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 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 FOUNDED BY 
 CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 VICTOR EMANUEL 
 
 OF THE CLASS OF I919 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 * ' The beings of fhe mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray, 
 And more belov'd existence : that which fate 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these, spirits supplied, 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 "Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Mine are the shadows of the world's realities. 
 Thrown by the rays of fancy on a screen — 
 Pourtraying forms of various shades' and qualities, 
 Found wandering on this dark and cold terrene. 
 My painting may, perchance, be deem'd'a daub. 
 And critics, with their cats of nine tails, skelp it : 
 Such things will happen on this terreous globe. 
 And we submit, because we cannot help it. 
 Ye critics, snarl not so savage at a brother, 
 Making men dogs to worry one another. 
 
 •^ W. H. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL, 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM HETHERINGTON, 
 
 COCKERMOUTH, 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY CHARLES THURNAM. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVII. 
 
U4 
 
 'WT^' 
 
 r^ 
 
 3XaSc> 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 A PATRON and dedication seem to be required — and, too often, by simu- 
 lation — to introduce a work like the present, where imagination and 
 fancy predominate. 
 
 Some of the rhyming family have chosen names of celebrity in literature 
 and science to gild their dedication page. Others pursue a different 
 course, by pouring strains of flattery into the ears of wealth and power. 
 A few have dedicated to friendship, and feelings of the heart. Among 
 the last, let my first essay be placed. 
 
 When I put your name, my only-surviving and beloved Sister, in front 
 of these pages, do not suppose that I am intending to draw a gasconade 
 to emblazon your inestimable qualities, and bring the blush of offended 
 modesty into your cheek : my desire is, simply, to present this Work to 
 you as a trifling but sincere tribute of regard and affection — proving to 
 you that I have duly appreciated in you the kindness of a sister with the 
 feelings of a brother. And whenever your eye shall fall upon the present 
 volume, in passing through the yet blank space of futurity, if I am 
 living, remember that a brother's heart is open to the kindest feelings of 
 human nature towards you ; and if I shall have passed the '' bourne from 
 whence no traveller returns," believe that the departed spirit of a brother 
 (if departed spirits are ever permitted to revisit this world of clay) hovers 
 over you, watching, with guardian care, the vicissitudes of life, with 
 
 JANE DICKINSON. 
 
r^; 
 
 '•^^ 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tinis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9241 041 03787 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 Obtruding a volume of poetry upon the attention of 
 the publicj in times like these^ when the press^ prolific 
 as the female rabbit, teems the spawn of intellect, like 
 floods of winter in our aqueous clime, and when the 
 majority are too much engaged — attending to the craving 
 demands of the corporeal stomach — to pay great regard 
 to the appetites of mind, appears almost a work of 
 supererogation. Poetry, painting, and music, captivating 
 as they are to the youthful, the generous, and the enthu- 
 siastic, bestow not the same feelings of delightful and 
 innocent pleasure to sordid men of this world, engrossed 
 with their wealth amassed, or power acquired — too often 
 to be exercised for selfish and exclusive purposes; and 
 the unpretending bard, who, claiming not to possess any 
 very extraordinary genius, intelligence, or learning, may 
 when publishing poetry in this age of light, of refinement, 
 and wisdom, calculate with great confidence and cer- 
 tainty, to receive from the critic's class of readers the 
 imputation of impertinence, if nothing worse, as a reward 
 for his pains. I do not affect to treat the judgment of 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 the learned with levity or indifFerencej neither to deny 
 nor dispute the just claims of the learned critic, the 
 Christian theologian, or the philosophic reasoner, to sit 
 in judgment upon mine, as well as all other literary 
 productions addressed to the public ; but 1 feel the 
 anxiety natural to humanity, when placed at the bar, 
 and before the eye of the public, subjected to the scrutiny 
 and critical examination of the learned and the wise, who 
 are but too apt to play the cynic, when placed in the seat 
 of judgment to decide the fate of fellow-men. There is, 
 however, another class of readers, happily more easily 
 satisfied than the critics, and whose good opinion I more 
 desire to secure than even the learned. It is gratifying 
 to observe — and what an unprejudiced observer may 
 do — that there always has been, that there is, and that 
 there ever will be — desecrated as the world may be — a 
 majority of persons disposed to excuse errors incident to 
 humanity, whether they discern them in literary pro- 
 ductions or elsewhere, provided always that they be 
 errors of the head only, not of the heart, and especially 
 if the redeeming qualities of good, though mistaken 
 intentions, can be discovered surrounding them. Ardent 
 minds, during the earlier periods of life, often commit 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 the sin of rhyme, though few have the hardihood to risk 
 the publication of their effusions, after comparing them 
 with the superior productions ah^eady before the public. 
 How far that public will tolerate the obtrusion of my 
 weak efforts, to contribute a mite, however small, towards 
 its amusement or instruction, at present I am unable to 
 judge, and time only can determine. 
 
 The poetizing fraternity of the present day, like the 
 ship-carpenters of our island, are placed in circumstances 
 of difficulty for materials of the first-rate quality. All 
 the old oaks of noblest growth have been worked up, 
 and new ships can only now be constructed from the soft 
 timbers of recent growth ; so, also, the regions of poetry 
 have become bare and barren. All, or almost all the trees 
 and shrubs of beauty, strength, or grandeur, have been 
 monopolized by some of the favourite sons of Apollo, and 
 planted into their several parterres, gardens, forests, 
 or pleasure-grounds. It is true that the world exhibits, 
 at present, much of the old leaven of human perverseness 
 in perfect maturity. An ample field is fairly open, for a 
 writer of talent to expose it, and thereby to make bad 
 men ashamed of themselves. But to wield with effect the 
 sword of satirical sarcasm requires a powerful arm, and 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 little can be done by the puny hand of a writer feeble as 
 I am ; yet the humble effort may, perhaps, be excused 
 for the motive's sake ; and should only a single indivi- 
 dual, by the perusal of my production, become persuaded 
 of the possibility of his doing more good in the world, 
 and being so persuaded, should he succeed in multiplying 
 in a greater degree his own usefulness, and thereby 
 increase the general stock of human happiness, then all 
 my scribbling is not lost, and I am rewarded. Yet, like 
 the timid school-boy, when he first bathes his youthful 
 limbs in the cooling stream, when summer tempts him 
 with its warm, invigorating rays — awhile he lingers 
 undecided; at last, screwing up his courage to the top 
 of resolution's bank, upon the margin of the stream, 
 shutting his eyes, he plunges headlong in the humid tide. 
 So, with the poet, thus he takes his first leap, risking 
 the swelling currents and the rolling seas of public 
 opinion. 
 
 If I am wreck'd, I must submit to fate ; 
 If I can sviim, I'll swim with heart elate, 
 And wanton with the tide. 
 
 W. H. 
 
 CocKERMOUTH, 5th April, 1837. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. (February, 1804.) 1 
 
 STANZAS TO ELIZA. (1808.) 3 
 
 SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA 6 
 
 PARTING STANZAS TO ELIZA 11 
 
 STANZAS— DURING SICKNESS 14 
 
 SECOND ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP 17 
 
 EPITAPH on the Tombstone of Abraham and Mary Ross, Bromfield 
 
 Churchyard, and an Elegy 21 
 
 MONODY 26 
 
 MARY'S SHADE 29 
 
 ELEGY on Captain H. Jackson, who died of the yellow fever at Mara Bona, 
 
 Jamaica 31 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO MAN 35 
 
 THE CUCKOO 44 
 
 STANZAS TO BACCHUS 49 
 
 ELEGY on Mr. W. Pearson, a renowned hunter 52 
 
 STANZAS TO DELIA 57 
 
 ODE TO SYMPATHY 59 
 
 ODE TO ANTIPATHY 62 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS , 66 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS of John Donald upon the scaffold, before he was 
 
 executed, for robbery, at Carlisle, 18 — 72 
 
 WILLIAM AND MARY. A Tale 77 
 
 SONG 81 
 
 MONODY on the late John Sewell, Esq., Cockermouth 83 
 
 STANZAS to a Departed Friend, written during sickness 85 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 91 
 
 SATIRICAL STANZAS to the Horse Leech 92 
 
 CRISPIN AND THE TRAVELLER. A Tale 93 
 
 THE NIGHT WIND. A Monitory Monologue 97 
 
• • 
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 EPITAPH on Joseph Harrinson, who was drowned in the River Hoogly, 
 
 a navigable arm of the Ganges, and buried at Calcutta 
 
 MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION ; or, Crispin's Wedding. A Tale, 
 
 founded on fact 
 
 LINES written on the Morning of New Year's Day, 1837. Occasioned by 
 
 the sudden death of a Young Lady 
 
 LIFE'S CARES. An Ode ^^^ 
 
 LIFE'S JOYS. An Ode ^^^ 
 
 INDOLENCE. A Rhapsody ^^^ 
 
 SONG 12^ 
 
 SONG 128 
 
 BRANTHWAITE HALL. A Poem of the Feudal Times.— 
 
 Canto I 130 
 
 Canto II 1^^ 
 
 STANZAS TO HEALTH. (1812.) 181 
 
 LINES presented to a Young Lady, with a Rose-bud 183 
 
 STANZAS. Written on the 25th March, 1837. The Birth-day of the Author 184 
 NOTES 187 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 (February, 1804.) 
 
 I. 
 
 Welcome, lovely, little flower. 
 
 Emblem of returning Spring ; 
 Early fruit of vernal shower. 
 
 Take the welcome I can sing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Pleas'd I view thy spotless blossom 
 Peep so cheering thro' the soil ; 
 
 Pure and fair as Delia's bosom, 
 Modest as her virgin smile. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ere Spring, enrobed in tender green, 
 Bedecks the flower-enamel'd plain, 
 
 Meek-ey'd Snow-drop, thou art seen 
 The earliest flow'ret in her train. 
 
 B 
 
ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Summer flowers, sweetly blowing. 
 
 May display a richer dye ; 
 Gaudy beauties, purple glowing. 
 
 May enchant the wandering eye. 
 
 V. 
 
 But thy little graceful form. 
 
 Weeping head its charms revealing, — 
 Blowing in the vernal storm. 
 
 Delights the heart of tender feeling. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus the modest face of worth 
 Wins with many a secret charm ; 
 
 Subdues like love, that, here on earth. 
 With heaven's own fire the heart can warm. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Native beauty, when she smiles, 
 Charms beyond all powers of art ; 
 
 The soul she secretly beguiles. 
 
 From her sweet charms you cannot part. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Little floweret, fare thee well ! 
 
 Ah ! when thou hail'st another Spring, 
 We know not who thy charms may tell. 
 
 Nor who thine opening beauties sing. 
 
STANZA TO ELIZA. 
 
 (1808.) 
 
 I. 
 
 When Spring her verdant mantle throws 
 Of hawthorn buds o'er Pardshaw plains. 
 
 Then through old Mosser's glens and shaws 
 The mayis pours melodious strains. 
 
 II. 
 
 When Summer brings the sultry noon. 
 
 And sheep are shorn, and shepherds play ; 
 
 Then milk maids strip the russet gown. 
 And lambkins gambol, all so gay. 
 
 HI. 
 
 When Autumn waves her yellow hair. 
 
 And Ceres fills her ample horn. 
 Then plenty crowns the farmer's care 
 
 With golden crops safe in the barn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When Winter roars o'er mountain rocks, 
 
 And chills with icy hand the world. 
 
 Shepherds guard well their fleecy flocks 
 
 From the wild snow storms round them hurl'd. 
 
 B 2 
 
STANZA TO ELIZA. 
 V. 
 
 Each season's varied changes find 
 
 Me here, the same fond am'rous swain ; 
 
 And youj Ehza, uninclined 
 
 To cure this stung heart's cruel pain* 
 
 VI. 
 
 What ! not one kind consenting smile 
 To him who breathes this artless strain ! 
 
 A smile could lighten every toil. 
 Would render stingless every pain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Eliza ! who can look on thee. 
 
 And cease thy beauties to admire ! 
 
 Or think how cruel thou canst be 
 To him who wakes a humble lyre ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To sing thy charms, tho' they are cold, 
 Oh ! let thy poet's bosom warm thee ; 
 
 His arms thy slender waist enfold, — 
 
 His soft endearments chastely charm thee. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Let love thy gentle bosom fill, 
 
 I give thee mine, oh ! let it bless thee ; 
 
 As turtle doves that coo and bill. 
 Thy tender lover would caress thee. 
 
STANZA TO ELIZA. 5 
 
 X. 
 
 Too short would seem the longest day. 
 
 If thou but gave thy love to me ; 
 Then I would sing, and laugh, and play, 
 
 Thro' life, embracing and embraced by thee. 
 
 E 3 
 
SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye birds that wanton thro' the groves 
 
 That wave where Derwent winding flows. 
 
 Alone when fair Ehza roves. 
 
 To hear your song in woodland shaws. 
 
 II. 
 
 Does the name of Strephon ever. 
 Gently falling from her tongue. 
 
 Join the sweetly murmuring river. 
 Breath' d within her secret song ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Does she ever, lonely wandering, 
 Where the green elms wave so high. 
 
 On the viewless future pondering, 
 Heave to him the whispering sigh ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Haste ye, little warbling throng, 
 
 Pour your sweetest harmony ; 
 Waft my lines with yours along. 
 
 Aid them with your minstrelsy. 
 
SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA. 
 
 V. 
 
 When the youthful maid inclines 
 
 In deep solitudes to rove. 
 Join your music to my lines. 
 
 That I may gain Eliza s love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For I can jfind no place of rest, — 
 
 The maiden's shadow guides my feet ; 
 
 At Nova Zembla I were blest. 
 If there Eliza I could meet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Tho' the wild whirlwind^ there should blow 
 Keenly o'er the trackless plain, — 
 
 Hard biting hail, cold sleet, and snow. 
 Or bitterest driving rain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The keenest hail, the coldest rain, 
 
 That tempest ever blew, 
 I'd brave, Eliza, nor complain, 
 
 To gain sweet love from you. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The smiles of love then grant to me ; 
 
 Bright beams of light from heaven, oh give ! 
 Let their soft radiance shine from thee, — 
 
 Without them Strephon cannot live. 
 
8 SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA. 
 
 X. 
 
 Could'st thou, Eliza, see him die, — 
 Expire for love, and feel no pain ? 
 
 No tear of pity fill thine eye. 
 
 But coldly spurn his latest strain ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 And is thy heart so icy cold ? 
 
 The powers that freeze it, what can move ? 
 Who could believe, if they were told, 
 
 Eliza's heart was dead to love. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thy vestal vow recall, my fair, — 
 'Twas but in jest Eliza made it ; 
 
 Give me a ringlet of thine hair, 
 Into a magic wreath I'll braid it. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 When the midnight moon rides high, 
 Faries dance thro' rocky dells ; 
 
 I'll catch enchantments as they fly, 
 And steal away their magic spells. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thy hair with magic spells I'll bind, 
 
 Within a golden talisman ; 
 A magian's cord, too, I will find, 
 
 Twin'd for a fair maid's tender hand. 
 
SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA. 
 XV. 
 
 This charm'd lock in my breast must lie, 
 Close to the heart, and never move ; 
 
 In three short moons thy scorn will fly. 
 And in the bosom strongest love 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Will burn, like mine, thy beating breast — 
 Will sparkle from that brilliant eye — 
 
 Will chase away thy peaceful rest — 
 Will raise thy cold heart's deepest sigh. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Must I then look as cold on thee. 
 As thou hast been for many a day ? 
 
 Return the scorn that wounded me. 
 When I was gloomy — thou wert gay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then I will lead thee, like a slave. 
 And triumph in thy smothering pain ; 
 
 ril laugh in scorn ; — why should I save 
 Eliza from her galling chain ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 When she could save me all this toil. 
 
 And give me her heart without this juggle ; 
 
 Bestow pure love without its coil, — 
 Free as the air, nor longer struggle 
 
10 SECOND ADDRESS TO ELIZA. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Against the stream^ but launch the bark 
 Of love on pleasure's silv'ry tide ; 
 
 Let gentle zephyrs waft the ark 
 Along — while we triumphant ride 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The wave — with cupid at the prow. 
 Laughing and steering wild, but true ; 
 
 Whilst often from his silver bow. 
 An arrow flies, my love, at you. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 We'll soon discover hymen's bay. 
 
 And gain that flower-deck'd, fruitful shore ; 
 
 And often bless the happy day. 
 We landed there to part no more. 
 
PARTING STANZA TO ELIZA. 
 
 1. 
 
 The wretch condemn'd for sin and crime. 
 
 Far from his native shore. 
 Beneath a torrid, feverish clime. 
 
 To tug the slavish oar, 
 
 II. 
 
 May hope one day to quit his toil. 
 When time hath worn him free ; 
 
 Re-visit his paternal soil. 
 And claim sweet liberty. 
 
 III. 
 
 And must the cherub, Hope, depart 
 
 For ever, far from me ? 
 Must grim Despair corrode a heart 
 
 Condemned for loving thee ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bare and exposed, could it be laid 
 Before thee, thou wouldst know 
 
 It ill deserved, too cruel maid. 
 That thou shouldst spurn it so. 
 
12 PARTING STANZA TO ELIZA. 
 
 V. 
 
 Fate, smiling, once seemed to have given 
 
 Thy sympathies to me ; 
 Ah ! what a sweet terrestrial heaven 
 
 I hop'd to gain in thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Few hearts can love as I can love. 
 
 And none imagine how ; 
 My soul in secret workings move 
 
 Towards thee, even now. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Cold, still, and cruel as thou art, 
 
 Yet must I love thee still ; 
 Love's throb beats strong in this fond heart. 
 
 Beats uncontrol'd by will. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For fain would I forget thee, Bess, 
 
 As thou art still unkind ; 
 Yet I can never love thee less, 
 
 Tho' ere so much inclined. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What venom of what slanderino^ tongfue 
 Hath poison'd thy soft breast ! 
 
 And mine, by thee thus keenly stung. 
 Can find no place of rest. 
 
PARTING STANZAS TO ELIZA. 13 
 
 The thought of what our bliss had been, 
 
 Hadst thou been given to me. 
 Obtrudes on many a varied scene, 
 
 When distant far from thee. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But since the fates have will'd it so 
 And I must now depart ; 
 
 Adieu ! young Bess, and here I go, 
 Yet leave behind my heart. 
 
STANZA— DURING SICKNESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Young Spring returns to glad the grove. 
 And nature decks the flowery lea ; 
 
 The woodlands echo songs of love, — 
 Alas ! their charms are lost to me. 
 
 II- 
 
 Vain to me young Spring returning : 
 Can the fairest flowers that blow. 
 
 While the heart-strings ache with mourning. 
 Peace difi^use, or bliss bestow ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Time has been when vernal skies 
 
 Could raise my youthful bosom's glow," 
 
 And o'er my cheek the crimson dyes 
 Of blooming health's soft roses throw. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How chang'd my youthful, sprightly air. 
 Pale sickness blasts my early joys ; 
 
 The grief-fraught sighs of pallid care 
 The young heart's softest bliss destroys. 
 
STANZAS DURING SICKNESS. 15 
 
 V. 
 
 Ah ! ye fond deluding dreams, — 
 
 Dreams of bliss that gild life's morning, — 
 When young fancy sheds bright beams 
 
 Of heavenly hght, all views adorning, 
 
 VI. 
 
 In the scenes of your pourtraying. 
 
 Youth and Love seemed ever twining 
 
 Rosy garlands, and still playing 
 
 On sweet flower-banks, were reclining. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Eliza and the Graces sung 
 
 Seraph songs, so softly moving ; 
 The listening Wood Nymphs round them hung. 
 
 And melted into youthful loving. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Hours of rapture, years of pleasure. 
 All seem'd floating gay before me ; 
 
 Fancied bliss, ideal treasure, 
 
 Scenes of sunshine never stormy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Time and fate, alas ! have shown me 
 
 Those serial dreams were vain ; 
 
 Pale disease and pain have blown me. 
 
 Among; their ru2:2'ed rocks aojain. 
 
 c 2 
 
16 STANZAS- — DURING SICKNESS- 
 
 X. 
 
 Whelming waves are pouring o'er me^ 
 Foaming high, and roaring wide ; 
 
 Seas of sorrow swell before me. 
 And heave around a headlong- tide. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet, Hope's light skiff rides on the billow^ 
 When the wildest whirlwind howls ! 
 
 Hope soothes the sick-bed's weary pillow. 
 And whispers peace to fainting souls. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Tho' thus oppressed with grief and pain. 
 
 Sweet Hope sustains me through the gloom. 
 
 That health's rich joys may charm again, 
 And snatch me from the opening tomb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And Hope could cheer that gloomy road, 
 Nor leave me till my latest breath ; 
 
 A steadfast hope in Nature's God 
 
 Can soothe the solemn hour of death. 
 
SECOND ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 I. 
 Snow-drop! flower of early blowing, 
 
 Hail, once more^ sweet child of Spring ! 
 Ever pure and spotless growing. 
 
 Ah ! could I as spotless sing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Reluctant Flora never sheds 
 
 One flower to deck our sea-bound isles ; 
 
 All slumber in their wintry beds. 
 
 Till Snow-di'ops peep like beauty's smiles. 
 
 III. 
 
 Painting the cheeks of early love. 
 
 So meek, so chaste, so pure and holy ; 
 
 They seem rich gems sent from above 
 To charm away all melancholy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They chase away grim visag'd care. 
 
 And make the young heart leap for joy ; 
 
 The sunshine of the mind, how fair 
 
 In youth, when health, sweet rosy boy, 
 
 b3 
 
18 SECOND ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP 
 
 V. 
 
 Laughs in each face, and running wild 
 Around you gaily gamboling ; — then 
 
 How pleas'd you lead the lively child 
 Among love's roses thro' the glen, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where woodbines twine a scented bower. 
 And moss-grown banks are spread around ; 
 
 Where hare-bells blow, and many a flower 
 Bedecks the soft enchanting ground. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh ! then to meet young Rosa there. 
 And hear her voice join nature's choir, 
 
 Might smooth the wrinkles of despair. 
 And make Misanthropy desire 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To join the universal chaunt 
 
 That fills the vallies, woods, and skies : 
 The vocal spirit seems to haunt 
 
 All nature, — and soft pleasure flies, 
 
 IX. 
 
 On wings of love, like some sweet bee. 
 Without a sting, kissing each flower ; 
 
 While wood-doves coo on every tree, 
 And blackbirds sing in every bower. 
 
SECOND ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. 19 
 
 X. 
 
 Each murmuring stream that sweeps along 
 
 The wmdhig vallies, still inspires 
 The muse, that tunes her artless song. 
 
 And bashful woos the trembl'ing wires. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet her light music always leads 
 
 To harmony and social joy ; 
 The beauty of the woods and meads 
 
 Infuse delights without alloy. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And much it soothes the sons of care. 
 To chaunt the song, tho' rude and wild ; 
 
 To breathe the tender feelinos there. 
 That swell the breast of nature's child. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The simple Snow-drop fills the mind 
 With thoughts of pure, unmingled love ; 
 
 What callous bosom cannot find 
 Delicious joy to hear the dove 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Cooing in the green wood, where 
 
 Echo, answering from the glade. 
 On the circumambient air, 
 
 Floats the soft music thro' the shade ? 
 
20 SECOND ADDRESS TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The beauties of creation raise 
 Pure devotion in the soul ; 
 
 Nature on every side displays 
 Signs of the Deity's controul, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 That awe the wondering mind of man 
 To love, to worship, and adore. 
 
 The Being who directs the plan. 
 That governs all and evermore. 
 
