if not so, unused — • 
 
 Glanced into my soul from the grandeur of Night ! 
 
 " That beautiful thought !" ! if now I had words 
 Of music to fix it in measure and rhjTne, — 
 
 Like the often-heard, joy- giving song of the birds 
 It might be a pleasure for all coming time ! 
 
 "As it is, it will lie, Kke a grain from ripe ears, 
 In the soil of my mind, nor may ever unfold ; 
 
 Or if ever — long hence, in the passage of years, — 
 But where — Ah me ! — where are the years to the 
 old?" 
 
 The " Ah me !" was a sigh for my life in the wane, 
 Worn to its last round, to re-brighten no more — 
 
 And for the slight chance that aught new in my 
 brain 
 AVould o'er find expression in verse, as of yore.
 
 200 
 
 For my songs have — the most of them — not spining at 
 once 
 
 From the fancy or feeling that prompted them fii-st ; 
 Which lay stored in my breast — till in ready response 
 
 To some impulse of power — into numbers it burst. 
 
 " But shall this thought perish," I cried, though to 
 
 me 
 
 Come never the mood that would wake it to birth? 
 The something which thinS;s, shall it e'er cease to be ? 
 
 Or cease to remember its musings on earth ? 
 
 " ! may not I yet — out of clay, out of time — 
 Enriched with new language, endowed with new 
 powers, 
 
 Remember this thought in the fair spii'it-clime. 
 And sing it to angels in amaranth-bowers ? 
 
 " And ! may not thoughts — new, and beauteous as 
 new — 
 Flomng still into song as in life they have flowed, 
 Make my Time's dearest joy my Eternity's too — 
 Song — song — ever fresh — in the realms of my 
 God !" 
 
 JI. OASKAUTII, (l.ATK STANFIELD) PKINTEK, WKST(iATK, BEADIOUK.
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Plain. Gilt 
 
 Segnier, Mr., 3, Eussell Crescent, London.. 1 
 
 Spedwell, Mr., Twickenliam, Middlesex . . 1 
 
 Storey, John, Maucliester . . 1 
 
 Storey, T., Grey St., Neweastle-on-Tyne . . 1 
 Storey, Mrs. W., Eye Hill, do. . . 1 
 
 Storey, Mr., Somerset House, . . 1 
 
 Stead, Mr., Chelsea . . 1 
 
 Schlesinger, Martin, Newcastle-on-Tyae . . 1 
 Searcey, Mr., 49, Upper Berkeley St., London 2 
 Starlde, Mr., 4, Strand, do 1 
 
 Stirling, T. H., High Street, Battersea . . 1 
 
 Short, Miss, Wooler, Northumberland . . 1 
 Schmedlin, F. X., 6, EusseU Place, London 1 
 Soden, Jonathan, 18, Langham PL, do. 1 
 Sampson, W., 1 9, Queen's Terrace, Bayswater 1 
 Stanfield, C, Bradford 1 
 
 Simpson, W. G., Newcastle-on-Tyne , , 1 
 
 Talhot, Hon. Mrs. E. G., Ballinclea House, 
 
 KingstowTi, Ireland . . 1 
 
 Taylor, E., 4, Adelaide PI., London Bridge 1 
 Taylor, E., Jun., 11, Terrace, Kennington Pk. 2 
 
 Taylor, G., Scotland Yard, London . . 2 
 
 Taylor, John, Wraysbiuy, Bucks . . 1 
 
 Thomas, H., Prescot Cottage, Battersea . . 1 
 
 Thornton, Mrs. B., (late Miss Eeaney) Harrogate 20 
 Thick, T., Brentford End, Middlesex .. 1 
 
 Tolson, Mrs., Crow Trees, Bradford . . 1 
 
 Tu< Ix^sr, Mr., Bankiniptcy Office, Newcastle 1 
 
 Trumper, E., Brentfbrcl end, Middlesex . . 1 
 Thomas, W., 29, Berners St., London . . 1 
 Tripp, Mr., Manchester Square, do. . . 1 
 Tiirnham, Geo., do. do. . . 1 
 
 Turner, Mr,, 31, Haymarket, do. . . 1 
 
 Twopenny, W., Lambs Buildings do. . . 1 
 
 Thompson, John, Alnwick . . . . 1 
 
 Tasker, J. and Son, Skipton 1 
 
 Tm^nbull, Thomas do. . . 1
 
 Plain. Gilt. 
 . 1 
 
 1 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Tate, Eev. W. G. do. 
 
 Valle, Barte, 31, Haymarket, London 
 
 Warrington, Mr., 27, Strand, London 1 
 
 Williams, Thos., Northumberl'd House, do 
 Williams, Mr., 12, Lansdowne Terrace, do. 1 
 Williams, Henry, Brentford, Middlesex . . 1 
 Watson, Jos., Langham Street, London . . l 
 Watson, W. P., Isle worth, Middlesex 
 Watson, T., Brompton, do 
 
 Walters, T., 5, Albany Eoad, London 
 Willans, Mr., Crowley Lock, TJxbridge . , 1 
 Watkins, C, Brentford End, Middlesex . . i 
 Wing, Mr., Isle worth, do. . . 1 
 
 Wells, A., Kingston-upon- Thames . . i 
 
 Webster, J., Solicitor, Sheffield . . 
 Wilson, F. E., Architect, Alnwick . . i 
 
 Wanless, W., Eichmond, Yorkshire . . 1 
 
 Wilclman, C, 2, Princess Street, London 
 Willdnson, Mr., Old Bond St., do. 
 
 Wilkinson, J., Bentham, Settle . . 
 Wright, Eev. J. M., Eectory, Tatham, Settle 
 Watkinson, S., Highgate House, Gargrave 
 Walker, Mr., Percy's Works, Newcastle 
 White, Mr., Elm Tree House, do. 
 Woods, M., 18, Eldon Square, do. 
 Wonaeott, W., Portland Street, London 1 
 
 Watts, T., 22, Up.Marylebone St. do. ] ! 1 
 Wright, J., North Shields . . .' .' 1 
 
 WaddeU, Eev. J. H., Girvan Ldge., Ayrshire 
 Whitmore, Mr., 45, Charles St., Westminster 
 Wood, Mr., Hounslow . , 
 Wall, Mr., Eichmond, Surrey 
 Wigglesworth, Jas., Valley Eoad, Bradford 1 
 Wentworth, P. W., Wentworth Castle, Barnsley 1 
 
 Young, Charles, North Shields . . . . 1 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
 PR qtorY . 
 
 5I;99 The lirrical 
 
 1361 minor'poems — 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBRARY FACIU-n' 
 
 AA 000 367 534 5 
 
 PR 
 
 5U99 
 
 S887A17 
 
 1861