EPITAPH 
 
 ON THE TOMBSTONE OF ABRAHAM AND MARY ROSS, 
 BRUMFIELD CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Does living worth review this silent tomb. 
 Or passing virtue pause a moment here. 
 
 To muse and sio;h o'er man's last drearv home. 
 Till pity draws the sympathising tear ? 
 
 II- 
 
 That precious gem, ah ! let it gently fall 
 O'er kindred virtue mould'ring here below ; 
 
 The meltino; si^h. and heart-wruno; tears are all 
 The genuine tribute we can now bestow. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 The humble pair, entomb'd in death's low bed, 
 Liv'd in this weeping vale, unknown to fame ; 
 
 A rural life, in sweet retirement led, — 
 For empty honours never made a claim. 
 
 Bevond their native circle seldom roam'd, — 
 Domestic ties and duties bound them there ; 
 
 Near their paternal heritage entomb'd. 
 
 They slumber peaceful, free'd from worldly care. 
 
22 EPITAPH. 
 
 III. 
 
 The rustic barcl knew well the spotless pair, — 
 From early childhood knew, and saw them die ; 
 
 If purity ere liv'd on earth, they were 
 Spotless. — Alas ! the human eye 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sees not the secret reins. The unknown heart 
 May have within it, — and unseen may lie 
 
 A darkening shadow, and a baser part. 
 Which snarling cynics may affect to spy 
 
 V. 
 
 For faults ; — yet truth's bright sun-like face 
 
 Shines through the clouds that would obscure its 
 
 Happily, all the blear-ey'd cynic race [beams; 
 
 Can not impede its overpowering streams. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Like day it shines, with all-subduing light. 
 
 And time, — revealmg time, — confirms the powers 
 
 Of sacred truth ; — and superstitious night 
 
 No longer now man's darkened mind obscures. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Each plant, each tree, each shrub, and opening flower. 
 Profusely spread o'er native wood and plain ; 
 
 We know, from the fruits they bountifully pour. 
 True to each kind through nature's varied rei^^n. 
 
EPITAPH. 23 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The oak grows acorns ; hollies berries red : 
 We seek not roses from the hemlock weed ; — 
 
 When gathering lilies we are never led 
 
 To wander, seeking, where wild sedges seed. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The pink's sweet smell, the rose's rich perfume. 
 Are trusty guides ; the tulip's varied hue 
 
 Marks it as truly. Who would ere presume 
 
 To doubt the hare-bell's weeping head was blue ? 
 
 X. 
 
 The prickling whin, too, wounds you when you fall, 
 And nettles sting you, touch them e'er so light ; 
 
 True to there different natures, you find all 
 Clearly defin'd, distinct as day and night. 
 
 XI. 
 
 As surely, too, whene'er you find display'd 
 Love, meekness, pure integrity of mind 
 
 In man, though moving in the rural shade. 
 His virtues truly ornament mankind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And sterling worth may well be copied there, 
 And useful lessons might be learn'd from them. 
 
 By lords, — and statesmen would their eyes prepare 
 To see plain truth, and falsehood would condemn. 
 
24 EPITAPH. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The dead now sleeping underneath this mound. 
 Had hearts of feeling for another's pain ; 
 
 Their hands dealt kindness still to all around 
 Their rural dwelling. Many a hoary swain, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Whose white head bore the snowy locks of time, 
 And age and want had levell'd with the poor, 
 
 Received their charity : they thought it crime 
 To drive the helpless from their opening door. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Long time hath pass'd, flying on viewless wings. 
 Since both have vanished from terrestrial scenes ; 
 
 And varying fortune's chance now strangely brings 
 My wandering feet where the dark tombstone leans 
 
 XVI. 
 
 From its first perpendicular, when rear'd. 
 
 To mark their graves ; — and time hath also shed 
 
 Some scars on me, and worldly cares have sear'd. 
 My youthful heart, and streak'd with hoar-frost my 
 unhappy head. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Short time can pass ere I must take my bed. 
 And share with them man's melancholy lot ; 
 
 I'd rather chose, when I am lowly laid. 
 
 To sleep obscure, like them, m this lone spot. 
 
EPITAPH. 25 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And mingle with their sacred dust below, — 
 Once lov'd so dear in life, tho' now forgot, — 
 
 Than have mock-splendour and funeral show 
 Wave o'er my last remains, if left to rot. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Like Conrad the Corsair, in Lord Byron's rhymes, 
 Link'd to one virtue and a thousand crimes. 
 
 T> 
 
MONODY. 
 
 I. 
 
 This world, to weak short-sighted man, 
 Seems wonderful, and passing strange ; 
 
 He fathoms not its mighty plan, — 
 It reaches far beyond the range 
 
 II. 
 
 Of hmnan intellect : and reason lost, 
 Stretching its vision thro' all space, 
 
 On the dark waves of chaos toss'd, 
 Sinks in despair, nor finds a place 
 
 III. 
 
 To rest its foot, but lorn and wild, 
 Raising a tearful, hopeless eye. 
 
 Like a lost, wilful, wand'ring child ; 
 And weeping thus, is heard to cry. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mark yonder spider, spreading snares. 
 Weaving a fly-entangling net ; 
 
 You scarce can see the slender hairs, 
 So artfully the guile is set. 
 
MONODY. 27 
 
 V. 
 
 The reptile insect, slyly watclies. 
 
 Till some weak, heedless fly shall stray; 
 
 And when the toil a victim catches. 
 Her venom'd fang devours the prey. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now see yon hawk, so slowly sailing, 
 
 Thro' the clear, unclouded skies; 
 Hark, too, the linnet's voice bewailing, 
 
 Its murder'd mate with piteous cries ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Soon guided by thy mournful lay, 
 
 Ah ! poor, unhappy, helpless guest ! 
 The hawk next on thyself shall prey, — 
 
 Shall tear thy little beating breast. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And view enlightened man decoying. 
 Spreading his snares, more cruel far; 
 
 See man, his fellow-man destroying. 
 And breathing universal war; 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then say, — was this dark sphere designed 
 
 For mortal man a scene of joys? 
 
 Or must the immaterial mind 
 
 Look for its bliss beyond those skies ? 
 
 D 2 
 
28 MONODY. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yes ! there are skies of clearer blue. 
 Where sceptic shadows never swim; 
 
 A world that wears a brighter hue^ 
 Now dawns on man, inviting him. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Come, all ye heavy laden, then. 
 
 Ye weary pilgrims, welcome there ; 
 
 To all repenting sons of men. 
 
 Was won by Christ's redeeming care» 
 
 XII. 
 
 A world of bliss, of light, and love, 
 He open'd, and by him was given. 
 
 The clearest sight of realms above, 
 Prepar'd for contrite hearts in heaven. 
 
MARY'S SHADE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Shade of my Mary ! art thou near me. 
 
 When I linger o'er thy tomb ? 
 Couldst thou see me, couldst thou hear me 
 
 Pour my sorrows whilst I roam ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Where old Melbreak's^^ hills are throwing 
 Deepest shadow, darkest shade. 
 
 O'er thy grave, while sweet flowers blowing. 
 Shed their perfumes, where thou art laid. 
 
 III. 
 
 How I then would love to wander. 
 When my memory dwelt on thee, 
 
 Lone by Kirk-gate streams meander, 
 And think my Mary was with me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas ! she cannot come to tell 
 
 The secrets of that unseen world 
 
 Beyond the grave, that clay bound cell 
 
 Keeps the deep mystery still unfurl'd. 
 
 D 2 
 
30 
 
 Mary's shade. 
 
 V. 
 
 We weep when bosom friendsj and dear^ 
 Are swept from life so soon away ; 
 
 Grief's bursting sigh and bitter tear^ — 
 How bitter 'tis what tongue can say? 
 
 VI. 
 
 The anguish of that dark despair. 
 
 Which makes the beating heart to quiver. 
 
 When death's pale victim, young and fair. 
 Lies cold before you — gone for ever — 
 
 VII 
 
 Can not be told ; — but oh ! I felt 
 
 That withering shock when JNIary died, 
 
 As round her bed the family knelt. 
 And all is o'er — we faintly cried. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My heart grew cold, I shiver'd, fell 
 On those who wept around, and saw, 
 
 With wondering eyes, death's horrid spell 
 Strike living man so fierce a blow.b 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh ! may my sister's spirit find 
 
 Rich bliss, by her Redeemer given ; 
 
 And may the friends she left behind 
 Join Marv once a2:ain in heaven. 
 
ELEGY 
 
 ON CAPTAIN H, JACKSON, WHO DIED OF THE YELLOW 
 FEVER AT MARA BONA, JAMAICA, 
 
 In foreign climes, far from his native home. 
 The youthful sailor finds an early tomb. 
 Jackson, with spirits buoyant as the breeze, 
 That curls the white waves on the swelling seas, 
 Sleeps cold in death, where Mara Bona spreads 
 Perennial flowers and ever verdant meads ; 
 Where citron groves their fruit-bent branches wave, 
 And orange trees blossom o'er his hallow'd grave. 
 Dear friends, who, weeping his lov'd memory mourn, 
 And heave the deep sigh o'er his pictur'd urn. 
 What counsel can the honest muse impart, 
 To sooth the anguish of each grief-torn heart ? 
 The youth departed, sleeps in peace, secure 
 From grief and pain surviving friends endure. 
 The cares of life can nov/ no more enthrall, — 
 The spirit freed now soars beyond them all. 
 Boreas, with blust'ring storms, disturbs no more. 
 Nor Neptune's trident, shaking every shore. 
 
32 ELEGY. 
 
 No dread of rocks, sunk in the trackless deep. 
 
 Can break the soundness of the sailor's sleep. 
 
 As when thro' night's deep gloom he steer'd the bark. 
 
 And cold winds blanch'd him in the cheerless dark. 
 
 No tempest drives him thro' the tumb'ling seas, 
 
 Where whirlpools swallow, or where north winds freeze : 
 
 The frozen main no longer he'll explore. 
 
 Where ice-bergs float along a lifeless shore ; 
 
 Lifeless, unless some brine-bred monster howls. 
 
 Or sea-bear scares you with its dismal growls. 
 
 The watery waste will him no more detain, 
 
 His spirit swims eternity's dark main ; 
 
 To heaven's calm shore he courts the steadfast gale, — 
 
 Hope at the helm — religion spreads the sail. 
 
 No putrid plague beneath a torrid sky. 
 
 Can wrinor one tear, nor one heart-rendins^ sig-h : 
 
 The fever's dreadful pa.ng no more prevails. 
 
 The yellow scourge no longer now assails ; 
 
 The throbing head is free from bursting pain, 
 
 Convulsions never will return again. 
 
 Delirium raves not from his silent tongue, 
 
 Where once love's accents and persuasion hung. 
 
 The common doom but falls on Henry now. 
 
 That waits on all — that waits for me and you : 
 
 A few short hours — days — months — or years, at most. 
 
 And we must follow to the Stygian coast. 
 
 Or then, or now, to say which were the best, 
 
 Who here can tell ? Unless he saw the rest 
 
ELEGY, 33 
 
 Of timej concealed by grey-beard's murky veil 
 Whose grim face might not tell a Idnder tale ; 
 Wise Providence directs all for the best, 
 Henry is happy, why are we distressed ? 
 With hope he sleeps in man's last dreary bed. 
 Till the last trumpet wakes the slumb'ring dead. 
 But thou, fair mourner I whose loose ringlets shade 
 Thy clear blue eyes, where love's quick lightening 
 
 play'd ; 
 What magic voice can sooth thy wounded heart. 
 When grim despair corrodes each tender part : 
 Can pity's voice recall the youth to thee ? 
 What bark shall waft him o'er the bounding sea ? 
 Vain the deep sighs that heave thy breast of snow. 
 Thy pale cheek's glist'ning with the tears of woe ; 
 In vain, sweet maid, those heart-wrung tears are shed, 
 No power on earth can raise the slumb'ring dead. 
 Tho' friendship's voice should echo back thy moan. 
 And sympathy reverberate groan for groan. 
 Till midnight echos moan'd to hear thee mourn. 
 All — all were vain, he never will return. 
 The sigh, the look, the chaste embrace that pass'd. 
 When last you parted, must remain the last. 
 Life's scene on Henry now for ever shuts, 
 The ties that bound vou, death's keen falchion cuts : 
 Terrestrial union, fate's stern rule deny'd, 
 A clay-cold bridegroom he — and thou a widow'd bride. 
 The hope alone remains that bards of old 
 
34 ELEGY. 
 
 And saints and sages anciently foretold, — 
 That souls thus sever'd, still the dead returns. 
 Wand'ring in air the lonely spirit mourns ; 
 Viewless to human eyes, yet ever near 
 It's dearest object, — ever — ever dear. 
 Till fate relenting sets both spirits free. 
 And joins them in bliss thro' all eternity. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lord of this orb ! creation's king ! 
 
 Thou emblem of a god ! 
 Thy tyrant spirit fain would bring 
 
 The world to wait thy nod. 
 
 II. 
 
 To witness all thy follies here 
 
 What strange ideas rise ! 
 Naked and bare to see them clear, 
 
 Expos'd without disguise. 
 
 III. 
 
 Inconstant man ! thy life and thee 
 How changeful, strange, and vain, 
 
 To day a toy, — gives bliss to me, 
 Perhaps, to-morrow, pain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And man, in every stage, appears 
 
 Inconstant as the blast ; 
 Acquires new foibles with his years, 
 
 And gains them to the last. 
 
36 APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 
 
 V. 
 
 In youth, without one care or plan. 
 
 He spurns at all control ; 
 Contemns, approves, and thinks he can 
 
 Confound or conquer all. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Time shews him rocks unseen before, 
 And mountains he must brave ; 
 
 But long ere that hard task is o'er. 
 You find him in the grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Cold bed ! where bravest heroes sleep, 
 The coward slumbers too. 
 
 Thy dark oblivion safe will keep 
 Their feats and foibles now. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The lover dreams no more of bliss, 
 
 Now cold within tliv cell, 
 Alas ! that love should come to this. 
 
 When hearts can love so well. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fool, the knave, the high, and low, 
 All sink at death's dark shrine. 
 
 Thou, grave, can no distinction shew. 
 All dust must mix with thine. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 37 
 
 X. 
 
 The sacred dust of Newton now 
 
 Hath turn'd to common clay ; 
 And Harvey died, wise Davy too — 
 
 All take one dreary way. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Avon's sweet bard and Burns are gone. 
 
 And gloomy Byron's dead ; 
 Scott is no more — the useless stone 
 
 Points to his last cold bed. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Lord B}Ton5 satirizing man. 
 
 His faithful dog to eulogise, 
 Can find in this world's boundless span 
 
 No other friend below the skies. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 O man ! great tyrant thro' each grade, 
 What would thy reckless spirit crave ? 
 
 Even Byron's genius never made 
 A friend, unless to be a slave. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And yet that poet's lofty strain 
 
 Oftimes breathes the kindest feeling ; 
 
 But soon his muse recoils again, 
 
 A stern and fiend-like front revealing ; 
 
 E 
 
38 APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And often seems as if concealing. 
 Like a misanthrope, stupid still. 
 
 Better nature, that seems stealing 
 From his dark muse, against its will. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis true the human race 
 
 Are bad enough ; yet who would mar 
 
 The good they have, and it deface, 
 Making men worse than what they are. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Vain man is not himself at times — 
 
 His best blood poisons with the spleen ; 
 
 Then shadows cloud his face and rhymes. 
 Spoiling the pictures of life's scene. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Frederick, c that wise and potent king, 
 Enthusiast in pursuit of truth, 
 
 Sent his ambassadors to bring 
 The sage of France ^ to guide his youth. 
 
 "s. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 That monarch's passion for a friend 
 Had but a short and transient reign : 
 
 You ask what wrought its luckless end? 
 'Twas tyranny, man's mortal bane. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 39 
 
 XX. 
 
 Death swept the king and sage away — 
 This lesson they have left behind, — 
 
 Confirm'd and strengthen'd every day. 
 That power makes tyrants of mankind. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Grim death, pale king of tyrants, still 
 Subdues all men, and surely brings 
 
 All, all beneath his stubborn will. 
 From lowest hinds to loftiest kings. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Goldsmith, the gem of Ireland, sleeps 
 
 As sound as Cromwell can ; 
 At Saint Helena, too, there weeps 
 
 The night-shade o'er one man^ 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Whose voice once woke the world to war. 
 
 Who taught mankind how small 
 Kings, churchmen, lords, and statesmen are, 
 
 When fate's loud thunders roll. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ambition brought him, like the rest, 
 
 To darkness and the grave ; 
 
 Now o'er his once high tow'ring crest 
 
 Ypn lone Isle's night-shades wave. 
 
 E 2 
 
40 APOSTROPHE TO MAN* 
 
 All kings as meiij all statesmen too. 
 
 Have duties to perfornij — 
 Not as at sanguine Waterloo^ 
 
 To feed the hungry worm. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 History swells high the sacred name 
 
 Of Alfred in its story ; 
 His patriot soul burnt with a flame^ 
 
 That wreaths him in a glory 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Of honest fame that sparkles clear. 
 
 Even now, tho' ten long centuries gonCj 
 
 Have swept to oblivion sage and seer. 
 And many a proud memorial stone. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 His trial by jury forms the base, 
 And the best bulwark of tho law ; 
 
 To rule and reform the human race 
 Kings should contend^ and only so* 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Britain's reforming Sailor King 
 
 In fame's pantheon bright will shine, — 
 
 A kind of rara avis thing, 
 
 A monarch made to mend mankind. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 41 
 
 XXX. 
 
 All living kings are made divine. 
 
 Thro' various fulsome laureat pages ; 
 
 William ! a nobler meed be thine — 
 Thy people's gratitude thro' ages. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The annals of Great Britain will 
 
 Record to future times the name 
 Of Grey, whose memorable bill 
 
 Must yield that Earl some honest fame. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And, Brougham, thy name must also go 
 Thro' time's dark vista shining clear, 
 
 As a reformer of the law, — 
 A star to gild our hemisphere. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Since death soon levels all mankind. 
 
 The object of all men should be 
 To leave some useful work behind, 
 
 To benefit posterity. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 The rustic swain who plants a tree. 
 
 The virtuous wife that rears a child. 
 
 Usefully serve their country, 
 
 Tho' differently, yet both have toil'd. 
 
 E 3 
 
42 APOSTROPHE TO MAN, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 For toil and labour only give 
 Rewards of value here below ; 
 
 By toil most men in health may live. 
 The cheapest med'cine man can know. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 If bless'd with health and sweet content. 
 The good this world affords is won ; 
 
 Wise providence those blessings sent. 
 Free as the air, warm as the sun. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 
 All other wants that man may make. 
 
 Panting for artificial joy, 
 Oft sting more pois'nous than the snake, 
 
 And nature's healthful charms destroy. 
 
 xxxviir. 
 
 Then man, mconstant man, be wise, 
 Take lessons from wise nature's law ; 
 
 Wipe the wet tears from weeping eyes, 
 And heal the cruel wounds of woe. 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 Do to the wand'rinij child of sin 
 
 What thy own heart would claim of love ; 
 
 That rule will lead thy steps within 
 The gate that leads to heaven above, 
 
4 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO MAN. 43 
 
 XL. 
 
 Where the tir'd spirit finds its rest. 
 
 From cares that canker earth's cold sod ; 
 
 Where the pure angels and the bless'd. 
 Pour hymns of gratitude to God. 
 
THE CUCKOO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Cunninghanij sweet bard of song. 
 
 Sings the Cuckoo's praise so well ; 
 A rhymer in the rustic throng 
 Fears again to sound the shell 
 Of vocal music to the bird again. 
 Whose dulcet note inspires a harsher strain ; 
 For not to him the warbling muse belongs. 
 Yet oft he chaunts sincere, tho' humbler songs. 
 
 II. 
 Spring, enliv'ning spring, displays 
 
 The mighty power of nature's law, 
 When Sol's warm life-diffusing rays 
 Bring early flowers that sweetly blow ; 
 And life and light spring from his radiant beam ; 
 Even the cold tenants of the limpid stream 
 Receive the impulse given by solar power ; 
 All vegetation feels it ; and each shower 
 
 III. 
 The fresh bud brings — upon the thorn. — 
 The cuckoo sings — its notes are borne 
 On Zephyr's wings — and the light gale, 
 While echo flings — them round the vale. 
 
THE CUCKOO. 45 
 
 And over woods, and wilds, and streams. 
 They float like music heard in dreams ; 
 Each warbling songster of the feather'd choir 
 Joins the loud chorus nature's charms inspire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 These little choristers prepare, 
 
 For this sweet season of their loves, 
 A bed of down to nestle there. 
 
 And coo and bill like turtle-doves ; 
 And breed their callow young secure from harm. 
 In the deep thicket sheltered, snug, and warm ; 
 On some tall tree or shelving cliff 'tis made, 
 Where prowling vermin climb not to invade. 
 
 V. 
 
 But the wing'd prowler comes to mar 
 
 The downy nest the birds have made ; 
 The Cuckoo comes, a worse intruder far, 
 And there her spurious eggs are laid. 
 The simple birds mistake the spurious spawn, 
 And think their own are nurtur'd there alone ; 
 Thus they the bastard brood mistaken rear. 
 And the true parents never once appear 
 
 VI. 
 
 Parental duties to perform, 
 
 But leave the task to chance and fate ; 
 Nature's soft feelings never warm 
 
 The Cuckoo, or his cruel mate. 
 
46 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Careless they fly, from tender impulse free. 
 Always migratingj like the restless sea ; 
 To other climes the heartless cuckoos roam. 
 And leave their offspring in a stranger's home. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Who e'er could envy, or would fly. 
 
 On vagrant wings, a cuckoo too ; 
 A cheating pander thro' the sky. 
 
 To practise swindling as they flew ? 
 All human sympathy, revolting, answers — no. 
 What unpolluted mind would wish to go ? 
 Or who would be the little birds, bereav'd 
 Of their own off'spring, and so much deceiv'd ? 
 
 VIIIo 
 
 The fancying Muse imagines how 
 
 The wond'ring foster-birds will stare, 
 When the young cuckoos larger grow 
 Than their fond fostering fathers there ; 
 But blind to the truth, they nestle on content, 
 And feed the progeny, however sent. 
 What can a bird, or what could man devise 
 In such a case, when fate hoodwinks the eves ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Cuckoo's note well-pleas'd we hear. 
 His melody announces spring ; 
 
 When nature's beauties re-appear. 
 Creation then will laugh and sing. 
 
THE CUCKOO. 47 
 
 But still the Cuckoo never claims regard. 
 Beyond his music, from the rustic bard ; 
 Indeed, mankind reiterate his name 
 A canting word of low contempt or shame. 
 
 X. 
 
 And there are cuckoos among men. 
 Who act the vile deceiving part. 
 Yet hide their crimes from human ken. 
 With deep duplicity and art. 
 The prudent world, with one consent, retreat 
 From social union with the dangerous cheat ; 
 All shun his friendship, spurn his company — 
 Despis'd he wanders, stain'd with infamy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 All tolerate the simple bird, — 
 
 The winged Cuckoo we forgive ; 
 While his cheering notes are heard, 
 Man lets the bold intruder live. 
 But when humanity can sin so far. 
 And seem with social happiness at war, 
 The law proclaims that punishment shall fall 
 On guilt, and gives its shelt'ring shield to all. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet some escape all human law, — 
 Their secret sins are never known ; 
 
 Safe with impunity they go. 
 
 Yet for their crimes they must atone. 
 
48 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 The Being that created sinful man. 
 Is not deceiv'd by him, nor ever can ; 
 And man's last sentence surely will be given, 
 By his Creator, at the bar of heaven. 
 
STANZAS TO BACCHUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bacchus ! god of generous wine. 
 Ancient poets laud and praise thee ; 
 
 Sing anthems at thy rosy shrine. 
 
 And to god-hke honours raise thee ; — 
 
 All to thy jolly courts repair. 
 
 And pour divine libations there. 
 
 II. 
 
 Heroes of the olden time, 
 
 All were worshippers of thee ; 
 Warriors of the eastern clime. 
 
 All to Bacchus bent the knee ; — 
 Thy rich potions still inspir'd them, 
 And with warlike ardour fir'd them. 
 
 III. 
 
 In those ancient times, when wine 
 Won the praise these poets sing. 
 
 All their heroes seem divine ; 
 Honour and the virtues spring 
 
 Brightest where rich wines are found — 
 
 In praise of wine their vaulted halls resound. 
 
50 STANZAS TO BACCHUS^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 The grape's pure vintage we despise — 
 Pure alcohol we now combine ; 
 
 Strongest spirit moderns prize 
 Far beyond the richest wine. 
 
 This potent liquor soon disturbs the brain. 
 
 And brings disease, stupidity, and pain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Degenerate man, that walks abroad 
 In this conceited world of ours, 
 
 A victim sinks beneath the load 
 
 Of usquebaugh, that Bacchus pours 
 
 Down his dry throat, until he falls, 
 
 A drunken beast, in vaulted halls. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Something is chang'd, since Bacchus now 
 Makes modern man a nerveless slave — 
 
 A bloated sot, whose shameless brow 
 Disgrace and infamy can brave 
 
 Without a blush ; some crimes are known 
 
 To spring from drunkenness alone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O man ! disgrace no more thy name, 
 Nor vile nocturnal orgies keep ; 
 
 Let not thy friends, with grief and shame, 
 O'er thy lost manhood sigh and weep. 
 
STANZAS TO BACCHUS, 51 
 
 Redeem lost time before it be too late — 
 
 Fly from the drunkard's forlorn, hopeless fate ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Disease and death's untimely blast 
 Fall on the drunken dotard's head ; — 
 
 Then from thy lips the poison cast. 
 Replace pure element instead ; 
 
 And health and peace of mind will thee restore 
 
 To manhood once again. — Then drink no more. 
 
 F 2 
 
ELEGY 
 
 ON MR. W. PEARSON5 A RENOWNED HUNTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 The cold wind blew o'er Branthwaite moor^ 
 
 A deadly-freezing blast ; 
 Black darkness gloom'd in midnight hour. 
 
 When Pearson breath'd his last ; 
 When Will's proud soul of fire untain'd. 
 As pale and dim the watch-light gleam'd. 
 
 In solemn hour of night. 
 Sprung from its tenement of clay. 
 And thro' the heaven's etherial way 
 
 Took bold unmeasur'd flight. 
 
 II. 
 
 In that dark hour of dread and woe, 
 When death, grim tyrant, reign'd, 
 
 From Lostrigg's echoing glens below, 
 Loud, deep-ton'd growlings strain'd. 
 
ELEGY. 53 
 
 There Caesar, Cleaver,^ dogs of fame. 
 And Shifty, hound of matchless name, 
 
 In dreadful midnight howls : 
 The fate of Will, their fallen lord. 
 These grateful hounds in grief deplor'd, 
 
 With heart-wrung, dismal growls, 
 
 III. 
 Unhappy hounds ! at early dawn. 
 
 Your master's voice no more shall raise 
 The tuneful echoes o'er the lawn. 
 
 Nor bugle sound o'er heathery braes. 
 Ye timid hares may now rejoice. 
 And mountain fox, with yelping voice, 
 
 Exulting now may rove ; 
 No more Will's echoing hunter's yell 
 Shall scare you from the lonely dell, 
 
 Nor wood-crown'd sylvan cove. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Flimby's dark gills, where reynard sleeps. 
 Nor Broughton's stretching plain, 
 
 Isell's deep woods and dangerous steeps. 
 He'll never see again. 
 
 Derwent's clear stream no more shall lave 
 
 The hero, dashing thro' the wave 
 That sweeps her pebbled shore ; 
 
 Clifton's green heights and sloping dales, 
 
 Old Dean's low woods and winding vales, 
 
 Will never hear him more. 
 
 F 3 
 
54 ELEGY. 
 
 V. 
 
 Blithe Davy^ now may range forlorn^ 
 
 And wear the mournful hue ; 
 His comrade. Will, from him is torn, 
 
 A comrade firm and true. 
 Bowman and Kendal, ^ too, will shed 
 The salt tear o'er Will's last cold bed^ 
 
 And think of years long pass'd ; 
 And, Green, the deep sigh often heave, 
 Oft think of Will, and weep and grieve, 
 
 With gloomy cares o'ercast. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When Curwen,^ chief of Cumbrian brave, 
 
 First rais'd our youth in martial pride, 
 A plume and warrior's blade he gave, 
 
 And bound the weapon to Will's side. 
 O ! then was warlike Pearson seen 
 A soldier tall, of stately mein — 
 
 What glory fir'd his breast ! 
 The lightnings of his eagle glance, , 
 Shot like the rays from glittering lance, 
 
 As wav'd his feathery crest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 That eagle eye now sleeps in death — 
 His tuneful voice, for ever still, 
 
 Hath pass'd away as fleeting breath. 
 And all is gone of gallant Will. 
 
ELEGY. 55 
 
 When shall a youth appear again. 
 With Pearson's grace, on festive plain. 
 
 By Marron's^ silver stream ? 
 No youth shall rise of equal fame. 
 To rouse the fur-clad mountain game, 
 
 Nor grace the poet's theme. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Tall hunter hero ! thou art gone, 
 
 Where all have gone before ; 
 Thy worth, thy faults, unknown and known. 
 
 Oblivion will devour. 
 One hundred vears, and time will show 
 No trace of thee at Bannock Row.^ — 
 
 No muse of mine can save 
 From dark oblivion's sweeping hand ; 
 Myself must join the nameless band, 
 
 Who slumber in the grave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 That thou wert generous, bold, and free. 
 
 Of independence proud. 
 Of sprightly humour, fond of glee, 
 
 In social concert loud. 
 Will be forgot : time slowly laves 
 A Lethean stream, whose cruel waves 
 
 Drown all the deeds of men. 
 The hopes, the fears, the joys we feel. 
 Let time one hundred circuits wheel. 
 
 Will all be nothing then. 
 
56 ELEGY. 
 
 X. 
 
 The hope that purer, heavenly joys. 
 
 May then delight us more. 
 Yield all their sweets without alloys — 
 
 A rich celestial store. 
 That hope we cherish ; — discord lives not there, 
 But softest music floats along the air, 
 
 And every jar destroys. 
 O ! may the sweetest dreams of youthful love 
 Be more than realiz'd to us above — 
 
 Heaven's essence of all joys. 
 
STANZAS TO DELIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Beneath yon heath-clad hills, that brave 
 The sweeping tempest's wildest streams. 
 
 Where clear Loch Kinder's^ g^^ssy wave 
 Reflects the sun's departing beams^ 
 
 II. 
 
 Thro' waving groves young Delia roves. 
 Or near New Abbey's cloister strays. 
 
 Far from the ardent youth, who loves 
 To muse and sigh o'er vanish'd days. 
 
 III. 
 
 Tho' recent in the paths of time. 
 
 Yet sever'd ties now mark them gone ; 
 
 And he can only muse and rhyme. 
 
 Sighing o'er past scenes when alone ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 While the wild girl, who thus inspires 
 Pangs of the heart in his lorn breast. 
 
 Laughs at the pain, and still desires 
 That life and love should all be jest, 
 
58 STANZAS TO BEILIA. 
 
 V. 
 
 Perhaps 'twere wise^ if love should be 
 Thus held at arms-length, nor be made 
 
 The tyrant he has been to me. 
 
 When Cupid's conquering arms invade. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What can resist, sweet virgin, say, 
 The arch-curl'd smiling urchin boy ? 
 
 Will Delia show the sweetest way 
 His ruling mandates to destroy ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lessons from Delia I would take, 
 From morn till eve the longest day ; 
 
 Thro' lingering night I'd keep awake, 
 Hear her soft lectures^ and obey. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Obey ! ah ! no^ — I cannot lie : — 
 
 Hard hearted maid, can nothing move thee ? 
 Strephon for Delia's love can die. 
 
 But living, cannot cease to love thee. 
 
ODE TO SYMPATHY. 
 
 I. 
 
 To sympathy I tune the lay. 
 
 And pour the music of wild song ; 
 When thus inspir'd, life's gloomy day 
 Glides with a smoother stream along 
 
 This chequer'd vale. 
 
 A tender tale 
 Of love, sung by some ancient bard. 
 Brings pleasing sympathy's reward ; 
 
 The joy or pain 
 
 We taste again. 
 As the poet's tale is told. 
 By powerful sympathy controll'd. 
 
 II. 
 
 To music's voice both young and old, 
 
 Enraptur'd, lend a listening ear ; 
 The heart's soft feelings then unfold. 
 And stormy passions disappear. 
 Sweet sympathy ! 
 Infus'd by thee. 
 Delightful shadows cheer the mind. 
 And charm man's heart towards his kind. 
 
60 ODE TO SYMPATHY. 
 
 None can withstand 
 
 Thy warm command ; 
 But all to sympathy resign 
 Their cold impulses, rul'd alone by thine. 
 
 III. 
 
 When stern misfortune falls on man. 
 
 And misery marks him for its prey. 
 The weeping wretch we never can, 
 Poor supplicating victim ! cast away ; 
 
 For sympathy. 
 
 With tearful eye. 
 Pleads for the poor, prostrated low. 
 Then genuine pleasure in relieving woe 
 
 The heart can feel. 
 
 Unless 'tis steel'd. 
 Its feeling harden'd and case-harden'd o'er, 
 Then sympathy sweats blood at every pore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Twin-born with pity, and allied to love, 
 
 Sister to meek-ey'd charity, whose feeling 
 Tender compassion rules — conjoined they move. 
 Soft mercy's melting eyes, revealing 
 Forgiveness — love divine — 
 With sympathy combin'd ; 
 They charm all cares and grief away. 
 Enlighten man with hope's bright ray — 
 
ODE TO SYMPATHY. 61 
 
 Raising the soul 
 
 Above controul 
 Of all terrestrial evil — and the mind, 
 Yielding to sympathy, becomes refin'd. 
 
 V. 
 
 Like a well-cultivated field, 
 
 By art prepar'd, and rich in soil. 
 Abundant products both will yield, 
 The sure reward of useful toil. 
 Dear sympathy ! 
 I worship thee. 
 And sing thy soft enchanting power ; — 
 In life's rude path thou art a flower, 
 So beautiful and fair. 
 So purely bright and rare, 
 Thou shalt be household goddess where I live — 
 To all within my sphere thy favours give. 
 
 G 
 
ODE TO ANTIPATHY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Antipathy I ah ! what art thou. 
 
 Eccentric ruler of man's mind ? 
 Thy whispering voice, tho' weak and low, 
 Yetj less or more, guides all mankind. 
 Strong shades in human faces will inspire 
 Oftimes strange feeling, and the soul takes fire. 
 Antipathy, deep-seated, growls within — 
 It sometimes will not be kept in ; 
 Then rude and wild. 
 As passion's child, 
 It seems hard prejudice, and almost sin. — 
 When this storm rages, you can never win 
 A liberal thought ; the soul is dark and grim, 
 And yet you scarce know why. This perverse whim 
 You cannot rule. 
 Nor send to school ; 
 Stern nature is too wise to lead, or lecture him. 
 
ODE TO ANTIPATHY. 63 
 
 II. 
 
 Duplicity, with shameless brow 
 
 And double-meaning face, we hate ; 
 Could Truth's bright eye but pierce thee thro'. 
 
 Disgrace and Infamy would be thy fate. 
 Yet keenest eye can seldom penetrate 
 The knave's dark visage, till it is too late ; 
 But if we would attend to thee, 
 Thy warning voice, antipathy, 
 Would often save 
 Us ; and the knave. 
 Cut from all intercourse, denied all dealing, 
 Would stand disarm'd, depriv'd by thy strong feeling 
 
 Of his sure prey Then I will sing thy praise, 
 
 In tuneless song and humble rustic lays ; 
 In simple melody. 
 Chant a rude stave to thee, 
 Tho' irony — the eulogy — may seem to be — thy poet 
 pays. 
 
 III. 
 What strange diversities in man ! 
 
 Old nature's wife must be a curious dame ; 
 You find not in her varied clan 
 
 Two faces nor two hearts the same. 
 Sometimes she seems in frolic or in jest — 
 To mould one monster just to plague the rest. 
 
 The passions planted in the human breast. 
 
 However varying, give to life its zest. 
 
 G 2 
 
64 ODE TO ANTIPATHY. 
 
 The man is bless'd. 
 
 Who is possess'd 
 Of energy to govern passion's storms : — 
 Their mastering power too oft deforms 
 The human face divine ; yet they 
 Are sometimes gentle gales, that play 
 
 Serene and mild. 
 
 When they have smil'd. 
 Like innocence on man, and cheer'd his lingering day, 
 
 IV. 
 
 With sunshine of the heart Antipathy ! 
 
 'Tis then we hate thy ugly face ; 
 We want a fair nymph's sweeter glance to see — 
 
 We long for gentle sympathy's embrace. 
 I cannot praise, in this harsh strain of mine. 
 Thy blear-ey'd visage ; that dark eye of thine, 
 Scowling, I wish to see no more — 
 To me thou art a monstrous bore. 
 'Tis strange to me. 
 Antipathy ! 
 From all mankind that thou art not exil'dj^ 
 Expell'd society, and in some lonely wild 
 Left wandering. — When thou art forgot, 
 Then man may smile, and bless his happy lot ; 
 The world, when freed 
 From thy black seed, 
 Would then become a sweet enchanting spot. 
 
ODE TO ANTIPATHY, 65 
 
 V. 
 
 If man would take the golden rule. 
 
 To guide him thro' this weary world, 
 And learn it in his Saviour's school. 
 
 Antipathy would then be hurl'd 
 To endless exile — man to man would give 
 What he would like to take himself, and live — 
 Doing to others as he'd wish them do 
 To him, if time — place — circumstance — did bow. 
 His person, where 
 Harsh pain and care 
 Requir'd the helping hand of strength and power 
 To raise it up ; let soft humanity then shower 
 The blessings of relief, and raise the bower 
 Of shelter for the helpless, when the hour 
 Of age and care 
 Their pains prepare 
 For man — till death knocks at the hermit's door. 
 
 G 3 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thro' Caldbeck's wild woods, stretching far, 
 By Hesket's sunny bowers and hills. 
 
 Where Caldew winds round many a scar, 
 Join'd by a thousand murmuring rills 
 
 II. 
 
 That pour from mountain, bank, and brae. 
 Watering the fruitful fields around ; 
 
 Each bubbling rvmlet casts a spray. 
 
 That spreads green verdure o'er the ground. 
 
 III. 
 
 When autumn brings the sporting day. 
 And stubble-fields are free and clear ; 
 
 With gamb'ling spaniels, frisking gay, 
 O how I lov'd to wander here ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 When hoar-frosts tinge the leafy groves 
 With ffreen and yellow tints so fair. 
 
 How pleas'd the youthful sportsman roves, 
 To seek the brown-wing'd woodcocks there. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 67 
 
 V. 
 
 And partridge, too, in speckled pride. 
 
 Basks on the sunny banks, or feeds 
 In plenty, down by Caldew's side. 
 
 On scattered grain or ripen'd seeds. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thro' Denton side loud echoes swell — 
 
 The double gun sings from below ; 
 Then Sebergham swains can often tell 
 
 Which way the scattering coveys go. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Mark ! mark ! resounds — quick wings are flying, — 
 A brace lies quivering on the brow ; 
 
 Old Nero,"^ stands his master eying. 
 And seems to say, " this sport will do." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Next day, a higher world we range. 
 Above where yon light vapours swim, 
 
 And as they sail, the features change 
 Of the tall craggs so dark and grim ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 As human features change at will. 
 When deep designing veils the mind ; 
 
 Vapours obscure the vision still. 
 If you attempt to read mankind. 
 
68 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 X. 
 
 And viewing, from the vale below. 
 
 Yon cloud-capp'd, towering, rocky fell. 
 
 You deem not sweet flowers there can blow, 
 In that high region ; but they'll tell 
 
 XI. 
 
 You bees, when taken high up there, 
 Their honied hives will soonest fill, 
 
 In August, if you place them where 
 The heather blooms on flowery hill. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And underneath yon frowning rock, 
 
 A vein of purest ore may lie ; 
 It has been found below the block 
 
 Of cragg, that shines unto the sky ; 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And seems so rude to human eve, 
 That superficial gaze like mine, 
 
 And languid limb from it would fly ; 
 Yet rich in minerals it does shine. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 So may the darken'd human mind 
 Conceal beneath some hidden store ; 
 
 In its low depths, man yet may find 
 Within himself some useful ore, 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 69 
 
 XV. 
 
 To which his labouring powers might give 
 
 A stamp of value now unknown ; 
 Then man no more a sluffg-ard live ! 
 
 Too often indolence aloncj 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Degrades thy genius in the world — 
 Destroys its energies and power ; 
 
 Would man resolve, it might be hurl'd 
 To dark oblivion in an hour. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The moors will do — old Nero's nose 
 Rears high to meet the western breeze ; 
 
 And you can feel each scent that goes 
 Across the plain, or thro' the trees. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The fine old moorcock there we'll find — 
 What noble game when on the wing ! 
 
 Grouse-shooting leaves far, far behind 
 All others, if you only bring 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Five brace all in full feather down — 
 'Tis sporting fit for any king ; 
 
 Yet many a thoughtless rustic clown 
 Destroys the grouse eggs in the spring. 
 
70 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 — 'Tis evening now, and we must go. 
 Where beauty dwells on yonder lea, 
 
 The trophies of our game to show. 
 And sip with them the sweet bohea. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And a rich treat it is to see 
 
 A pair of sisters, such as never 
 Were surpass'd, nor ere can be, 
 
 If you should, wandering, seek for ever. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 — Long years had pass'd, and I was there, 
 And fondly gaz'd where I had been. 
 
 But found no vestige of the fair — 
 
 How time's cold hand had chang'd the scene ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A serf sat at the garden gate, 
 
 But there no sweet flowers met my view ; 
 Alas ! I trembl'd for their fate — 
 
 Sweet angel sisters, where are you ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 I learn'd the grave was now their home — 
 The dank grass, withering, mark'd the beds, 
 
 Where fate had stretch'd them in the tomb — 
 The lone winds sighing o'er their heads. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 71 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Their substance all was spent and gone — 
 
 'Twas thus the mournful story ran ; 
 There was not left a smgle stone — 
 
 All was destroy'd by felon man. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The hopeless tear of forlorn grief 
 
 Had blanch'd their cheek, and pale despair 
 
 Brought death — poor misery's last relief ; 
 In yon dark tomb they moulder there. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 O man ! canst thou for mercy call. 
 
 At the tribunal of thy God ? 
 On thy devoted head must fall 
 
 His anger and the chast'ning rod, 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 For crimes and cruelties of thine, 
 
 When bursting hearts thy powers proclaim ; 
 
 No limits can those powers confine. 
 That rage like all-consuming flame, 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Like a devouring beast of prey — 
 
 O what a monster man can be ! 
 And woman, spotless, young, and gay, 
 
 Alas ! how hard thy destiny ! 
 
SUPPOSED ADDRESS 
 
 OF JOHN DONALD UPON THE SCAFFOLD^ BEFORE HE WAS 
 EXECUTED, FOR ROBBERY, AT CARLISLE, 18 . 
 
 Great God ! 
 And has it come to this at last ! and I 
 Must die the death of ignominy here. 
 Suspended from this hateful beam ! Alas ! 
 This law seems hard and cruel, thus to take 
 
 Life, the Creator's gift to man Rich gift ! 
 
 To breathe the balm of vital air, and move 
 The free elastic agent of the soul. 
 That spirit of etherial fire, can man 
 Extinguish thee for crimes of venial stamp, 
 And stand exonerated before the last bar 
 Of Heaven's tribunal ? I stand here condemn d 
 To die for venial sin — for stealing; gold 
 - From sordid man, whose dormant stores laid waste. 
 And miserly were unemployed, as when 
 They slept deep in the mine, unknown to man. 
 The old Mosaic law held life more sacred : 
 The Jewish code demanded, ^^ tooth for tooth," — 
 More equitable, nor balanced the true scale 
 
 Of justice with gold for blood of man 
 
 And this strong body might have toil'd to gain 
 
SUPPOSED ADDRESS, 73 
 
 Redemption, and have tried, by restitution. 
 
 To repay the injuries inflicted 
 
 On the innocent by me. But the law 
 
 Stands to the bond for blood, and calls — death ! 
 
 The gloomy prison-cells re-echo — death ! death ! 
 
 Oh ! 'tis horrible to me ! 
 Thousands are here assembled, to behold 
 The sanguinary law destroy this body — 
 A victim to the base insatiate thirst for 
 
 Gold And yet this passion dwells in all, 
 
 Or more or less in every breast ; and every eye 
 That falls on me, and this tall tree of death, 
 Would sparkle bright at sight of gold, that could 
 Be safely grasp'd by them. Ye money-dealers ! 
 Usury and you deceive mankind, and steal 
 In secret, with impunity ; and still 
 Mankind are found blind to calculation. 
 And see not the robbery, tho' done before 
 Their faces in clear day ; and yet no law 
 Recoils on you — it sleeps, and you escape. 
 All traders rob each other ; lies are ready still 
 To gild, with spurious tinsel, worthless wares. 
 And make them seem what they are not, to catch 
 Th' unwary, and extract their gold for trash. 
 And is not this, too, robbery ? deception ? 
 Done by knaves, hypocrites, altlio' they seem 
 Saint-like and holy to the blundering world. 
 Tho' they seem spotless, yet they know themselves 
 
 H 
 
74 SUPPOSED ADDRESS. 
 
 UDJust, and two-fac'd, double-dealing knaves. 
 O how such knowledge tends to self-abasement ! 
 And leads man on to crime, as he wears callous 
 To feelings of integrity and honour. 
 The youthful mind, rich in native purity. 
 Keenly alive and sensible to minutest feeling. 
 Loving truth to veneration, and strict honour 
 With ardour, with enthusiasm. Dear youth ! 
 O what a shock grates on thy wounded soul, 
 When it discovers baseness in the friends 
 Its simple, honest heart had deem'd as pure 
 As its own thoughts — constantly witnessing 
 Duplicity in man — daily, hourly intercourse ! 
 At last youth grows familiar, and no longer 
 Shrinks, with horror, back from playing off those 
 Tricks in trade ; and then the mind's pollution comes, 
 And trick on trick succeeds. At last, strong habit 
 Grows to this — the youth becoDies a villain 
 Like th' rest ! — O why is this ? Could man but keep 
 The feelings and integrity of youth through life. 
 Ah ! then this world would wear another aspect. 
 No gallows trees would rear their hateful heads — 
 No prisons yawn on man for crime ; pure love. 
 And truth, and even-handed justice, would prevail 
 Through all the world. And why is it not so ? 
 Speak, man ! that question answer for thyself ! 
 
 This prating from a wretch 
 Like me, condemn not you whom I address ! 
 
SUPPOSED ADDRESS. 75 
 
 Believe, for I am sincere, and would warn 
 
 You from those crimes that brought me here. Alas ! 
 
 'Tis now too late for me to profit by 
 
 This knowledge ; not so with you. Example 
 
 Take, and wisdom learn from me — a striking 
 
 Proof that trifling peculation leads to theft — 
 
 That sin breeds sin — that crime eng-enders crime — 
 
 And each succeeding crime grows darker, 
 
 Deeper into guilt it plunges. Last of all. 
 
 It brini2;s its victim where I now am standinof. 
 
 Then, man, beware of violating law ; for all 
 
 Must bend beneath the law, however cruel 
 
 Its strong mandates seem to those, who suffer 
 
 Thus like me its dreadful penalties. 
 
 And now I turn at last from man — to God, 
 
 The wonderful Creator of all matter. 
 
 Animate and inanimate, rational and brute ! 
 
 Before the Father of the world I stand. 
 
 Imploring, humbly. Him not to turn away 
 
 His mercy from a wretch, condemned by man 
 
 To die in perfect health, for infringement 
 
 Of the law. All-powerful Being ! receive 
 
 The abject penitent — contrition now, 
 
 From a worm like me, even at the eleventh hour, 
 
 For sins innumerable done bv me. 
 
 In violation of thy sacred law. O 
 
 Let the redeeming sacrifice of Christ 
 
 Extend to save me^ stain'd as I am with sin ; 
 
 H 2 
 
^ 
 
 76 SUPPOSED ADDRESS. 
 
 O let the waters of his mercy and my tears 
 Wash the deep stains away. Then cast me not 
 From mercy ; let me share that precious boon 
 With the repentant thief upon the cross. 
 Who died at Golgotha. O grant to me. 
 Great God ! thy mercy, and I leave this world 
 Without a sigh. 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY. 
 
 A TALE. 
 I. 
 
 " Awake, my Mary — where, my love, art thou ? 
 
 At thy low window I am waiting here ; 
 The dew weeps cold upon my aching brow — 
 
 Open thy casement, gently, Mary dear. 
 Awake ! arise ! thy lover comes afar — 
 To thee he comes, his only guiding star. 
 Through the lone night — a pilgrim at the shrine 
 Of love — to clasp his constant breast to thine. 
 
 II. 
 
 '' Open thine eyes — bright windows to the soul — 
 
 Open to love and me, my charming fair ; 
 
 Let me young cupids in those eyes behold. 
 
 Sporting with fair-hair'd, laughing babies there. 
 
 The secret charm, that words can never tell. 
 
 Yield to thy William ; he loves far too well — 
 
 Too firmly fix d on thee — ever to range, — 
 
 True as the polar-star that cannot change." 
 
 h3 
 
78 WILLIAM AND MARY. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus William call'd at Mary's window, where 
 
 The whispering music of his voice before 
 Had often brought the blushing beauty there. 
 
 And mutual vows had plighted o'er and o'er. 
 That night he came to fix the bridal-day. 
 And she was pledg'd no longer to delay 
 Young William's bliss, but, yielding heart and hand, 
 Join the fond youth in Hymen's sacred band. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The lonely hour of night was biting cold. 
 
 And darkness wrapt the silent world in gloom ; 
 
 A moaninff east-wind round the building's howl'd — 
 All else was silent, death-like as the tomb. 
 
 No voice from Mary's window could he hear ; 
 
 A sickness of the heart came o'er him, and strong fear 
 
 Of something dreadful, e'en foreboding death. 
 
 Struck the pale youth, and made him gasp for breath. 
 
 V. 
 
 The tortures of suspense he cannot bear. 
 
 But gain'd the door, and gave a thund'ring blow ; 
 
 Surprised, the inmates that loud summons hear. 
 And quickly Mary's father stands below — 
 
 '' Forgive me, father; where is Mary — say ? 
 
 I come this night to fix our bridal-day." 
 
 '' William ! my son ! my son ! prepare 
 
 For hopeless grief — for comfortless despair. 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY. 79 
 
 VI. 
 
 ^^ Mary lies buried in the silent tomb ; 
 
 Six days ago the lovely maid was well — 
 Malignant fever sent her spirit home — 
 
 To heaven it wing'd its way. The grave's odd cell 
 Holds the pure relics of the heavenly maid — 
 The kindest, best, and dearest, I have said. 
 A thousand times she was the joy of all 
 Who look'd upon her ; and we saw her fall, 
 
 VII. 
 
 '^ To the harsh stroke of death, in beauty's prime, 
 Like a fair flower that sinks beneath the scorm ; 
 Or like rich fruit, that falls, long, long ere time 
 
 Moulds its young beauties, or matures its form. 
 This cruel stroke of fate is hard to bear. 
 But thou, my son, sustains the deepest share ; 
 My heart is cold, and cannot linger here — 
 Death soon will stretch me on my Mary's bier. 
 
 VIIIo 
 
 '^ The night she died, as I stood weeping by, 
 
 I saw a paler hue come o'er her cheek ; 
 A tear stood trembling in her languid eye — 
 
 Mournful she look'd, and seem'd inclin'd to speak. 
 I bent mine ear, and, whispering low, she said — 
 ' I feel I'm dying, and I must be laid 
 In the cold grave, ere William can be here, — 
 Give him this ring, — I had it from my dear. 
 
\ 
 
 80 WILLIAM AND MARY. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " ' My much-lov'd youth, when I my plighted vow 
 Exchang'd for his ; and I have kept it pure — 
 
 In this fond bosom it has laid till now ; 
 But death divides us, for I feel this hour 
 
 To be my last on earth ! Yes, I must leave 
 
 You all — My dearest father, do not grieve ; 
 
 We part to meet again, I hope, at last. 
 
 This parting pang is cruel, but, when past, 
 
 X. 
 
 " ' Strong hope Inspires me we shall meet again. 
 
 My sainted mother's spirit swims before 
 My aching eyes — O we will wait with pain. 
 
 And many a look cast from the Stygian shore, 
 Till you, my father, and my William, join 
 Our spirits there — and then he will be mine ! 
 Death can no more divide us — Oh ! I die 
 Content in this last hope.' — She clos'd her eye, 
 
 XI. 
 
 " And never spoke again." This mournful tale 
 He seem'd to hear, but answer he made none ; 
 
 His lip was dry — his cheek was deadly pale — 
 
 His cold brow mov'd no more than sculptur'd stone. 
 
 His fix'd eye gaz'd on Mary's father long ; 
 
 He wept not — sigh'd not. In a moment, strong 
 
 Convulsions struck him to the cold stone floor ; 
 
 He dying fell, and word spoke never more ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 TUNE ^^ SLEEPING MAGGY.'' 
 
 I. 
 
 Bright this hour5 and happy are we^ 
 
 Cold care is fled a^way ; 
 Let no squeamish scruples bar theej 
 
 But let pleasure rule to-day. 
 The life of man, 'tis but a span. 
 
 His earthly scene a passing gleam ; 
 Let us illume each transient gloom 
 
 With love and friendship's sacred beam. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bright this hour, and happy are we. 
 
 Care is fled far, far away ; 
 Why should one bright moment scare thee ? 
 
 Who would grudge to make it twa' ? 
 The little birds upon each spray 
 
 Enjoy their loves without control ; 
 Why should not we^ as well as they. 
 
 With love and music charm the soul ? 
 
82 SONG. 
 
 III. 
 
 Bright this hour, and happy are we, 
 
 Care, cold care, is now away ; 
 Let not social union scare thee. 
 
 But let all be blithe and gay. 
 And let not youth's soft moments fly. 
 
 But seize each hour that can be blest ; 
 When love beams bright in beauty's eye, 
 
 O strain the darling to thy breast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Blithe this hour, and happy are we. 
 
 The canker care is now away ; 
 Let not one hour's pleasure mar thee. 
 
 Join, and we will make it twa\ 
 Young love was given that man may taste 
 
 The joy of angels here below ; 
 Then twine thine arms around her waist, 
 
 And in thy bosom let her grow. 
 
 Blithe this hour, and happy are we. 
 
 Care dare never venture here ; 
 Why should wine and music scare thee ? 
 
 Love delights in social cheer. 
 And woman, lovely woman, still 
 
 The brightest gem this world affords, 
 Man's destiny must rule, and will. 
 
 In spite of earth's obdurate lords. 
 
MONODY 
 
 ON THE LATE JOHN SEWELL, ESQ., COCKERMOUTH- 
 
 I. 
 
 Bold Sewell was a rambling boy, 
 
 A genius ever on the wing. 
 Pursuing fond ideal joy. 
 
 From whence oftimes will strangely spring, 
 
 To hearts like his, a secret sting. 
 
 And why kind feelings thus should bring 
 Rewards oft mix'd with pain's alloy. 
 
 Is not for me to say or sing. 
 
 II. 
 
 All lov'd him well, for all well knew 
 Within him liv'd a noble soul. 
 
 When kindred spirits, kind and true. 
 Met round the sparkling jovial bowl, 
 Generous and free, he spurn'd control ; — 
 The skies might gloom, the winds might howl, 
 
 Sewell was still in lively cue. 
 Let folly fret, or discord scowl. 
 
84 MONODY. 
 
 III. 
 
 And he has left this world of pam — - 
 
 Wmg'd his bright way beyond our sphere ; — 
 
 Oh ! many a heart would leap again 
 With joy, with rapture, were he here! 
 To him all earthly joys or fear. 
 Pleasures and pain, now disappear ; 
 
 And we may sorrov/'s tears restrain — 
 
 Useless they fall on love's or friendship's bier. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet the full heart finds solace and relief, 
 To sigh a last adieu in tears and grief; 
 The distant tomb, v/here Sew ell silent lies, 
 Will draw from memory sorrow's deepest sighs. 
 Contemn not this lorn strain, ye men of steel — 
 Tho' yours are callous, other's hearts may feel ; 
 And think of Sewell in his narrow grave. 
 Where the rude waters of St. Lawrence ^^ lave 
 The green banks, where his mould'ring body lies, 
 The worm's companion, till it greets the skies ; 
 And the last trumpet's sound shall it restore, 
 To join the deathless soul, to part no more. 
 
STANZAS 
 
 TO A DEPARTED FRIEND, WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Whilst lingering on the bed of care. 
 None to watch o'er me, none to attend ; 
 
 Sickness my sole attendant there. 
 
 Ah ! where art thou, my sainted friend ? 
 
 n. 
 
 Doth thy blest spirit ever stray 
 
 From its etherial home to greet me ? 
 
 What would thy angel spirit say, 
 
 Estranged, forsaken, thus to meet me ? 
 
 III. 
 
 When bless'd with health and spirits free, 
 My heart leapt high above all danger ; 
 
 Now grim-fac'd, stern adversity. 
 
 Hath left me in the world a stranger. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And those, who once in happier days 
 Partook my bowl, my board, my purse, 
 
 On my pale visage gloat and gaze. 
 As if my forehead bore the curse 
 
86 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Of Cain upon it Well, 'tis done ! 
 
 And I must brook this bitter doom ; 
 The fates for me have wove and spun 
 
 Their snaring nets in poison'd loom. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Let all the sordid sons of clay 
 
 Fold, hedgehog-like, their prickles round 
 A heartless carcase ; yet one day 
 
 The serfs themselves may bite the ground- 
 
 VII. 
 
 May feel their own misfortunes gall, — 
 For others' woe they never feel ; 
 
 But self! — touch self, and then they fall, 
 Bending their stubborn knees of steel. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And they still bow to wealth and power. 
 And cringe and fawn — the caitilff hinds ! 
 
 Time-serving slaves, who, every hour. 
 
 Expose their mean, their grovelling minds. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The grasping, harsh, unsparing hand. 
 That never uses power to bless ; 
 
 They stretch o'er all where they command, 
 Nor ever once relieve distress. 
 
STANZAS. 87 
 
 X. 
 
 The sea-snake's blood quite cold is found — 
 
 The zoophile lives without a heart ; 
 But are such monsters on the ground. 
 
 In shape of men ? Oh ! how the start 
 
 XI. 
 
 Of horror throbs through every vein, 
 
 To hear such question put ! alas ! 
 Forbear, inhuman Muse ! restrain 
 
 Thy rage ! — remember man is grass. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Well^ I will let the question pass — 
 Let worm-remorse seek its own food ; 
 
 Whatever man or is, or was, 
 
 I wish that he were wise and good. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This world is strange, and man is strange — 
 
 Women are stranger far than all ; 
 Alas ! what recreant spirits range 
 
 On this revolving earthly ball. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What folly marks man's fleeting days ! 
 
 What slanders poison his foul tongue ! 
 
 Selfish and cruel all his ways ! 
 
 The weak must bend beneath the strong. 
 
 I 2 
 
88 STANZAS* 
 
 XV. 
 
 Baseness in high-born lofty knaves 
 Disgusts the independent mind ; — 
 
 False hypocrites and lying slaves 
 Deserve the spurning of mankind. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Gold is the god of faithless man ; — 
 How can the sum of crimes be told^ 
 
 That, since this envious world began. 
 Sprung from the baneful thirst for gold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Women for gold have sold their love ; 
 
 For gold base man betrays his friend. — 
 Friendship and love to realms above 
 
 Are fled away. — Oh I where's the end 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Of man ? From sufferings here below, 
 Where shall he find a haven of rest ? 
 
 Where can the wandering hermit go ? 
 O what can calm his fluttering breast ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The soothing hope, that heaven above 
 May prove at last his safe abode ; 
 
 Resting on his Creator's love — 
 With fervid voice he prays, that God, 
 
STANZAS. 89 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Father of creatioiij will 
 
 Take from his lips the cup of gall — 
 
 Remove from life its bitterest pill — 
 And pour his blessings over all. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Celestial hope ! charmer of mind ! 
 
 Infuse thy balmy influence here ; 
 Lighten the darkness of mankind. 
 
 And chase from weakness pallid fear. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Strengthen the heart, that man may brave 
 
 The stern vicissitudes, that fall 
 Around his path, and when the grave 
 
 Draws its dark curtains round us all, — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Content, when life's hard race is run, 
 Thus to make room for younger men ; 
 
 Pleas'd if the acts, that have been done 
 By you, can gild your memory, when 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Death's shade invelopes your cold clay — 
 
 And when men chance to glance around, 
 
 Haply some friend may, sighing, say — 
 
 He sleeps in peace beneath this mound. 
 
 I 3 
 
90 STANZAS. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Fearless, his gentle spirit fled. 
 
 Spiring with hope — that fleeting guest ; 
 This green sod marks the quiet bed. 
 
 Where the poor pilgrim's relics rest. 
 
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 I. ^ 
 
 Arch love ! the vagrant ! where doth he lie ? 
 
 In Delia's warm heart, or melting eye ? 
 
 Love's in her snowy bosom swelling — 
 
 O how I envy him that dwelling ! 
 
 If I were lodg'd, a favour'd lover there, 
 
 All on the earth — in water — through the air. 
 
 Could raise no envy in my happy breast — 
 
 Feasting on love, there I would ever rest. 
 
 II. 
 
 Who, sweet Delia, is the happy guest, 
 Doom'd to thy bosom, there to be blest — 
 Heart join'd in heart, till love's controul 
 Melts all into harmonies of soul. 
 Angels might envy joy like this, as when 
 They took fair daughters of the sons of men f 
 And from that union, rear'd a god-like race. 
 To people regions in celestial space. 
 
SATIRICAL STANZAS 
 
 TO THE HORSE LEECH. 
 
 Proverbs, chap, xxx., verse 15 — " The Horse Leech hath two daughters — 
 ^^ crying Give, give. " 
 
 I. 
 
 Prolific daughters they have been — their breed 
 
 Extends where earth extends, or ocean laves ; 
 Some men seem scions from their ancient seed. 
 
 Whose all-devouring maw for ever craves ; 
 
 And they would make all human beings slaves. 
 Among them riot, and devour at will. 
 
 And yet the hypocrites can fawn and preach, 
 Although pursuing the unwary still. 
 
 Sucking the vital blood, like the Horse Leech. 
 
 II. 
 
 The hungry worm, that feeds on man's cold clay. 
 Fulfils old nature's dictates, and devours 
 
 A lifeless carcase, meant to be its prey. 
 
 When the dark grave receives this form of ours, 
 And the last enemy strong man o'erpowers. 
 
 But while the vital streams thy body warm. 
 Beware of human reptiles ! they can reach. 
 
 And coil around thee with the serpent's charm. 
 And drink thy blood. — Beware the human Leech ! 
 
CRISPIN AND THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 '' Good morrow, jolly Crispin ! I am. glad 
 
 To find you stirring ; I have got a job. 
 At yonder inn there's nothing to be had — 
 
 All are in bed. Yours is the only nob 
 That greets, with cheerful smiles, the early dawn — 
 That hails the healthful breezes o'er the lawn. 
 Although the sun will soon o'ertop the hill. 
 
 That frowns beyond yon towering castle's spire. 
 How sweet the murmurings of the limpid rill 
 
 The happy thoughts of innocence inspire !" 
 
 II. 
 
 " Yes, I am stirring, sure enough, God knows — 
 Old time was^s strangely in this nether world ; 
 From morning's dawn till sober evening's close, 
 I'll have nor jacket trimm'd, nor apron furl'd. 
 Here with the awl and lapstone I must tug. 
 Without one drop from glass or foaming jug ; 
 
94 CRISPIN AND THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 While Boniface, the landlord, swigs his fill — 
 He drinks all day, and sleeps away the morn ; 
 
 The squire's not happier on yon castle's hill, 
 Though luxury his tables may adorn." 
 
 III. 
 
 '' Well, Crispin, here's a crown to make you happy — 
 
 Finish my job, then go, and get a pot ; 
 You envy Boniface — go, taste his nappy ; 
 
 If e'er again I chance to pass this spot. 
 Another bright crown shall be paid, 
 If you are at Saint Crispin's trade ; 
 
 But envy not the landlord nor the squire. 
 
 Yours is a healthier and a happier lot ; 
 Enjoying health and strength, why more require ? — 
 
 Here take your crown, and go and get your pot." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Few years had pass'd, the traveller came again — 
 
 Remembering Crispin, he draws to the inn, 
 Sends for the shoemaker across the plain, — 
 
 He comes, with jocund face and lively grin 
 
 " Well, Crispin, how goes trade ? I see you're well. 
 And how's the squire and Boniface ? Come, tell." 
 " Lord ! sir, they've both been buried a good bit; 
 
 The squire got both the gout and gravel, so they said; 
 And Boniface died of an apple-exick fit — 
 
 Hows'ever both have been a good bit dead." 
 
CRISPIN AND THE TRAVELLER. 95 
 
 V. 
 
 " Hah ! sapient Crispin, when I last was here. 
 
 You seem'd to envy these two neighbours. Now 
 You see things are not still as they appear 
 
 To superficial observation. How 
 Thankful you should be for strength and health ! — 
 These, with contentment, far transcend all wealth. 
 Had you been as your wealthy neighbours were. 
 
 Like them you would have had an early tomb ; 
 Crispin, when sinking in the fatal snare, 
 
 Too late would see his error and his doom." 
 
 VI. 
 
 '' No, no ! good friend,'' the man of straps replied ; 
 
 '^ The landlord still swigg'd brandy. Brandy-drinking 
 Burnt all his inside out, and then he died. 
 
 I drinks cold rum, quite pleasant to my thinking. — 
 Don't you likes rum ? The squire, he was a fellow 
 That took to wenching, and with wine got mellow. 
 I sticks to rum, and sparkling lively ale ; 
 
 Drinking is then a werry different thing. 
 If you'll stick fast to them, you'll never fail, 
 
 But, like Jack Crispin, drink, and laugh, and sing." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Jack Crispin's is a very common case ; 
 
 Man sees his neighbour s stumbling-block quite plain, 
 Although his own is clear, as nose on face ; 
 
 Yet he keeps stumbling o'er and o'er again. 
 
96 CRISPIN AND THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 And ever lays the blame upon some other thing. 
 Man always errs — he can no judgment bring 
 Correct in his own case, but still deceives 
 
 Himself — none else ; for all can see 
 His neighbour's foible — but who e'er believes 
 Himself as great a knave or fool can be ? 
 
THE NIGHT WIND. 
 
 A MONITORY MONOLOGUE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Black son of Boreas ! midnight blast ! 
 
 How withering thy cold poisoning breath ! 
 Poor invalids, pale and aghast. 
 
 Recoil from thee, as from grim death. 
 
 II. 
 
 And many a fair nymph, young and gay. 
 Pursuing fond love's chaste delight. 
 
 Hath charm'd the light wing'd hours away. 
 Through the dank gloom of hazy night ; 
 
 III. 
 
 Nor deem'd that deadly poison falls, 
 From midnight air, on tender lungs — 
 
 Cold dews distil, thick vapour rolls. 
 Unheeded 'mid love's syren songs. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dancing invites, and music's charm 
 Breathes still a magic influence there ; 
 
 Youth has no fear, nor dread of harm, 
 But woos the cooling breezy air. 
 
 K 
 
98 THE NIGHT WIND. 
 
 V. 
 
 Wlien heated by the mystic whirl 
 Of waltzing, or the light quadrille. 
 
 The artless, unsuspecting girl. 
 
 Courts thy cold kiss, nor dreams of ill. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Short time revolves ere she will feel 
 A cord drawn tight around the breast ; 
 
 Her cheek, pulse, cough, and voice, reveal 
 The agony of deep distress. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Seeds of consumption, now sown deep. 
 Are rooted from that fatal day ; 
 
 Awhile the canker-worm may sleep. 
 But soon or late it brings decay. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And beauty fades, and droops, and dies, 
 Like a fair lily prostrate laid ; 
 
 Death seals in darkness brightest eyes — 
 Love-beaming eyes of youthful maid. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And friends are weeping o'er the bier, — 
 A youth is there, that cannot weep ; 
 
 The grave devours all he held dear — 
 His heart's mute anguish, O how deep ! 
 
THE NIGHT WIND. 99 
 
 X. 
 
 Tears are denied to grief like his — - 
 
 The waveless surface of his soul 
 Freezes to icy smoothness, — This 
 
 Is cruel paiuj thus to controul, 
 
 XI* 
 
 And sternly combat man's own heart !— 
 Tears are relieving showers of grief; 
 
 But when despair wounds every part. 
 Tears cannot flow, nor yield relief, 
 
 XII. 
 
 O fly the night wind's cruel blast ! 
 
 Expose not life for midnight joys ! 
 Before mild evening hours are pass'd, 
 
 Retire from cares, fatigue, and noise. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Where kind domestic friends prepare 
 
 Bright scenes of pleasing revelry, 
 Let innocence and love be there. 
 
 And music yield sweet minstrelsy. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And health, and peace, and sweet content. 
 
 Will charm the cheerful hours away : 
 
 These calm, delightful joys were sent. 
 
 To smooth life's rough, eventful day. 
 
 K 2 
 
iOO THE NIGHT WINDV 
 
 XV. 
 
 Tempt not the pains of pale disease — - 
 Grasp solid pleasure, sterling joy ; 
 
 Reverse not nature's pure decrees — 
 Embrace not folly's base alloy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then through whatever scenes you go,. 
 
 In this dark vale of tears and siffhs^ 
 The guileless heart must ever know 
 
 A secret bliss, that never dies.. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 While whispering conscience speaks within^ 
 Cheering the soul through every gloom — 
 
 Sweet monitor, that guards from sin. 
 And guides man from the fearful doom, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Pronounced by nature's powerful God 
 Against offending, sinful man — 
 
 Before thy Creator's chast'ning rod^ 
 Bow to the Deity, whose plan, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Inscrutable, mocks the weak power 
 Of man — presuming, reckless worm ; 
 
 Puerile pedant of an hour. 
 
 Bend thy stiff neck, nor tempt the storm. 
 
THE NIGHT WIND. 101 
 
 XX. 
 
 Can man's best genius guide one star 
 That wanders through the miiky way ? 
 
 Or leady the fiery meteor's car. 
 Ruling the glorious orb of day ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Can man create one single mite — 
 One grain of sand upon the shore ? 
 
 Produce one ray of radiant light ? 
 O no ! — Then worship and adore 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Being, that created all 
 
 This universe ; approach with awe ; 
 Before his high tribunal fall ; 
 
 And pledge thy soul to keep his law. 
 
 K 3 
 
EPITAPH 
 
 ON JOSEPH HARRINSON5 WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE 
 RIVER HOOGLY5 A NAVIGABLE ARM OF THE GANGES, 
 AND BURIED AT CALCUTTA. 
 
 I. 
 
 Beneath this stone entomb'd, a youth lies sleeping. 
 Whose friends afar for him have bitter weeping ; 
 Bursting hearts for him are swell'd, and swellings 
 Far from his last dark, dreary dwelling I 
 Dearly esteem'd by all who knew him well. 
 
 His worth, his genius, were by all confess'd ; 
 His father's, master's, shipmates' tears, will tell 
 
 He most was lov'd by those who knew him best. 
 
 II. 
 
 The father's hope, the master's generous pride. 
 Sunk with the youth in Hoogly's envious tide. 
 Like a fair shadow, or a pleasing dream ; 
 And memory dwells upon that cruel stream 
 In mournful thought — and the young sailor gone 
 
 For ever Friends can only rear this stone — 
 
 A fond memorial, a last tribute paid, 
 
 To youthful genius in cold ashes laid. 
 
EPITAPH. 103 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, Christian stranger, lonely wand'ring here. 
 Drop on his tomb one sympathising tear ; 
 The youthful heart that moulders here below, 
 Hath often shed salt tears for other's woe. 
 Rich hopes dwelt on him, wishes fond and kind — 
 
 Alas ! all these on earth no more remain ! 
 One only hope his friends have not resigned — 
 
 The hope that heaven's joy he may yet attain* 
 
MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION ; 
 
 0R5 Crispin's wedding. 
 
 A Tale, founded on fact. 
 I. 
 
 Jack Crispin was a lively blade. 
 
 So blithe, so free, and jolly. 
 And he had woo'd a lovely maid, 
 
 The sweet-lipp'd, youthful Molly. 
 Bold Jack had woo'd, and Molly frown' d. 
 
 Twelve months of changing weather ; 
 Moll would not yield till he was bound, 
 
 Tied fast in Hvmen's tether. 
 
 II. 
 
 For Jack was like the roving bee, 
 
 That wings o'er mead and mountain ; 
 That woos each sweet shrub, flower, and tree. 
 
 Then flies to pleasure's fountain. 
 But charming Molly chain'd the youth. 
 
 And constant at eve's gloaming. 
 He pour'd fresh vows of love and truth, 
 
 And went no longer roaming. 
 
MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION. 105 
 
 III. 
 
 Long winter nights were coming on — 
 
 Jack tir'd of youthful schemingj 
 Night after night in bed alone. 
 
 On buxom Molly dreaming ; 
 Resolv'd to end this restless state — 
 
 Grown desperate, he would venture. 
 Take blooming Molly for his mate, 
 
 And Hymen's regions enter* 
 
 IV. 
 
 The day was fix'd the ring procured. 
 
 And kinsfolk all invited ; 
 Priest told and clerk, and all secur'd. 
 
 That they might be united. 
 And when that lingering morning came. 
 
 Jack grinn'd, and Moll smil'd cheerly ; 
 Their youthful hearts, love's hottest flame, 
 
 Was scorching most severely. 
 
 v. 
 
 The clock struck ten, arrived at church — 
 
 The clerk aghast, pale with dismay, 
 Told Jack and Moll they'd got the lurch — 
 
 Martext the parson was away. 
 " Away ! away, until to-morrow — 
 
 Away !" cried Jack, '' by heavens we'll wed . 
 Amen, be off, and try to borrow 
 
 Thumpcushion, or I'll break your head/' 
 
106 MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Off went the clerk at top of speed, 
 
 And fortune, as if wishing 
 To serve the parties in their need, 
 
 Thumpcushion he found fishing. 
 And in great haste the pair returned — 
 
 The borrow'd parson went in glee ; 
 Thumpcushion thought Jack's ardour burn'd 
 
 So fierce, he'd have a jovial spree. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The church they gain'd, the surplice on, 
 
 Suspence on tip-toe panting ; 
 The bride stands blushino; close bv John — 
 
 The books alone are wanting 
 
 ^^ The registers are in the box, — 
 
 Hand out the books, clerk, if you please." 
 '^ Ye gods ! old Martext always locks 
 
 The iron chest, and keeps the keys." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The bride turn'd pale, the bridegroom red. 
 
 Emotion held all voices mute ; — > 
 ^^ Parson," cries Jack," we must be wed!" 
 
 ^^ Wait — I'll soon settle this dispute 1" 
 He vanish'd quick, as lightning's flash. 
 
 But in a moment he was back ; 
 And on the iron lid a crash 
 
 Fell from the crow-arm'd hand of Jack. 
 
MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION, 107 
 
 IX. 
 
 The parson pray'd he would desist — 
 
 The clerk seiz'd hold of hand and crow ; 
 But Jack's strong arm and brawny fist 
 
 Upon the floor laid Amen low. 
 Amazement seiz'd all hands, and fear 
 
 Made every cheek, but Jack's, turn blue ; 
 All silent stood, till his loud cheer 
 
 Announc'd the books^ expos'd to view. 
 
 X. 
 
 '' There !" cries our hero of shoe-leather, 
 
 " The registers are there, good folks ; 
 Thumpcushion now may fix our tether — 
 
 I think we've ended all our jokes. 
 And business now may well begin ; — 
 
 Come, Moil, I'll stick like wax to thee ! 
 What makes the sporting parson grin ? — 
 
 Play no buffoonery on me !" 
 
 XI. 
 
 The parson was a jeering blade — 
 
 Feign'd sympathy and mimic sorrow ; 
 Told Jack, Moll must remain a maid. 
 
 Past all remede, until to-morrow. 
 The enemy, relentless time, 
 
 Had touch'd the hour upon the dial ; 
 And rubrick's rules would make it crime. 
 
 Null too in law, to wed this trial. 
 
108 MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION. 
 
 XII. 
 
 To persevere would be rank folly. 
 
 Yet they might have their wedding dinner ; 
 He felt for both, but most for Molly — 
 
 'Twas plain Jack was a hardened sinner. 
 And disappointment's punishment 
 
 Fell on his head for sins and crime ; 
 Crosses like these to man were sent. 
 
 To check base passions in their prime. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ^' Ye prating, poaching priest," cried Jack ; 
 
 You have fine lingo at disposal — 
 By this right arm your crown I'll crack. 
 
 Unless you close with my proposal. 
 Dine with our party, swear we're wed — 
 
 To-morrow we can tie the knot ; 
 To-niffht we mount the bridal bed — 
 
 Swear this, or never leave this spot ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Moll, my sweet wife, depend on me, 
 
 And, neighbours, keep this secret snug ; 
 Sir clerk, if one word comes from thee, 
 
 I'll stitch close up that grinning mug ! 
 This must be done ! come, no demurs ! 
 
 I'll swear you all, priest, clerk, and maid, 
 Or none from this holy altar stirs — 
 
 Our secret shall not be betray'd !" 
 
MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION. 109 
 
 XV. 
 
 Jack scar'd the crew, and all swore plain. 
 
 Nor lip nor tongue would ever tell ; 
 Poor Moll's heart throbb'd with anxious pain. 
 
 Wishing that all was o'er, and well — 
 The day pass'd gaily — glee and fun. 
 
 With roast-beef dinner, punch till dark ; 
 Moll smil'd demure as any nun — 
 
 The priest sung catches with the clerk. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And now the witching time of night 
 
 Drew on apace ; poor Moll looked queer — 
 The secret kept, and all was right ; 
 
 Yet her cheek blanch'd — a trembling tear 
 Was springing in her bright blue eye. 
 
 Jack saw, and in love's tenderest tone, 
 Kissing the tear-wash'd eye-lid dry, 
 
 Told his young bride, the morning's dawn 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Would test his love, and prove it true 
 
 '' Seldom was love so dearly prov'd 
 
 As thine, my Moll ; yet wouldst thou rue, 
 
 And doubt if this fond heart has lov'd ?" 
 « 
 
 In softest strain he sooth'd the maid. 
 
 Till priest and guests retir'd — When gone- 
 
 The stocking thrown, young Moll was laid. 
 By the young bride-maids, all alone. 
 
110 MARTEXT AND THUMPCUSHION. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And what became of Jack that night, 
 
 My tale presumes not here to tell ; 
 But the next morn's returning light 
 
 Found Moll and Jack alive and well. 
 Found Martext also in his cell — 
 
 Sorry that he should make such blunder ; 
 And they were wedded, and now dwell. 
 
 Like Darby and Joan, nor ever sunder. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE MORNING OF NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1837 
 
 Occasioned by the sudden death of a Young Lady, 
 
 I. 
 
 O darkly dawns the infant year. 
 
 Where hopeless sorrow sighs ! 
 And O it is a scalding tear 
 
 That swells a parent's eyes. 
 
 When youth — when beauty dies ; 
 When death steals, like a thief unseen, 
 
 And cuts life's tender ties 
 In youth, and drops his horrid screen ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! Death ! poor nature's cruel bane. 
 
 Thou sweep'st mankind away ; 
 Some sink by slow consuming pain — 
 
 Some vanish in a day. 
 
 Who here could wish to stay 
 For ever in this world of woe, 
 
 Wliere knaves and fools have sway, 
 
 And rule o'er struggling life below. 
 
 L 2 
 
112 LINES, 
 
 III. 
 
 We rise each gloomy morn to weep. 
 
 And mourn o'er Hannah's doom. — 
 When she, sweet maid, wakes from her sleep. 
 
 Beyond the silent tomb. 
 
 She'll think upon her home. 
 And wish her friends could share the joys 
 
 Of heaven with her, nor roam 
 Vainly on earth, for bliss without alloys. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Upon the last eventful day, 
 
 When man from death shall rise — 
 Shall see the Saviour's power display 
 
 His mercy in the skies — 
 
 Sweet Hannah's angel eyes 
 Will open with seraphic love. 
 
 If her dear friends arise. 
 To meet her in the realms above* 
 
LIFE'S CARES. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The puny infant, born to cares. 
 
 Even in the womb breeds care and pains; 
 The mother's careful hand prepares 
 
 For early wants, and life sustains. 
 
 II. 
 
 Man's offspring in the cradle calls 
 For woman's care, divided thought ; 
 
 When boyhood comes, the father falls 
 Heir to the cares, his child has brought 
 
 III. 
 
 Into the v/orld — His charge begins 
 With school-boy duties of the son; 
 
 Strange yarns of care the boy now spins — 
 His own cares, also, are begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To cares of boyhood, youth succeeds, 
 
 And multiplies the cares of life ; 
 
 And many a beating bosom bleeds 
 
 O'er secret cares, and even strife. 
 
 L 3 
 
114 life's cares. 
 
 V. 
 
 For youth and age can not agree — 
 
 The young eye drinks a diiFerent light ; 
 
 Ag'd man, grown wilful, cannot see 
 
 What youth's quick eye deems clear and right* 
 
 VI. 
 
 They part. — The youth becomes a man. 
 
 He feels his own importance now — 
 Spurns at all cares, and forms a plan 
 
 Of life, without a care. Cares bow 
 
 YII. 
 
 To him. The young man takes a wife. — 
 O'er scenes of love what sun-beams play ! 
 
 Man fears no pains nor cares of life. 
 Till after first love's bridal-day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But now a son to him is born ; 
 
 Now he first feels a father's care ; 
 Now his firm heart feels care's sharp thorn 
 
 The world lies now expos'd and bare 
 
 IX. 
 
 To his keen eye. He wonders how 
 Things, now so plain, were hid before ; 
 
 Care wrinkles his once placid brow, 
 And sorrow wrings his bosom's core. 
 
life's cares. 115 
 
 Time still increases care, and brings 
 
 To man, in slow consuming age, 
 Unnumber'd cares, whose venom'd stings 
 
 Wound saint, knave, savage, fool, and sage. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And care at last brings man to death — 
 Stretches him cold in sorrow's grave ; 
 
 Chok'd with life's cares, man yields his breath — - 
 Born, lives, and dies, care's fool and slave. 
 
LIFE'S JOYS 
 
 AN ODE. 
 I. 
 
 A babe is born — then woman's joy 
 
 Flows a full tide, and pleasing thought 
 
 Fills her soft bosom, when a boy. 
 
 To crown connubial bliss, is brousrht. 
 
 II. 
 
 Maternal joy beams in her eye. 
 
 When she presents a blooming child 
 
 To its young father — his calm joy 
 Looks heavenly, as if angels smil'd 
 
 III. 
 
 With him, on babe and youthful wife ; 
 
 His v/arm heart swims in streams of joy ; 
 Paternal pleasures sweeten life. 
 
 Charm his rapt soul, and never cloy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thomson the poet well describes 
 
 The pleasing task, to teach the young — 
 
 The parent's joy, as youth imbibes 
 The moral of the poet's song. 
 
life's joys. 117 
 
 i^oy nerves the pulse and cheers the heart 
 
 Of son and sire, as youth proceeds 
 In paths of learning, that impart 
 
 Incitements strong to virtuous deeds. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Soon the impassioned spark sets fire 
 To love's light tinder in the breast ; 
 
 The tender flame of young desire 
 Burns into love — then youth is blest, 
 
 VII, 
 
 Young love's delight, new, undefin'd. 
 Brings unnam'd feelings of the soul ; 
 
 Pours a sweet cordial on the mind ; 
 Intoxicating joys controul 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The human heart. To paint the joy 
 That floats along youth's swelling veins, 
 
 No words that poet can employ — 
 
 No polish'd phrase — no melting strains — 
 
 IX. 
 
 No language can express the truth, — 
 
 To know pure love, it must be felt ; 
 'Tis felt but once, in early youth — 
 
 Alas ! too soon its pleasures melt 
 
118 life's joys* 
 
 X. 
 
 Into thin air I sing of joy. 
 
 Though vagrant muses soon forget 
 
 The theme the poet would employ ; 
 They haul him in their silken net, 
 
 XI. 
 
 Away even from his own design ; 
 
 Like love, the Muse despotic reigns, — 
 I have no more controul o'er mine. 
 
 Than a spoil'd tyrant mistress deigns 
 
 XII. 
 
 To grant her lover. Strange that power. 
 Beyond controul, once made supreme ! — 
 
 Mark ! from that inauspicious hour 
 Joy fades, like Luna's waning beam. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 No ! firm resolve finds virtue's joy 
 A sweet companion on the way 
 
 Of life, beneath each varying sky. — 
 Let nature's awful lightnings play 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Along the world's expanding scenes. 
 The guiltless bosom fears no harm; 
 
 Its shield of innocence still screens 
 From coward fear, and guilt's alarm. 
 
LIFE S JOYS. 119 
 
 XV. 
 
 Man in this world, in every stage. 
 May tune his heart to hymns of joy; 
 
 From youth to slow-declming age. 
 Heaven's bounty he may well employ. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Take meek humility his guide, 
 
 Contentment, too, heaven's sweetest child ; 
 By them all wants are still supplied. 
 
 Even in this world's dreary wild. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 If temperate, health would bless mankind. 
 And yield each earthly blessing here. 
 
 That Heaven's creating power designed 
 For man, in this imperfect sphere. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Calm joy will bless, if man, resigned. 
 Resting on his Redeemer's love, 
 
 Will cast no lingering looks behind, 
 But soar to purest joys above. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Even death's rude stroke, resigned, he'll meet, 
 With resignation's fervent prayer — 
 
 Flying on hope's wing to the feet 
 Of Jesus, in the realms of air. 
 
120 life's joys. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Of light and love, of joy and truth, 
 Where evil passions are unknown ; 
 
 Where virtue finds immortal youth. 
 
 With the world's Saviour on his throne. 
 
INDOLENCE. 
 
 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 indolence, man's deadly bane ! 
 
 1 long to blast thy tyrant's reign 1 
 
 Had my weak muse bold Pindar's power, 
 I'd crush thy influence from this hour ! 
 Thou magnet's charm, that chains the soul. 
 On every side thy victims howl ! 
 Thou sloth-engender'd, crawling toad ! 
 Thou mind-controlling, cruel load ! 
 That burdens man like tons of lead, 
 Till each foot sinks at every tread, 
 WTien, prostrate in thy slime and mire, 
 His spirit dies, his joys expire. 
 Thou coiling snake ! thy mazy folds 
 Twine round the human frame. Thou holds 
 Man's sinewy arm unnerv'd, till time 
 Sends him oblivion's misty clime. 
 
 4 
 
 Thy dungeons there receive him. Then 
 He meets the scorn and scowls of men. 
 
 M 
 
122 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 Yet he still feels, though sunk so deep 
 
 In thy dark regions ; and can weep 
 
 O'er scenes that memory gilds, though fled, 
 
 For ever gone. His weary head 
 
 Aches at the thought of his own folly, 
 
 Till self-tormenting melancholy 
 
 Turns his red blood to rheum and bile ; 
 
 Then like the victim on some pile. 
 
 Bound to the stake, and left to die. 
 
 The world all gazing careless by. 
 
 His own the only tear-wash'd eye, 
 
 He envies then the scorpion's sting 
 
 His soul pants for the eagle's wing, 
 To soar into the skies away. 
 Far from the scornful sons of clay ; 
 Longs for a draught of Lethe's stream, 
 To end life's mind-tormenting dream. 
 He'd clasp torpedoes to his heart. 
 To sooth its pain, and ease the smart ; 
 Would death even throw his keenest dart, 
 And free him from himself, how deep. 
 And sound, and sweet would be his sleep ! 
 
 O indolence ! this comes from thee ! 
 Thy poison, like the upas tree. 
 Spreads around death's cruel sting. — 
 Where upas grow, birds on the wing 
 Fall dead, while soaring, but they die 
 Unstain'd by crimes or infamy ; 
 
INDOLENCE. 123 
 
 While many a victim at thy shrine. 
 For crimes are often doom'd to pine. 
 In durance vile ; at last we see 
 Them die, a sacrifice to thee. 
 Pure indolence and careless thought 
 To infamv men oft have brouo:ht ; 
 Forgetting laws of man and God, 
 They shame a scaffold, like poor Dodd. 
 For pity dwells not on the earth — 
 Pure, meek-ey'd maid of heavenly birth. 
 The wretched here are ne'er forgiven — 
 Mercy, sweet angel, lives in heaven. 
 Our arctic skies congeal her tears — 
 They freeze to ice where man appears. 
 Upon his face of bronze and brass 
 No shades of sympathy can pass ; 
 His muscles move no more than stone, 
 Unless the wiry nerves are drawn. 
 That lead to his own bloodless heart. 
 The craven then perchance may start. 
 For man's heart warms himself alone — 
 A tyrant on a despot's throne. 
 Men are born now with iron souls — 
 O'er them life's storm unheeded howls ; 
 Shelter'd themselves beneath their rock^ 
 Poor pilgrims on life's main they mock. 
 The callous casing nature gave. 
 Screens them from the squalls, that rave 
 
 m2 
 
124 INDOLENCE, 
 
 Around the heads of helpless crowds. 
 That brave the whirlwinds in the shrouds 
 Of nature's bark, on life's rough tide. 
 Where thousands, naked, weep and ride, 
 Till some rude blast, or tumbling wave. 
 Sends the poor wretch a watery grave. 
 No life-boat launched to bear him to the shore — 
 The surge overwhelms — he sinks, to rise no more ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 TUNE " MY ONLY JOE AND DEARY O." 
 
 I. 
 
 I met young Delia in a grove. 
 
 Where lofty oaks were growing ; 
 The birds were singing songs of love — 
 
 The hawthorn blossoms blowing. 
 My heart was leaping at the sight. 
 Almost to stranMino; with delio:ht — 
 A sweet, angelic sylph of light — 
 
 And all alone to find her O. 
 
 II. 
 
 The opening rose-bud's brightest hue. 
 Her cheeks' soft blushes far outvied. 
 As round her waist my arms I threw. 
 
 And kiss'd her ruby lips, and cried — 
 '^ What happy chance, to make me blest. 
 In all thy native beauties drest. 
 Hath led thee here, thou lovely guest. 
 And lovelier still, if kinder O ? 
 
 m3 
 
126 
 
 SONG. 
 III. 
 
 " Now here, where echo's tuneful voice 
 Resounds along this shelt'ring grove. 
 To greet young spring's returning joys, 
 We'll taste the sweet delights of love. 
 Within this green-embowering shade, 
 Let our soft vows of love be paid ; — 
 I'll kneel to receive thine, gentle maid. 
 And kiss till thou grows kinder O. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Yon bower, where eglantine unites 
 
 With wild rose-blossoms sweet and fair ; 
 Its mossy bank our love invites — 
 I'll lead my Delia gently there ; 
 And show her all my stores of love — 
 Millions are nothing — far above 
 All numbers my fond feelings rove ! 
 . Then, Delia, kiss ! — kiss kinder O !" 
 
 V. 
 
 She lean'd her cheek upon my arm. 
 And rais'd her eyes of tender blue ; 
 
 The timid smile of love's alarm 
 Into my gazing eyes she threw. — 
 
 '' If Strephon wants a M^armer kiss, 
 
 A softer lip than this, and this. 
 
 Let Hymen light our torch of bUss, 
 And Delia will kiss kinder O." 
 
SONG. 127 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Then bend thy slender virgin knee — 
 Invoke the smiling, nuptial god ; 
 
 I'll bind my heart and soul to thee. 
 Before him on this mossy sod. — 
 
 To-morrow be our bridal-day. 
 
 Delia ! consent without delay." — 
 
 " No ! this shall be our bridal-day" — 
 She sobb'd, and kiss'd me kinder O ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 TUNE — '' THE LEA RIGG/' 
 I. 
 
 Old grey-beard sages, worn with time. 
 
 Say this cold world belongs to care. 
 And lecture young cheils in their prime, 
 
 Of his rude man-traps to beware. 
 Should his dark phiz e'er come this way, 
 
 We'll make old wrinkler mellow ; 
 Awhile with us let his careship stay — 
 
 He soon will be a careless fellow. 
 
 II. 
 
 While youthful hearts are beating strong. 
 
 For woman's love and hunting ; 
 While thus we drink, and chant the song, 
 
 What joys to us are wanting? 
 Let social glee and mirth abound — 
 
 Our sporting friends around us ; 
 Wlien pleasure charms with horn and hound. 
 
 Grim care can never wound us. 
 
SONG. 129 
 
 III. 
 
 We, hunters, love the morning air. 
 
 To rouse the ^ame, and scour the plain ; 
 The chase once o'er, we then repair. 
 
 Our sparkling Burgundy to drain. 
 And when arrives the witching hour. 
 
 The sportsman's eye shines cheerly, 
 To meet her in love's secret bower. 
 
 The maid he loves most dearly. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then let the generous cup go round — 
 
 Enjoy young pleasure ere he flies ; 
 Toast each stout hunter and good hound — 
 
 A bumper fill to ladies' eyes. 
 The fires of love from them can warm 
 
 The coldest and the sternest heart. — ^ 
 Let sportsmen drink, and women charm — ^ 
 
 Care on the winds will soon depart. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 A POEM OF THE FEUDAL TIMES. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 I. 
 
 Old tower ! thy grey walls bring to mind the times 
 
 Long vanish'd, and thy hoary head sublimes 
 
 The scene where Marron,? murmuring, swims along, 
 
 A silv'ry stream, but all unknown to song. 
 
 No poet tells how Marron's stream of yore. 
 
 Had heroes bleeding on its winding shore ; 
 
 What feudal thanes on its green margin stood. 
 
 Fighting for life and limb, where Hollin's wood^ 
 
 Waves the tall oak and sycamore, that spread 
 
 Wide-stretching branch, and many a tow'ring head. 
 
 High Calva's round-topp'd hill^ has often seen 
 
 The foeman fighting on the Castle's green, ^ 
 
 Or sloping knolls, where blossom'd broom-shrubs grow. 
 
 And Cornflatt's water's join'd to Marron's flow — 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 131 
 
 A clear trout stream, where brandlings sport and play. 
 
 Their bright scales glittering in the solar ray ; 
 
 Where finny tribes oft yield the angler sport. 
 
 If at their feeding hour he'll there resort. 
 
 Old Ewelock dale, and Storebank's lonelv wood,^ 
 
 Were often purpled with the hostile blood ; 
 
 Clifton's dark valleys round the Chapel Hill, 
 
 And tangling thickets down by Harry Gill,^ 
 
 Too often shelter'd Scotia's warlike bands. 
 
 Who came to pour destruction o'er the lands. 
 
 The neighb'ring Scots war's murd'ring carnage brought 
 
 To peaceful plains, in feudal times, and wrought 
 
 Destruction's work, with claymore and with brand ; ^ 
 
 And midnight fires, rais'd by the wild brigand, > 
 
 Through the west marches of old Cumberland, J 
 
 Oft left at moru a smoking ruin, where 
 
 The night before the sheltering cot stood fair — 
 
 The inmates robb'd, and stain'd with their own gore. 
 
 And left to die — mark'd savage times of yore. 
 
 What contrast now the rural cot displays ! 
 
 Peace and the Union gild our happier days. 
 
 The rose and thistle peaceful now are join'd. 
 
 And Ireland's green shamrock placidly entwin'd ; 
 
 United, and as one, the nations blend. 
 
 And the dire discords of dark ages end — 
 
 The bless'd result of Christian knowledge, spread 
 
 By heaven's own messengers. The fountain-head 
 
132 
 
 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Of useful learning from the Scriptures, pours 
 Divine instruction o'er those isles of ours. 
 Thrice-happy we ! in this enlighten'd age, 
 When science and the arts all minds engage — 
 Extend the views of man beyond his sphere — 
 Diffusing peace and cheerful comforts here. 
 No feudal thane now rules beyond the law — 
 Fair truth and justice hand in hand now go. 
 'Tis true some ancient tramels still remain. 
 But virtue, join d to power, will wipe their stain 
 Away. 
 
 Justice our code promulgates full and free — 
 Our law stands loftv like the shelt'ringf tree. 
 The noble oak, sole monarch of the grove. 
 Shielding the birds that fly, the beasts that rove. 
 Happy Britannia ! knowledge rules thy helm ; 
 No faction can thy lofty bark overwhelm ; 
 Vanish'd the time when faction's head and hand 
 Could carrv falsehood through the suflferino^ land. 
 Truth and conviction only can prevail — 
 All selfish tactics in the State now fail. 
 Like feudal times, gone never to return, — 
 Vanish'd for aye beyond time's misty bourne ; 
 No more oppression's curse shall pity mourn. 
 In those dark times, the western warders then 
 Well knew the prowess of the Branthwaite men ; 
 When Scotland's bold marauding chieftains came 
 To rob and plunder, like devouring flame ; 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 133 
 
 Their summons still for help and succour flew 
 To Branthwaite Hall, where Skelton, firm and true. 
 Was foremost still to check the murdering crew. 
 A valiant band^^ the warrior chieftain led, 
 Inur'd to war, and all to battle bred : 
 The Robinsons, with big John at their head, — 
 Watsons and Woods, fought without fear or dread ; 
 Pearsons and Greggs were true, and never fled ; 
 Ritsons and Rudds, the Hinds and Fishers too, 
 Wilsons and Walkers went, a valiant crew ; 
 The Steels and Thompsons foUow'd Skelton's tent ; 
 Fearons and Fawcetts, Greens and Normans went ; 
 Sanctons and Sims, the Allinsons and Dixons ; 
 The Tomhnsons, and Nicholsons, and Nixons ; 
 Loathes took Lancasters to battle-field, — 
 Kendals and Coopers, never known to yield ; 
 The Harrinsons, with Harris as their chief. 
 All went, tall heroes, from their mountain fief. 
 The Sandersons, and all the Pows, and Drape, 
 Sallied from Clifton — few could them escape ; 
 Tom Spark and Emerson, renown'd for speed, 
 With old Bill Mayson — oft made Scotsmen bleed. 
 Fletchers and Flemings, Dickinsons went too, — 
 The Banks and Blacks, or kill'd or scar'd a few. 
 The Heads were never hindmost, and Smith Tom 
 (Swainson his name) was never absent from 
 The field of fight, when honour could be won ; 
 He had his share with Miles, his younger son. 
 
 N 
 
And the bold yeomanry, at his commandj 
 In drivmg back invaders from the land— 
 
 134 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 The Bells and Bowmen full-yard arrows drew. 
 And Scotsmen fell, still as their weapons flew. 
 The chronicles of Branthwaite Hall are stor'd 
 With deeds of valour of its ancient lord, 
 
 The Scots still fled before the conquering band ; } 
 And many a legend tells of battles won — 
 Tales of old times descend from sire to son. 
 Succeeding ages still delight to trace 
 The fame and honours of their ancient race, 
 And strive to emulate those deeds of fame. 
 To gain fresh laurels, and preserve their name. 
 Bright in the annals of their native land. 
 Whene'er their country's interests demand 
 Their aid, the native youth soon fires. 
 With ardent souls, to emulate their sires 
 Of old, whose powerful arms were strong 
 In fight. And bards, inspir'd with runic song, 
 Oft tun'd wild music to the vocal shell. 
 And sung of deeds their ancient legends tell. 
 Hall of old time ! a well-remember' d tale 
 Inspires the Muse, oft told within thy pale, 
 O'er shepherd's sighs, and village maid's bewail ; 
 Told of the ancient times, when horrid war 
 Swept the wide country, and left many a scar 
 On warrior's brow ; and many a bitter tear, 
 Wept for the vanquish'd in war's wild career, 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 135 
 
 Check'd the triumphant band, whose victory 
 Was ever stain'd with crimes and cruelty. 
 
 II. 
 
 September winds had blown their storms away. 
 And brown October brought the shortening day ; 
 Yet autumn's sun a leno^then'd summer brouHit — 
 The skies were clear and mild ; you would have thought 
 The radiant orb, that rules and gilds the day. 
 Reluctant left the isles. His lingering ray 
 Stain'd with soft purple and rich crimson dyes 
 Britannia's mountains, and the western skies 
 Glow'd beautiful at eve. Again each morn, 
 Aurora, peeping from the East, seem'd borne 
 On rainbows of phosphoric waves so bright. 
 Suns seem'd dissolving in pure streams of light. 
 And raining lustres from Sol's splendid car 
 O'er the tall mountain tops. Each craggy scar 
 Reflected from its spiring, gilded rocks. 
 The glancing rays. The white wooll'd, feeding flocks. 
 Again threw back the overpowering hght. 
 Till the eyes, aching, turn'd from the glittering height. 
 To green meads stretching by the lake's deep floods. 
 And varying foliage of the waving woods. 
 At Branthwaite Hall the season was so fair. 
 That richest harvests crown'd the clansman's care ; 
 The crops and fruits were gather'd in, and cur'd ; 
 The peats and fire-wood dried, and well secur'd ; 
 
 N 2 
 
136 BRANTHWAITE HALL, 
 
 The bacon salted for the winter's hoard. 
 And beef and sheep-hams plentifully stor'd. 
 And big John's dame of that year's dairy told 
 A double portion ; and the barnkin's^ fold 
 Was well defended, all around the wall — 
 A row of largest cobles laid ; and all 
 The cattle sheds within the barnkin, too. 
 With strong oak doors were all repaired, or new ; 
 The bolts and bars of toughest iron made. 
 To guard secure, should warlike foes invade. 
 
 And all was finish'd Now the warrior race 
 
 Prepare their hounds and bowmen for the chase — 
 
 A chosen band, to hunt the flying deer. 
 
 O'er moorland and mountain, with fleet hound and spear, 
 
 Through Copeland forest,^ where the red stag bounds 
 
 High on the cliff*s, where even the stoutest hounds 
 
 Are baffled, nor can any footing find ; 
 
 And yet the wild stag and the bounding hind 
 
 Leap o'er the rocks and deep ravines, and fly 
 
 To secret coverts, where secur'd they lie, 
 
 Mocking the hunter's eff^orts and his hounds, 
 
 On the high tops, their own exclusive grounds. 
 
 Where only they, the squirrel, and wild cats breed, 
 
 Laughing at bowmen and their hounds of speed. 
 
 III. 
 
 The horn winds loud from Branthwaite's tall watch-tower^ 
 Bowmen are gathering at th' appointed hour — 
 
BRANTHWAITJS HALL. 137 
 
 Spearmen all following, graith'd from top to toe, 
 Prepar d for hunting, or to meet the foe. 
 All are now crowding in the vaulted hall. 
 Well arm'd, and ready at their chieftain's call ; — 
 Their chieftain comes, and greets the welcome band, 
 Then waves in feudal pride his warrior hand ; 
 That instant all are silent, bent to hear 
 Their leader's order. — Thus it strikes the ear : — 
 "^ To-day, for Copeland ; and in peace we go. 
 To chase the wild deer and the bounding roe ; -• 
 The Millom Thane ^ and Ponsonby^^ we meet — 
 As friends and comrades we the chieftains greet. 
 And here I charge, let no old grudge or broil 
 Be now remember'd on the sporting soil 
 Of Copeland \ free with heart and hand, we go 
 To breed no discord, nor to strike one blow, 
 In hostile warfare — Keep this order well : 
 The man that breaks it I'll his fortune tell, 
 Expound his fate, and execute the law — 
 Justice, in this right arm, shall strike the blow, 
 And maul the wretch that violates command ; 
 He meets chastisement from this arm and hand. 
 Spearmen ! to Thornholm^^ wood you must repair ; 
 At Scalderscaw,^^ the bowmen muster there; 
 The Milium archers meet you there, and wait 
 Till the horns echo down below far Thwaite.^^ 
 Dispersing, then, all take their chance of game. 
 Then, bowmen, lose not your acknowledg'd fame ; 
 
 N 3 
 
138 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Before the Milium men display your skill. 
 
 We meet at five upon the Bleng Tongue Hill^^ — 
 
 The common rendezvous, that green top's height — 
 
 To fix our plans, and billet for the night. 
 
 Through Ennerdale, and by the Water-Head^ 
 
 The bowmen go, by young John Watson led. 
 
 ril take the spearmen over Dent ^ with me — 
 
 And down to Hail, to meet Miles Ponsonbv. 
 
 There we start hunting — Green will take the hounds. 
 
 And Harry Fearon hunts the terriers; Copeland grounds 
 
 Abound with wild cats, martins, and the fox 
 
 Oft lurks among Hall's sheltering woods and rocks. 
 
 Smith Tom, with big John Robinson, remains 
 
 To guard the barnkin — 'twill reward the pains 
 
 They took in fight, to blacken eyes that wore. 
 
 From nature's hand, hues dark enough before. 
 
 Look and admire the livery they display — 
 
 With four black eyes they'll ogle through the day. 
 
 Their broil began through Jenny, Tom's lean wife. 
 
 Whose shrill tongue still foments domestic strife ; 
 
 In the west tower the vixen lies confin'd — 
 
 To feed his dark-skinn'd spouse, Tom stops behind, 
 
 On bread and water. She shall there remain, 
 
 Till we return from Copeland's sporting plain. 
 
 And, Tom, mark this ! if hot domestic flame 
 
 Kindles again from thy old restless dame, — 
 
 By her long neck she hangs sg from yonder tower. 
 
 We'll have no broils at home. — Away ! the hour 
 
 Arrives — we go !" 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 139 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Hall is empty — all^ but Tom and John, 
 
 Are on their sporting way ; those two alone 
 
 Are left to guard the women and the Hall — 
 
 To watch alternate nights^ and man the wall. 
 
 These two, who late in fistic combat stood 
 
 Oppos'd, and fighting, stain'd with sweat and blood. 
 
 Sulky and silent, both retiring, leave 
 
 At different doors. Tom's brawny shoulders heave. 
 
 Like smithy bellows, with the deep-drawn sigh, 
 
 As the tall watch-tower meets his scowling eye. 
 
 Where Jenny lies, his restless, scolding wife — 
 
 The torment still of Tom's unhappy life. 
 
 He bends his way towards the crow-park gate, 
 
 Growling low curses on his confin'd mate 
 
 '' O Jenny ! sure some demon rules thy will — 
 Some fiend incarnate, bent on mischief still. 
 O strange the change old time has made on thee ! 
 A time I've seen, when one soft word from me 
 Was Jenny's law ; then no demur was made. 
 But now, the toothless, useless, reckless jade, 
 So wilful and mischievous grown — she'll brino- 
 Her neck or mine into a strangling string. 
 Our chieftain's order rules as law still here, — 
 For women's tongue man often pays full dear ; 
 Women breed mischief ever where they can ; 
 The devil rules them, and no powders of man 
 
140 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Can keep them quiet." Thus poor Tom complain'd. 
 
 Till round the corner he the crow-park^^^ gain'd. 
 
 Where the tall elm^ the sycamore^ and oak. 
 
 The lofty ash, that ne'er knew woodman's stroke ; 
 
 A giant grove o'er-canopied that field. 
 
 For beasts a shelter, and for rooks a bield, 
 
 Whose sooty wings, in myriads as they flew, 
 
 Blacken'd each shadow, and it darker grew, 
 
 As their unnumber'd, noisy family sail'd 
 
 Around the crow-park, and your ears assail'd 
 
 With cawing discords, screaming through the air. 
 
 All ears were stunn'd, all voices stifled there — 
 
 For grumbling Tom a fitting solitude. 
 
 Suiting his musing, melancholy mood ; 
 
 To breathe in solitary gloom his sighs. 
 
 Hide his chagrin from human ears and eyes. 
 
 But vain man's flight to woody shade or grove, 
 
 To fly from pangs of friendship or of love — 
 
 From griefs and sorrows incident to him. 
 
 Whose cup of care fills always to the brim ; 
 
 And he the bitter chalice still must drain, 
 
 Drink his own tears, to weep them o'er again. 
 
 And Tom roam'd listless up the Stockbeck brook. 
 
 Twining around the crow-park's winding nook ; 
 
 Wondering he views the tall oak in that glade, 
 
 Itself a forest, a wide sheltering shade. 
 
 Musing abstractedly, the smith walk'd on, 
 
 Till plump at the large oak he met tall John. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 141 
 
 Both stood awhile ; then Tom stretch'd out his hand 
 
 In reconcilement ^^ In our chieftain's band. 
 
 There lives no comrade I esteem like thee ; 
 
 Then wherefore, big John, should we disagree — 
 
 Curse on these women ! my old crooked wife 
 
 I blame for recent broils and bloody strife ; 
 
 The devil rules her, and she means to bring 
 
 Herself, or me, or Miles, a halter's swing. 
 
 I bear no enmity ; this hand I give 
 
 A pledge of friendly feeling ; let us live 
 
 In peace and social union, as good friends — 
 
 Between us here, then, hostile rancour ends.'' 
 
 John's heavy eye roll'd like one just awoke ; 
 
 Awhile he paus'd, then thus the silence broke : — 
 
 " Smith Tom !" cried John, " I have esteem'd thee still. 
 
 And when we fought, it was against my will ; 
 
 When passion's storms and angry feelings rule, 
 
 Then reasoning man becomes a headstrong fool. 
 
 Women were made to cheer life's gloomy day — 
 
 To smooth man's cares — not govern, but obey ; 
 
 Sweet woman's face and lovely charms were given, 
 
 To sooth man's roughness, and lead him to heaven ; 
 
 To soften his stern nature, and to tame 
 
 Each harsher passion with love's purest flame. 
 
 'Tis then her gentle influence governs all, — 
 
 Before her magic power the strongest fall — 
 
 Bend with delight, kissing the hand that rules ; 
 
 And men who feel not this are brutes or fools. 
 
142 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 But when the sex, all- wilful, still pursues 
 The phantoms folly garbs in motely hues — 
 Walks, with depravity, the paths of sin — 
 The termagant man's heart can never win. 
 She seems a stumbling-block in every path. 
 Sent by the angry Deity in wrath. 
 To punish man for his own crimes or folly. — 
 Crimes still bring punishment, and melancholy 
 Still follows close the heels of knave or fool. 
 Experience teaches this ; no other school 
 Imprints sound truth upon the mind. Prepare 
 To send thy wife to learn true wisdom there — 
 Unlearn the obstinacy that is her bane ; 
 Then calm domestic peace might rule again. 
 I take thy oflFer'd hand, and freely give 
 My own ; henceforth as constant friends we live. 
 But w(3rds are idle — come, return with me ; 
 The women will be stirring ; v»^e must see 
 Our lady wants for nothing in the Hall — 
 We must be near her, ready at a call." 
 Thus John and Tom were reconcil'd, and went 
 Back to the Hall together, well content. 
 
 V. 
 
 The warden's gate at Whitehow-head^^ is barr'd, 
 And Hail-men, mustering, there await their lordj 
 Equipp'd and ready arm'd for fight or chase, — 
 Expert at hunting', and a warlike race. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 143 
 
 And from the Hall across the vallev, sounds 
 
 The gathering horns^ and Ponsonby's black hounds ; 
 
 To the glad summons rends the vaulted sky. 
 
 With the deep music of their echoing cry ; 
 
 And soon their lord and master joins his band. 
 
 Who anxious wait young Ponsonby's command. — 
 
 ^^ The hour is come — John Skelton should be here ;. 
 
 Sound thy horn^ Caddy^ sound it full and clear." 
 
 Tom's horn winds loud, and echo flings around. 
 
 From rock and caye, its animating sound. 
 
 One moment silence — then, at distance, fell. 
 
 On the charm'd ear, old Green's loud hunter yell ; 
 
 Another moment — on the breeze was borne 
 
 The brilliant challenge of John Skelton's horn ; 
 
 And down from Tortlay's^^ sloping height resounds 
 
 The answering howl of Skelton's milk-white hounds. 
 
 The chiefs are soon in Hail's deep valley meeting ; — 
 
 A brief salute — a brother hunter's greeting — 
 
 Soon pass'd between them ; then the woods they take,. 
 
 Range the green uplands and each tangling brake. 
 
 Towards the Calder^^ all direct their course. 
 
 To join tall Millom, and unite their force. 
 
 The Millom spearmen at the Abbey's gate, 
 
 If first arriv'd, the order was to wait. 
 
 Till Skelton's blast from Priorscale was heard, 
 
 Then throw their hounds in — ^^ Forward" was the word. 
 
 And soon John Skelton's clear-ton'd horn blew shrill — 
 
 The signal chase-note from th' appointed hill ; 
 
144 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Then the loud crash of men, and horns, and hounds, 
 Scar'd the wild stag to Copeland's utmost bounds ; 
 
 And hinds are bounding 
 
 Through the coverts, where 
 
 The archer's wounding 
 
 Arrows meet them there ; — 
 And many a flying buck the noise confounds, 
 Till he meets death upon the Thornholm grounds. 
 
 Joe Green's voice cheering, 
 
 Through the side wood^"^ sings ; 
 
 The white hounds hearing. 
 Their loud chorus rings, 
 Through echoing glens, and game is bleeding there; — 
 The white hounds always kill'd the largest share. 
 The three first days, the dark hounds had not speed 
 To match the white ; yet Ponsonby's black breed 
 Stand well to work, and after three days' sport. 
 Nearer approach the white hounds, though still short. 
 Yet I have seen both breeds at times give o'er — 
 Feet swell'd and bleeding-, thev could run no more — 
 The flint and granite pebbles wound them sore. 
 But well-bred hounds, if they can keep their feet 
 Free from the bruise or cut, and toes all neat, 
 Their powers of chase are wonderful, and long 
 The hound continues fleet, and sound, and strong. 
 And many a morning when the harrier leaves 
 His kennel, limping, strangers he deceives ; 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 145 
 
 Once on the game, he raUies, and displays 
 Surprismg courage ; — wonder and amaze 
 Will often strike the sportsman in the field, 
 To view some homids that never fail nor yield. 
 At Branthwaite yet, the pure white breed are found — 
 For speed unmatched, and powers of chase renown'd. 
 Will Pearson's"^^ Caesar had unrivall'd speed. 
 And Joe Banks' Dido,^^ cross'd from Pearson's breed. 
 In three miles' running, half a mile could gain. 
 O'er mountain breast, or on the level plain ; 
 And beat all hounds contending, far or near, 
 And wore the white hound's laurel many a year. 
 To sing the glories of that hunting day 
 Requires a Byron's or a Wordsworth's lay ; 
 My vagrant muse sinks hopeless in dismay, 
 To paint the scene, or half the feats display. 
 Tom Hind declar'd the like he never saw, 
 When Branthwaite bowmen join'd at Scalderscaw. 
 The first red stag Tom's well-aim'd arrow slew ; 
 At three score paces his wing'd weapon flew ; 
 So swift the flying stag was bounding then, 
 Struck to the heart, yet down the sloping glen 
 He roird full twenty paces down the hill, 
 And Tom was lauded for his strength and skill. 
 Tom Caddy's jav'lin struck a large dog-fox. 
 When leaping down the Bleng Tongue's steepest rocks ; 
 The flying spear hit true its flying mark. 
 Dead to the ground, without one wliinge or bark. 
 
 o 
 
146 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 The bounds of Copeland stretch out far and wide, — 
 
 Into three companies the clans divide ; 
 
 By lots determin'd who went left and right — 
 
 The centre lot gave Skelton's men delight ; 
 
 Their portion fell round Cawfell and the Grains.^P — 
 
 And now each hunter every sinew strains ; 
 
 To win the palm, that day each hero strives ; 
 
 The ardour strong of emulation drives 
 
 Them through thick woods, o'er shelving rocks and dells, 
 
 Or wood-fring'd mountains, and the loftiest fells. 
 
 Severe the toil, but hunters' hearts beat strong — 
 
 Rapt, with delight inspir'd, they sweep along ; 
 
 Like the brave race-horse, at full speed they go — 
 
 In race or chase to the last gasp they glow ; 
 
 Resistless energy the bosom fires. 
 
 Steels each firm nerve that, dauntless, never tires. 
 
 Witness Tom Moody ;^^ Tom would never yield. 
 
 But sobb'd his last sigh, and died upon the field ; 
 
 And in the chase, upon his gallant steed, 
 
 Tom's spirit fled, while hunting, and at speed. 
 
 To Tom's last wish his sporting friends accede. 
 
 And at his funeral no black mournins* weed. 
 
 No sable plumes o'er Tom's oak coffin wave ; 
 
 Three loud view halloos o'er the hero's grave. 
 
 With horns' and hounds' full chorus — promptly given 
 
 By the whole field — rung Tom's old shade to heaven. 
 
 The sun gleams red, low in the glowing west. 
 
 Purpling, with his last rays, each mountain's crest ; 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 147 
 
 The eagle ^^ soars high to its airy nest. 
 Upon the tallest cliff, on rocky breast. 
 Where only tenants of the sky can rest ; 
 And hounds and hunters, spreading far and wide. 
 Are streaming down the Bleng Tongue's sloping side. 
 First to the ground, John Skelton and his men ; 
 Next Ponsonby, from Thornholm's gloomy glen, 
 Appears. The Millom heroes last. 
 From BiT)wny Edge,^^ was heard their leader's blast. 
 His gathering horn-note, sounding full and clear. 
 Soon brought all parties, arm'd with bow and spear ; 
 Then game was shown — the feats of men declar'd ; 
 Strange hounds were growling. On the heath prepared, 
 For men and hounds, a slight repast was shar'd — 
 The robust hunter careless how he far'd. 
 Soon as his billet for the night was known, 
 His pallet-bed, with sweet new heather strewn, 
 Gave him sleep's cordial, till the blushing morn 
 Again dawn'd, smiling, and the cheerful horn 
 Rous'd him to join, with renovated powers, 
 His sporting comrades. But old Hail Hall's towers 
 Sheltered the chieftains and a chosen band. — 
 Who in that Hall now waves a lily hand 
 Of welcome ? Kate Ponsonby is there, 
 In beauty's blooming loveliness so fair. 
 With round arm smooth and white — her flowing hair, 
 In auburn ringlets, carelessly waving ; 
 Her pure ripe bosom so chastely saving 
 
 o 2 
 
148 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 From the keen glance. — John Huddleston, can you 
 
 Resist the beauty of that neck and brow ? 
 
 No : he the last chief, the sole surviving lord^ 
 
 Where nine sons *^ late had grac'd the family board — 
 
 The Millom family, John its youngest branch. 
 
 There a tall warrior, and a hunter staunch ; 
 
 Kate Ponsonby he loves, and means to give 
 
 His hand and heart to her : she then must live 
 
 At Millom Castle, lady there of all — 
 
 The lord himself her slave in that old Hall. 
 
 And both had tasted young love's sweetest flattery ; 
 
 The sinew^y youth had storm'd Kate's strongest battery 
 
 Of female frowns and coils, that must have birth. 
 
 Ere arch love's sweetest zest can charm on earth. 
 
 The maiden, last of all, confessed his worth ; 
 
 In short, the pair were plighted — and so forth. 
 
 At Hail Hall's banquet, all were now safe set — 
 
 Kate and her lover near as they could get ; 
 
 Their very seats seem'd anxious, and did fret. 
 
 Shifting still closer, — John made Kate his pet. 
 
 His soft blue eyes she never could forget ; 
 
 Oft turn'd her own, so sparkling, and would let 
 
 The fond love in her heart peep out, and met 
 
 His tender gazing sweetly, and love's net 
 
 Threw gently, catching happiness. I fear. 
 
 So fugitive all human bliss, when near 
 
 The thirsty lip the cup's ripe sweets appear, 
 
 'Tis dash'd with poison oft. — Was it so here ? 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 149 
 
 When the old Hall was cleared, 
 A shadow'd face appeared ! 
 
 A light foot on the stair. 
 Yet rais'd no echoes there ! 
 A whispering sound hath died away ! — A flame 
 Of light sent shadows ! — They are gone ! They came. 
 Then vanish'd. Mind from fancy often brings 
 Vain thoughts. — Are these all wild imaginings ? 
 Or were sweet Kate and her tall lover seen. 
 Like phantoms, flying o'er the moon-lit green ? 
 It might be so ; such things before had been ; 
 Yet poets' dreamings may deceive, 1 ween, 
 Though lucid intervals, no doubt, may intervene ; 
 And this might be the lovers' secret scene — 
 And those who think so, may pull down the screen. 
 Ill leave it up, and prosecute my tale. 
 Ere reader's patience or my rhymes should fail. 
 
 v. 
 
 Next morning came, in streams of rosy light — 
 All muster'd cheerful — every eye was bright. 
 Young Catharine's eyes shed softest lustre there. 
 Like brilliant gems, sparkling so rich and rare. 
 And v/hen presiding at that morn's repast, 
 The speaking glance she threw around, and cast 
 On all — the happy looks of love ; her voice. 
 Like music's echo, made all ears rejoice ; 
 
 o 3 
 
150 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Her tongae ton'd sweetly through the ancient Hall ; 
 
 So gracefully Kate mov'd — she melted all ; 
 
 And time seem'd envious when the harsh horns blew- 
 
 All with reluctance sigh'd that morn's adieu. 
 
 The hounds were echoing to the hunters' call — 
 
 The clans were moving — Kate was on the wall ; 
 
 With maiden pride, she view'd her chosen thane 
 
 Mount his gay charger for the chase again. 
 
 Her brother and his band she lov'd so dearly, 
 
 And all lov'd Kate — no wonder she srail'd cheerly, 
 
 To view the bands united lor their sport. 
 
 In gallant bearing leave her brother's court 
 
 In peaceful glee, — all smiling on the plain. 
 
 Resume, in concert, hunting once again. 
 
 And long as woody bank, and waving bough. 
 
 The anxious maiden's lingering looks allow. 
 
 Her ardent gaze still rests upon a plume. 
 
 That moves, as a talisman, to Kate's own doom ; 
 
 Her lover's crest distinct she views afar, 
 
 And feathery beaver waving as in war. 
 
 All who have felt the sunshine of the soul 
 
 In early youth, when first love's powers controul, 
 
 And give the quicken'd pulse impetus, wild 
 
 As warring elements ; when passion's child 
 
 Deems this fair earth a heaven, and love a god, 
 
 Sent to bless all mankind, whose magic rod 
 
 Can charm th' enchanted world — make roses blow 
 
 On sterile rocks — the sweet flowers bloom and grow 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 151 
 
 On the bare heath. In youth, there is a time 
 
 When the warm soul burns with a fire sublime 
 
 And heavenly — a flame so refin'd and pure. 
 
 Angels might envy young love's happiest hour. 
 
 When the heart leaps, convuls'd with love's sweet pain, 
 
 And the wild pleasure thrills through every vein 
 
 Those who have felt this fever of the heart 
 
 Know its keen torment. — When young lovers part. 
 
 Though brief the time, and short the space between. 
 
 Absence is cruel ; then ennui or spleen 
 
 With black blood fills the heart ; the temper sours ; 
 
 On the dark brow a nameless tempest lowers ; 
 
 And all the sweetness of the soul is gone. 
 
 The spirit, vacant, wandering mourns alone ; 
 
 And memory, dreaming o'er the last embrace. 
 
 Seeks, like a glutton, solitude's solace. 
 
 Where o'er its treasur'd prey alone it broods, 
 
 Like the misanthrope in his gloomy moods. — 
 
 All who know this, can answer why the maid 
 
 Her fix'd eye still its latest look delay'd. 
 
 With gazing long, her aching eyes are strain'd. 
 
 And down her smooth cheek, tears unbidden rain'd. — 
 
 Ah ! can she see aright ? — her lover falls ! 
 
 Prone to the ground the youth recumbent rolls ! 
 
 Ah ! what wild fantasy disturbs the maid ! 
 
 Her steps were wavering, and her looks betray'd 
 
 Signs of strange fear, as Huddleston afar, 
 
 Struck from his steed, lay stretch'd^ a bloody scar 
 
152 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 She saw, or dream'd, his face all pale and wan — 
 The warlike hunter seem'd a dying man ; 
 And Kate was fainting on the parapet, — 
 What strange delusion hath the maid beset ! 
 The warder and the morning guard are there. 
 And lifeless Kate to her own chamber bear. 
 Cordials at first reviving powers afford — 
 At intervals her senses are restored ; 
 Again relapsing, Kate's confused head 
 Raves on her lover, but she thinks him dead. 
 A wild expression, and disorder'd mien, 
 On her chang'd countenance too fatally seen ; 
 Her maids alarm'd, attend her wants with care — 
 Yet deep her meanings, and their tones despair ; 
 And there, reluctant, we let Kate remain. 
 To trace the hunters o'er the stretching plain. 
 So lone and distant was the fatal glen, 
 'Twas thought miraculous for the maiden's ken 
 To see so clear, where all the Hail-men tell — 
 Struck by an arrow from behind — he fell. 
 Tall Huddleston, her lover, there she saw; 
 When death-wound reach'd him at one cruel blow 
 Of weapon, never yet by mortal claim'd, — 
 Nor was it known what hand and eye had aim'd 
 The murderer's shaft — suspicion glanc'^d around 
 Vainly. — A distant hand might give the wound. 
 His men, alarm'd, round their slain chieftain drew, 
 And soon their sharp avenging arrows flew 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 153 
 
 On those who near then' murder'd chief had been. 
 When his red blood first stain'd the clotted green. 
 His lifeless body four tall clansmen bore, 
 Deform'd by death, and bath'd in his own gore. 
 The Millom-men soon muster'd into lines — 
 Their clench'd steel glittering, horridly it shines ; 
 And blows are dealt, and blood begins to flow — 
 Already several Hail-men are laid low. 
 The battle's onset sounds from many a horn, — 
 Its grating echo, on the breezes borne. 
 Drowns the sweet music of the peaceful morn. 
 A parley from Skelton's horn was sounded then, 
 As mediator, for no Branthwaite men 
 Were found within the curs'd assassin's glen. 
 He, of the clans engag'd in mortal fight. 
 Demands an audience, as a comrade's right ; 
 And his stout clan, with bows unbent, all go 
 To where suspended warfare waits below : 
 
 Their martial aspect deep impression made 
 
 " What man," cried Skelton, "wears the assassin's blade? 
 Hear me, all men ! whoe'er this deed has done. 
 Justice shall reach him, were he my own son ! 
 That man must be resign'd to me ! I stand 
 Prepar'd with comrades, and with keen-edg'd brand, 
 To rid our country of each murdering hand." 
 Thus Ponsonby : — " We have no comrade here. 
 Whose cowardly hand throws the assassin's spear. 
 If any were, myself would make him feel 
 The taste of Ponsonby's avenging steel j 
 
154 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Andj as I live, I do suspect the man 
 
 Walks a pure villain in their own wild clan. 
 
 For Huddleston my own red blood I'd shed — 
 
 We all lament him on this gory bed ; 
 
 As a slain brother I deplore his fate — 
 
 Alas ! 'twill break my sister's heart ! — poor Kate ! 
 
 His vassal clansman in their band I blame — 
 
 A dark-fac'd craven, Ulfey is his name ; 
 
 And here my bare blade's trusty steel I wave. 
 
 Till his black carcase finds a coward's grave : 
 
 To sinMe combat I that knave invite — 
 
 Before the clans I dare to mortal fight. 
 
 The Branthwaite band, as umpires, here may stand, 
 
 With bows unbent, sheath'd jav'lins in their hand." 
 
 John Skelton now, with clear, commanding voice, 
 
 Returns-^^^ Millom, take free, your yet remaining 
 
 choice — =• 
 Speak ! from your lines appoint one man to say, 
 Is Ulfey guilty ? — shall they fight to-day ?" 
 And now strange murmuring rose within their ranks— 
 From front to rear the rattling weapon clanks. 
 At last, dark Ulfey's vulgar face appearing, 
 All else were silent, him to have a hearing ; 
 And his rough accents came like discords, where 
 The ass makes melody. He was a bear 
 Of large dimensions. Strong suspicion fell 
 Darkly on him. Ulfey was known full well — 
 A stutt'ring, selfish, lying, foul-lipp'd knave, 
 Stubborn as stone, yet born to be a slave. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 155 
 
 Though still his feudal harness he would shake. 
 Rattling his chains of thraldom, he could make 
 The underlings of his superior chief. 
 Sent to demand the dues from Ulfey's fief. 
 Tremble with fear. He was so rough and grim — 
 Strong as a wild boar — all avoided him ; 
 And from this Millom Ajax of bad fame 
 Thus the keen challenge and defiance came : — 
 " Thy offer'd gage. Miles Ponsonby, I take ! 
 And here to-morrow's sun shall see thee quake. 
 This night to Calder's abbot we repair. 
 To place our leader's bleeding body, where 
 The holy Church funereal rites prepare ; 
 And when this duty to our chief is paid. 
 And his remains for funeral honours laid 
 Within the Abbey, we will then return : 
 'Tis vain, 'tis useless, long to weep and mourn. 
 We then come back to answer all demands — 
 Grief at our hearts, sharp weapons in our hands ; 
 Resolv'd our enemies shall keenly feel 
 The bitter tokens of avenging steel." 
 " Agreed !" the umpire, fierce-ey'd Skelton, cried ; 
 " To Hail Hall we adjourn ; I'll there reside 
 Till battle's law this question shall decide. 
 
 Without more strife the clans will now divide - 
 
 And some this feud most dearly shall abide. 
 Departed Millom's cause shall be well tried ; 
 Funereal honours must not be denied. 
 A useless pageant they may seem — and pride 
 
156 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Can gain but little from them — laid beside 
 The slimy worm, whose creeping tail will ride 
 O'er man, as if the reptile did deride 
 The foolish pains he often takes to hide 
 Human infirmity." — His horn he blew ; 
 The hostile clans then vanish'd from his view. 
 
 VI. 
 
 With his arm'd comrades Skelton, left alone, 
 
 Seated upon the large grey Druid stone. 
 
 That in Hail's valley rears its ancient head. 
 
 Near the lone glade where Millom's chieftain bled, 
 
 Oppress'd with thought, this colloquy he pour'd, 
 
 While harass'd feeling on his forehead lower' d : — 
 
 '' O what is life ? or what is man ? Even now 
 
 John Huddleston, with blood-stain'd, pallid brow, 
 
 Lies low. And what is lady's love ? Alas ! 
 
 How soon its fading joys from man can pass ! 
 
 How evanescent all this world appears ! — 
 
 A yawning sepulchre — a gulph of tears ! 
 
 The tenor of man's pilgrimage, how strange ! 
 
 How pleasing plans of future bliss derange 
 
 Almost themselves, and vanish into air, 
 
 Ere man's thought turns itself, or can prepare. 
 
 By human ingenuity or care. 
 
 Means to ward blows of fate that strike thus deep ! — 
 
 And we are left to wonder, and to weep 
 
 O'er Heaven's unfathom'd laws, whose scheme and plans 
 
 Extend beyond the scrutiny of man's 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 157 
 
 Conception. His reasoning powers in vain 
 
 Stretch the strain'd eye-balls — yet no light they gain : 
 
 The system of this universe but mocks 
 
 Man's keenest observation ; and it shocks 
 
 Humanity to witness scenes like this. 
 
 Where fate seems envious of poor human bliss. 
 
 The mind bewilder'd, and in deep distress, 
 
 Religion's balm seeks now, when dangers press ; 
 
 A Saviour's world man paints among the stars. 
 
 Where cares disturb not — where no murdering wars 
 
 Are known. Sweet peace and love for ever reign 
 
 In those bless'd regions Man relieved from pain, 
 
 That grinds him here to dust, may smile and love. 
 
 In this sweet world of blessedness above. 
 
 For poor young Kate my yearning bosom bleeds — 
 
 Unwedded, she must weep in widow's weeds ; 
 
 Her heart will burst now Huddleston is gone — 
 
 For ever vanish'd, Kate will turn to stone. 
 
 Young Huddleston ! so strong in mortal fight ! 
 
 Kill'd by a coward's weapon in his might. 
 
 Struck from behind, unknown, and out of sisrht ! 
 
 Cold his bold heart, so lately warm and bless'd, 
 
 When his betrothed Kate the youth caress'd. 
 
 Kate's ardent passion, famishing, will pine, 
 
 Like misery left to languish in a mine — 
 
 Shut out from hope, without one ray of light. 
 
 To gild the glooming of eternal night ; 
 
 Poor Kate will pine, a spectacle of woe — 
 
 Death ! death alone can end it here below ! 
 
 p 
 
158 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 And who must rule o'er Millom's wide domainSj 
 
 Since its last lord lies red with bloody stains ? 
 
 The Millom house no longer now remains. 
 
 If Yorkshire Huddleston a claim maintains. 
 
 And holy Church refuse to them the reins ; 
 
 Contending claims for Millom's fertile plains 
 
 May raise fresh feuds, and spread war's cruel pains." 
 
 To Hail all are return'd — enquiry ends. 
 
 And there is weeping. Kate's keen misery lends 
 
 No sounds to grief ; and, silent from that hour, 
 
 Through life she passed within a lonely bower. 
 
 That she had built in fond, fantastic whim, 
 
 When life was rapture, passed alone with him. 
 
 She lived a maniac ; vacant was her mind ; — 
 
 No covering on her bare head could they bind. 
 
 Lost to sense, reason, broken-hearted Kate 
 
 Liv'd a lorn victim to relentless fate ; 
 
 And village swains and weeping virgins tell 
 
 The misery of her life. She died in Hail's lone dell, 
 
 On the grey Druid stone where her young lover fell. 
 
 END OF CANTO L 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 A POEM OF THE FEUDAL TIMES. 
 
 CANTO IL 
 
 I. 
 
 When morning came again^ how chang'd the scene ! 
 Where playful youth enraptured late had been — 
 Where beauty smil'd — where festive glee^ prepared 
 For social union, all its pleasures shared. 
 The Hall was dark — deep silence reign'd around — 
 The tower-bell only boom'd a dismal sound ; — 
 But hark ! a horn sounds at the eastern gate. 
 All anxious press, to see what changes fate 
 Brings next. — John Skelton's page appears 
 
 From Branthwaite Hall, and all suffus'd in tears 
 
 ^' What news, my page ? — Abate thy youthful fears, 
 And tell thy errand.'' He then sobs aloud. 
 Advancing to his master in the crowd — 
 " The news I brinof should not by man be told, 
 But in some lonely wild by demons liowl'd. — 
 
 p 2 
 
160 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Your Hall is fir'd ! the gear and cattle gone ! 
 
 The west tower only sav'd by Robinson ! 
 
 He kept its narrow entrance all alone ; 
 
 And his stout valour^ bravely it was shown ! 
 
 Smith Tom was butcher'd on the barnkin stone, 
 
 Where he was seated lonely by the wall ; 
 
 No weapon in his hand, only a pole 
 
 He us'd for leaping o'er the Stockbeck brook, 
 
 And cross one place in Marron at Horse Crook. 
 
 In melancholy mood poor Tom was there. 
 
 Sighing in secret o'er domestic care ; 
 
 When o'er the wall, from hostile hand, a stroke 
 
 Of sharp steel blade his stupid musings broke. 
 
 And there he fell — no word he ever spoke. 
 
 All else were in the strong-wall'd western tower ; 
 
 And Douglas' clan had o^ain'd its farthest door. 
 
 Ere we had warning, two were on the leads ; 
 
 But John's keen blade soon severed both their heads. 
 
 He seiz'd each Scot as he came on, and o'er 
 
 The tower's low parapet he pitched a score 
 
 Ere they retir'd. They found it was in vain 
 
 Contending longer. John could still maintain 
 
 Himself, in that now all-important post ; 
 
 Being so narrow, he defied their host ; 
 
 And when some twenty he had stretch'd in gore, 
 
 The rest retir'd, resolv'd to lose no more. 
 
 By strangest chance was sav'd your lady's life. — 
 
 In the west tower was lodor'd Smith Tom's old wife, 
 
ERANTHWAITE HALL. 161 
 
 On bread and water fed, as order' d when 
 
 You came off here wdth all the hounds and men. 
 
 My lady heard from Tom^ his wife had taken 
 
 A longing fancy for a slice of bacon. 
 
 Tom was a fool to tell his wife*s demand, 
 
 Yetj strange to say, it sav'd from blade or brand 
 
 The sweetest lady in all Cumberland. 
 
 No one but her durst violate command. 
 
 She took the bacon in her own white hand ; 
 
 And order'd all the rest into that tower. 
 
 To see old Jenny in that fated hour. 
 
 On its strong walls the fires no puncture made — 
 
 The rest was soon in reeking ruins laid I 
 
 The Scots then vanish'd with the stock and gear. — 
 
 Big John yet guards the tower, and I am here." 
 
 The look of injur'd man, from Skelton's eyCj 
 
 Glanc'd fiercely round, yet he made no reply ; 
 
 But look, and step, and breathing horn, will tell — 
 
 Beyond the gate 'tis Skelton's long farewell 
 
 To scenes in Copeland, and to friends at Hail ! 
 
 He'll soon be in some gloomy Scottish dale. 
 
 Where fires are streaming — like the comet's tail — 
 
 Hissing to screaming and the loud bewail 
 
 Of vanquished foes, that his bold clan assail ! 
 
 IIo 
 
 Ag'ain a horn sounds from Hail's low-arch'd bridsre : 
 Warriors of Millom all are on its ridge, 
 
 p3 
 
162 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Above the Hall — all gloomy in their might ; 
 
 And deadly rancour brooded o'er that night. 
 
 Ulfey's dark eye glanc'd hate and deadly spite. 
 
 Although 'twas hard to read its scowl aright ; 
 
 And Ponsonby is on his warlike steed — 
 
 His faithful clansmen mustering, too, with speed. 
 
 The field of combat is their destiny, — 
 
 Ah ! who can say at night what they may be ? — 
 
 At the grey Druid stone all met again. 
 
 The lists were fix'd upon that narrow plain. 
 
 Where ancient Britons once had pour'd the strain 
 
 Of pure devotion, such a^then did gain 
 
 Ascendancy among their rustic train — 
 
 Where Millom's lord by treachery was slain ; 
 
 And where the hot blood once more was to stain 
 
 The sweet flowers springing gaily, fresh and fair, 
 
 Breathing rich odours through the streaming air, 
 
 While western zephyrs gently fann'd them there. 
 
 The feather'd choir all left the valley, when 
 
 The din of warriors filVd the lonely glen — 
 
 Flying for shelter where large oak-trees spread 
 
 Embowering branch, and many a towering head. 
 
 Were these old oaks inspir'd with tongues, to tell 
 
 To reasoning man the scenes that there befell, 
 
 Thro' time's dark space, beyond what he could guess on, 
 
 They'd teach an awfully useful moral lesson. 
 
 But oaks were mute and silent as the stone, 
 
 And man still wilful, still to evil prone ; — 
 
 For hate deep-seated, blood must now atone ! 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 163 
 
 Ulfey and Millom took the western side. 
 
 Upon the east stood Ponsonby, in pride 
 
 Of \ outh — advanced before his band, 
 
 Tall and elastic, quick in eye and hand ; 
 
 His gesture free — his motions showed a mind 
 
 Resolved on combat, and to fate resigned. 
 
 Oppos'd was Ulfey — and a contrast wide ! 
 
 His thick-set frame a giant's strength supplied ; 
 
 His large limbs mov'd not quick as Ponsonby, 
 
 Yet firm as a tower, seem'd sure of victory. 
 
 A pause and silence now ensued, ere strife 
 
 Commenc'd that ended with the waste of life. 
 
 In that short pause each pulse and heart beat strong ; 
 
 Each eye glanc'd fire — 'twas awful, though not long. — 
 
 Loud horns the onset blew — the chiefs advance — 
 
 With shield and corselet, and with shining lance. 
 
 Miles Ponsonby with feint made first essay ; 
 
 Ulfey soon parried, and in haste to slay, 
 
 Too confident, darting his long sharp spear, 
 
 Aim'd at the head, it cut away the ear ; 
 
 For Ponsonby, evaded with a turn 
 
 Of neck elastic — else this world's sojourn 
 
 To him had ended with that blow's return — 
 
 But quick as cat, his keen blade soon was felt 
 
 In Ulfey's chest, beneath the hairy belt. 
 
 Whose strong long lounge had placed off* his safeguard ; 
 
 And Ponsonby's sharp blade was his reward ; 
 
 Then down he fell upon the fair green-sward. 
 
164 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Then Hail-men rais'd the shout of victory. 
 In triumph o'er their vanquish'd enemy : 
 'Twas now, begun the sanguinary fight. 
 That ended only with the waning light — 
 Some even pursued it in the silent night. 
 Of that dread slaughter who can paint the scene ? 
 The Muse retiring, draws the Grecian's screen 
 Of shadow o'er that savage, mortal strife. 
 
 Where runs in channels man's red stream of life ; 
 
 Where mercy's eye was never seen to glow — 
 
 All sounds, all sights, all thoughts, stern death and woe ; 
 
 Where man meets man, intent alone to kill, 
 
 No purpose there save human blood to spill. — 
 
 The unrelenting wolf, pursuing prey. 
 
 His stomach oflutted, will not longer slav. 
 
 The bear, and boar, and wild cat, kill for food ; 
 
 When sated, they no longer thirst for blood — 
 
 Each to his lair retires within the wood ; 
 
 But cruel man wars with more mortal strife — 
 
 Passion impels him in pursuit of life ; 
 
 And rude revenge and mad ambition fires 
 
 The human breast, and cruelty inspires. 
 
 Man's restless spirit knows no medium then — 
 
 His harden'd heart still thirsts for blood of men. 
 
 War unto death spread desolation o'er 
 
 These fertile plains, in feudal times of yore ; 
 
 Drench'd with pure native blood the battle-field ; 
 
 Slaying was still the word, and never yield. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 165 
 
 Pale death reign'd there, sole regent of the day ; 
 And when night gloom'd, scarce half were left to slay ; 
 Time wing'd away, and once again 'twas night — 
 Sad nights of sorrow follow days of fight. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Hail's low valley, by a sheltering wood, 
 
 A small secluded cottage lonely stood ; 
 
 A garden stoi^'d with autumn flowers there smil'd. 
 
 Contrasting sweetly, in that lonely wild, 
 
 With woods and rocky glens, wide-stretching round. 
 
 That, like a wilderness, so darkly frown'd. 
 
 A limpid brook meandering pass'd its doors, 
 
 Murmuring sweet sounds, as its clear streamlet pours 
 
 Along. And there seem'd mingling with them, moaning 
 
 Sighs of deep sorrow — grief's hard sobs and groaning — 
 
 As if harsh pain and misery shelter'd there — 
 
 Alas ! too often man's companions, where 
 
 The fate of war leaves him forlorn, to mourn 
 
 O'er days of peace pass'd never to return. 
 
 In that lone cottage, on its bed was laid 
 
 A wounded man, watch'd by a weeping maid ; 
 
 And in one corner lean'd a youth, whose hand 
 
 Was stain'd with blood. He w^ore a warlike band 
 
 Of grey wolf skin, and in it stuck a brand, 
 
 That told he was a Millom warrior there, 
 
 And in Hail's valley ! — Haughty youth, beware ! 
 
 Thy life's in jeopardy ! it hangs upon a hair ! 
 
166 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 War^ dreadful war, sweeps o'er these blood-stain'd lands; 
 
 And mortal strife between the hostile bands 
 
 Breathes life-devouring war that spareth not. 
 
 If thou art taken, death must be thy lot. 
 
 And what is jeopardy of life, or death. 
 
 To him whose heart's blood and whose vital breath 
 
 Is drawn, and moves, but for one object, then 
 
 With him, in sorrow, in Hail's lonely glen ? 
 
 John Benson lies upon that bed of pain. 
 
 Wounded and faint, doom'd ne'er to rise again ; 
 
 And his fair daughter, Mary, weeps beside 
 
 The youth, who strives — but vainly strives — to hide 
 
 The strong- emotion in his voice and look. 
 
 His grief was deep, although much pains he took 
 
 To sooth the maid, who answer'd but with tears ; 
 
 When hark ! a voice is heard ! a friend appears ! 
 
 The Leech, who strangely then by fate w^as led 
 
 To see poor Benson die upon his bed. 
 
 Though he that day in battle's ranks had bled. 
 
 No question need he ask — the veteran lies 
 
 Before him dying ; tears sprung in his eyes. 
 
 Silent he stood beside the weeping maid, 
 
 Sighino; in concert o'er war's victim, laid 
 
 Prostrate and struo^gUno^, Yielding- his last breath 
 
 In gasps, reluctant, in the arms of death. — 
 
 Silent and motionless ! the soul is gone ! 
 
 Poor Mary sinks in deep despair upon 
 
 The youth. The Leech retires, and they're alone. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 167 
 
 When thus the maid: — " Thwaite, thou must now retire. 
 Leave me alone with my now lifeless sire. 
 
 had he liv'dj for thy strong, powerful aid, 
 
 A warm heart's grateful thanks he would have paid ! 
 
 But he is gone — and risk no longer now 
 
 Thy own dear safety. We must, sorrowing, bow , 
 
 To fate ; but thou must not with me remain 
 
 One moment longer. Oh ! I am in pain ! 
 
 The Leech will soon return — all will be here. 
 
 Thy life's in jeopardy! retire, thou dear. 
 
 Kind youth ! When my sire's corpse is laid 
 
 In the dark grave, no power can me dissuade ; 
 
 For I will join thee in love's holy bands — 
 
 Thy faithful wife on Millom's fruitful lands 
 
 My only love, haste ! haste ! nor longer stay ; 
 
 1 tremble whilst thou lingers here — away !" 
 '' Ah ! must I leave thee, desolate, alone, 
 To pour thy sorrow's solitary moan 
 
 O'er thy dead parent, now for ever gone ? 
 
 Alas ! 'tis true no human aid avails ; 
 
 When death strikes home, all man's assistance fails. 
 
 Within thy home no danger threatens thee : 
 
 K I were taken, some might fall on me. 
 
 The deadly feud that rages now between 
 
 Our clans, will last not ; time must come, I ween 
 
 Wlien our mad clansmen common cause must make — 
 
 When Scots clans roam, we have an equal stake. 
 
 Self-preservation binds us all, and then 
 
 You hear no question Are you Millom-men ? 
 
168 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 As friends united we repel the foe. 
 As friends united we might still be so ; 
 And would, were all, what they should ever be. 
 But villain passions lead to treachery ; 
 And confidence in man, if once destroyed, 
 Returns no more ; all ties are then made void. 
 Man may forgive where ignorance deceives ; 
 The fool deceives himself, and still believes. 
 
 Error 
 
 Man, villain once, all confidence is gone — 
 
 For treachery what ever can atone ? 
 
 By treachery our gallant chief was slain. 
 
 And on the gory, blood-ensanguined plain. 
 
 Half of our clans, for hungry wolves a prey, 
 
 Lie slain by comrades crueller than they. 
 
 'Tis hard for me to leave thee thus, my sweet, — 
 
 Ah ! when, and where, love, can we ? — we must meet ! 
 
 But where and when ? how long the time will seem ! 
 
 The thought of parting seems to me a dream. 
 
 A coldness, too, falls on my aching heart, 
 
 When thus I leave thee, as if now we part 
 
 To meet no more." — 
 
 '' Forbid it Heaven I" the dark-ey'd maiden cried, 
 
 " Before I'll break my vow, Til be death's bride, 
 
 No bridegroom will I have, but him, or thee ! 
 
 My plighted husband have no fear of me ! 
 
 I wovdd this moment leave my only home — 
 
 Cling to thy side — for ever with thee roam ! 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 169 
 
 But that my weakness would impede thy flight, 
 Or, help me Heaven, but I would go this night ! — 
 No arm to protect, no heart to love but thine — 
 
 keep it true, and have no fear of mine !" 
 ^' I do not fear thine, Mary ; any fear 
 
 A Millom warrior ill beseemeth here. 
 
 1 have no fear ! Til leave thee now with Heaven, 
 And the cold relics cruel war has given. 
 Before the corpse we'll join again our hands — 
 Pledge to unite in Hymen's holy bands ; 
 
 One chaste embrace before I leave, like this. 
 
 And from thy lips one long, long honied kiss 
 
 The hot love in my heart will burn my brain, 
 Ere we can meet, or I can kiss again." — 
 The gloomy evening darken'd black, and drear. 
 And the west wind sobb'd sullen round the cot. 
 When Hail's clan muster'd o'er the mournful bier ; 
 And it was Mary's melancholy lot. 
 The sole lone mourner o'er the corpse to stand. 
 And yet the whole scene round her seem'd forgot : 
 She saw her lover's belt and well-known brand. 
 But how and why there, Mary deemeth not ; 
 Yet well she knew, it now had left a hand 
 To her far dearer than the world. Oh ! v/here 
 Was he, the boast of all the Millom band ? 
 With ruddy cheek, and auburn, curling hair ! 
 Her plighted lover, Thwaite ! O where was he ? — 
 Back to the cottage she stepp'd silently ; 
 
 Q 
 
170 BRANTHWAITE HALL* 
 
 And beckon'd him who wore the brand and belt : 
 He came to know what Mary's wish might be ; 
 But O what tortures of suspense she felt. 
 Ere she could ask if belt and brand were spoil. 
 Tokens of friendship or of war's turmoil ! — 
 " The spoils of Millom foe, subdued in fight, 
 Our clan encounter'd in his lonely flight. 
 This hand," he cried, " a trusty jav'lin sent ; 
 Through the tall recreant's trunk the weapon went ; 
 And my reward was this same belt and brand. 
 His corpse lies festering on the bloody strand — 
 The field where Millom blood stains red the soil^ 
 Manur'd by battle's vengeance and turmoil.'' 
 
 The maiden's eye no fear, no grief betray'd 
 
 In seeming carelessness she took the blade 
 From the grim warrior's belt, and struck it deep 
 Into his heart : then, with a cruel sweep. 
 She pierc'd her own torn heart, and fell 
 Dead by her victim. From the clan a yell 
 Of horror then, a loud convulsive scream. 
 Burst on the ear, as, by the wandering stream 
 That murmur'd by, the clansman's body roll'd, 
 Bleeding and death-like — as the deep bell toU'd 
 A requiem o'er the dying and the dead. 
 And Mary's hapless, lifeless, forlorn head. 
 Sleeps with her father in the same cold bed. 
 Young Thwaite, her lover, lies unburied, where 
 The gaunt wolf, rambling, drags him to its lair — 
 
BRxVNTHWAITE HALL. 171 
 
 Craunchmg his bones and bloody corpse ! — Alas ! 
 
 That war should be so cruel ! for he was 
 
 Fair as the rosy morn. Where'er he mov'd, 
 
 All eyes admir'd — all youthful maidens lov'd. 
 
 In Millom many a virgin heart grew cold. 
 
 Struck with dismay, when fate's stern tale was told. 
 
 That Huddleston the chief, and Thwaite, were gone ; 
 
 And many a bitter tear, and strangling moan, 
 
 Was breath'd in vain through Millom's sea-wash'd dales, 
 
 Where long resounded sorrow's dismal wails. 
 
 The dire lament, all-hopeless, fiird the air, 
 
 For heroes gone for ever : lorn despair 
 
 Was the sad portion of sweet maidens there ; 
 
 And Hail's low valley show'd the same sad scene — 
 
 Young maids and matrons weeping on the green. 
 
 Of Ponsonby's bold clan one half were slain ; 
 
 And many wounded, stretch'd in cruel pain. 
 
 Did linger long ere they could fight again. 
 
 An arrow wounded Ponsonby their lord, 
 
 And years roll'd o'er him ere he was restored. 
 
 All, all lamented that unhappy day, 
 
 When JNIillom's youthful lord returned to clay ; 
 
 Curs'd the unlucky hour the hero died — 
 
 Kill'd by a dastard, in youth's strength and pride. 
 
 iv. 
 
 Six days are gone ; within the cloister'd wall 
 Of Calder's Abbey, o'er a warrior's pall, 
 
 Q 2 
 
172 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 The sable plumes are waving — Who stands there ? 
 
 A boy m mourning weeds, yet tall and fair. 
 
 Graceful he leans upon the abbot's arm ; 
 
 And holy Church protects the youth from harm, 
 
 Should enemies before the young chief show 
 
 A hostile feature, or the hand of foe. 
 
 No foes are there ; that abbot's sole command 
 
 Secures protection through all Cumberland. 
 
 The youth has come to claim the Millom lands. 
 
 For there his family's castle proudly stands. 
 
 From York he comes, and of the olden race — 
 
 From Adam Huddleston the heralds trace 
 
 His pedigree ; and Millom lands are now 
 
 His heritage, if holy Church allow. 
 
 And he that holy sanction hath obtain'd, 
 
 And all the churchmen to his interest gain'd ; 
 
 And he who gain'd the Church still stood secure. 
 
 In feudal times, if he could only pour 
 
 Into the abbot's hand, or abbev's chest. 
 
 Largess in gold, to buy their strong behest ; 
 
 And, if our holy Church is not belied. 
 
 Too often gold with them all rights supplied. 
 
 Many a broad acre of their wide domain 
 
 The Abbey gain'd by sins of deepest stain ; 
 
 And bribes unto their holy abbots paid, 
 
 Sav'd each black wretch, and retribution made 
 
 For every crime — murder among the rest. 
 
 For gold was pardon'd, paid for, and confess'd. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 173 
 
 But Miliom's youthful lord, nor bribes nor crime 
 
 Requir'd, to gain Church favours of that time. 
 
 His claim deriv'd from John, who took the lands 
 
 With Joan de Boyvill, far as Duddon Sands ; 
 
 John sprung from York, and since the Norman war ; 
 
 But Adam was before the conquest seated therC; — 
 
 And antiquarians trace their lineage far. 
 
 And make their title clear, distinct, and fair. 
 
 And this tall youth was gentle, and most rare 
 
 Qualities within him afterwards were found. 
 
 When once possessed, he well could keep his ground ; 
 
 And from his loins sprung heroes for the fight. 
 
 Richard was dubb'd upon the field a knight, 
 
 At Agincourt ; Harry of Monmouth^^ made 
 
 Him there upon the spot, with his own blade. 
 
 Another Richard, colonel of dragoons, 
 
 Fell in the Minster yard at York, from wounds 
 
 Receiv'd m civil broil ; that soldier died, 
 
 Fighting for York's red rose, in loyal pride. 
 
 They with keen lance protected their own lands : 
 
 At Whicham Hall, in Scot's Croft,^^ there yet stands 
 
 Memorial of the vanquish'd Scottish clans, 
 
 Who venturing there for rapine, found turmoil ; — 
 
 Their Scotch bones mingle now with Millom soil. 
 
 At Swinside,^'^ too, the Druid's circle there 
 
 Witness'd rude scenes, when war's red arm was bare ; 
 
 When Miliom's veterans wav'd the conquering lance ; 
 
 And when the varving-, unforeseen mischance 
 
 Q 3 
 
174 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Of war, left their own heroes slain : 'twas then 
 The monument and cairn were rear'd, that ken 
 Of their stout valour might be mark'd through time. 
 And at Kirk Sancton's sunken kirns ^^ are found 
 Two tall stones standing in that windy climCj 
 Marking the warrior's grave on that lone ground. 
 But now at Calder's Abbey, warrior's grave 
 Yawns for the coffin of a chieftain brave ; 
 And darkly dawn'd the morning, that arose 
 To see the tomb on Millom's chieftain close. 
 The eastern turret's large bell moan'd a sound. 
 Deep and so mournful, echoes that abound 
 In Calder's valley groan'd to the dismal bell — 
 Death's voice seem'd sounding nature's funeral knell ! 
 The heart was throbbing hard in every breast. 
 And each pale cheek deep sympathy express'd ; 
 And monks in white, in coifs and cowls array'd. 
 In slow procession lin'd the Abbey's shade, 
 Chaunting funereal hymns, soft, smooth, and low — 
 Each minor cadence melting into woe. 
 And when the antique vestibule they gain, 
 The powerful organ took the mourning strain. 
 And round the lofty arcades sent soft tones 
 Of melancholy music, like deep moans 
 Of weeping angels, wailing over man. 
 Condemned to die. All round the Abbey ran 
 The streams of doleful sounds, till all within 
 The dome arriv'd, and service could begin. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 175 
 
 Each monk was seated in an antic^ue stall. — 
 The abbot then arrived before the pall, 
 Enrob'd and mitr'd — his high throne ascendinor. 
 With solemn dignity, each rite attending. 
 And now the coffin, borne in state^ appears, 
 By ten tall clansmen, tall bat young in years. 
 Their youthful lord nuraber'd but twenty-two : 
 The same age these, graceful and fair to view. 
 In war's costume the warlike youths were dress'd, 
 Save the black plume that wav'd on every crest ; — 
 And they have plac'd the coffin on its rest. 
 Close to that rest the mourning heir, too, bends ; 
 The prior also on the youth attends. 
 Soon streams of men the aisles, and every space 
 Within the Abbey, fill ; and you might trace 
 The lineaments of grief and unfeign'd woe. 
 Their chief was well belov'd by high and low ; 
 And o'er his coffin honest hearts did mourn — 
 Tears of true sorrow bath'd his marble urn. 
 His whole clan muster'd, torn with grief, to view 
 The youth entomb'd, and sigh their last adieu. 
 Deep silence reigns at last. In solemn state 
 Around the pall. Church dignitaries wait 
 A stated period. In that awful pause 
 The wounded mind to deep abstraction draws — 
 Prepares to join devotion's fervent call 
 To Heaven for mercy, o'er the gloomy pall. 
 
176 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Where death, grim king of terror ! reigns supreme 
 
 O'er man, poor victim ! who in life can dream 
 
 Away a few short years, and think it joy ; 
 
 But soon he wakes, and finds some harsh alloy 
 
 Still mixes with the pleasures of this world. 
 
 Man from his pinnacle must still be hurl'd. 
 
 By nature's law that rules ; he then, alas ! 
 
 Finds earthly joys, like fleeting shadows, pass 
 
 Away, leaving no trace of bliss behind. 
 
 More than the whisperings of the viewless w^ind ! 
 
 The service of the mass proceeds with awe ; 
 
 Its solemn rites to pure devotion draw 
 
 The minds of men, who deem the presence there, 
 
 To witness man's sincerity in prayer. 
 
 Slow music breathes divinely from the choir, 
 
 And noblest heavenly sympathies inspire ; 
 
 Enthusiastic feelings charm the soul — 
 
 Subdue men's hearts, and all their powers control. 
 
 The tenets of Catholicism then 
 
 Reign'd o'er the Christian world of old ; and men. 
 
 Sincere and honest in the faith profess'd, 
 
 Perform'd the rites, and left to God the rest, 
 
 Whose mercy still, in every age and clime. 
 
 Can pardon venial errors of the time. 
 
 His voice of power, from many mansions, calls 
 
 Spirits of worth : from cottages or halls. 
 
 Without distinction, his high mandate falls, 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 177 
 
 To people regions in etlierial air, — 
 But stern sectarians seldom enter there. 
 Meek charity sits keeper of those gates — 
 Mercy, a heavenly sentmcl, there waits. 
 With Christ's white book of love in her right hand, 
 Admittino; none but bv divine command. 
 The prayer, that mercy's aid might now afford 
 Admittance there for Millom's slaughter'd lord, 
 Went from the heart sincere ; and every breast 
 Sweird with the hope, their youthful chief might rest 
 In heaven's sweet climate, and a welcome guest. 
 The last response within the walls was low — 
 Its dying echoes faint and fainter grow ; 
 The echoing cells expiring sounds prolong, 
 That breathe like whispers of the funeral song. 
 Four monks in black, the vault's dark door before, 
 Now mov'd aside ; the eye could then explore 
 That gloomy region — see the sacred grave 
 Those monks had open'd for the lifeless brave. 
 Four lamps around the vault's low arches shed 
 Funereal light. Dank vapours from the dead, 
 Entomb'd before in that dark dungeon's womb, 
 Made the lamps dwindle near the warrior's tomb. 
 Suspence and silence round the Abbey reign'd. 
 And deep solemnity by all maintain'd. 
 
 Had gain'd its height All eyes towards the pall 
 
 With awful interest turn'd — turn'd one and all ; 
 
 For in the shaded corner, where it stood, 
 
 An air-drawn hand was seen ! a hand of blood I 
 
178 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Around that space a heavenly brightness blaz'd ! 
 
 And slowly, too, the coffin-lid was rais'd. 
 
 As if by powers of magic. Then a form — 
 
 A female form of angel mould, and pale — 
 
 Rose like a shade of sorrow ; for a veil 
 
 Of dark despair hung, like a gathered storm. 
 
 O'er her cold marble brow. She scem'd a shade ! 
 
 A ghostly shadow of some heavenly maid. 
 
 That in the air recumbent seem'd to hover. 
 
 Or spirit of some youthful dying lover. 
 
 Within the coffin, too, sweet sounds w^ere heard. 
 
 Like distant music from some warblino- bird ; 
 
 Sweetly and slowly through the air it streams, 
 
 Stealing on sense, like beauty's voice in dreams. 
 
 All were enchanted — bound by magic spell — 
 
 When from some unknow^i voice the vocal shell 
 
 Was sounded ; nor were seraph's voice more pure.— 
 
 This the lorn strain it breath'd in that strano^e hour, 
 
 ^ong of i\)t Spirit. 
 I. 
 
 I come, I come, to fly 
 
 In company with thee, 
 Where spirits in the sky, 
 
 Released from cares, are free; 
 
 To hve and love, ^ 
 
 In reahiis above : 
 Then let me fly with thee. 
 
BRANTHWAITE HALL. 179 
 
 II. 
 Oh ! leave me not in this cold sphere, 
 
 To wander all alone ; 
 To shed the bitter, hopeless tear; 
 
 To linger and to moan. 
 
 III. 
 Trembling, on tender, virgin wings I fly ; 
 Then bear me gently through the yielding sky, 
 On eagle-pinions of heaven's cherubim 1 — 
 O let me join with thee the seraphim, 
 To sing the sw^eetest heavenly hymns, and love — 
 Kneeling before the Deity above ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! do not leave me here ; 
 
 My spirit yearns to go, 
 \Yhere love can have no fear 
 Like what we feel below. 
 Then stretch thy eagle-wings out far and wide ; 
 I'll soar, a fond companion at thy side ! 
 
 A moment pass'd — tlie bloody hand was clasp'd ; 
 But now a dagger its firm fingers grasp'd ; 
 A brawny arm, too, join'd the hand in air, 
 Stretch'd, as if striking its pale victim there ; 
 When from the roofs, and from the Abbey's dome, 
 A stern voice call'd, like thunder from the tomb, 
 " Forbear !" — That moment all was pass'd and gone — 
 Arm — hand — and dagger — shadow — all had flown ! 
 The pall was standing as before this dream. 
 Funereal lamps sent from the vaults a gleam 
 Of flame that seem'd not earthly; but how long 
 This scene was leno'then'd, lives not in my song. 
 
180 BRANTHWAITE HALL. 
 
 Four monks in black the last sad duties paid : 
 
 The warrior's ashes in the tomb they laid ; 
 
 And o'er his coffin all the rites perform'd 
 
 The Abbey's rules required. The rest alarm'd, 
 
 Confus'dj confounded^ in amazement lost — 
 
 On superstition's waves of chaos tost — 
 
 In secret dread, in silent fear retir'd ; — 
 
 To solve this mystery no soul desir'd. 
 
 They deem'd some guardian angel interfered. 
 
 And at their chief's obsequies there appear'd ; 
 
 And what confirm'd this soul-subduing thought, 
 
 (Religious fantasies are often caught 
 
 By frail humanity,) 'twas found that when 
 
 This scene was passing, in HaiVs distant glen, 
 
 Kate Ponsonby seem'd dead, or in a trance. 
 
 Long, long she lay like death, till Leech's lance. 
 
 Or angel's voice, did lifeless Kate recall. 
 
 To breathe, but not to live, on earth's cold ball ; 
 
 For from the hour her youthful lover died. 
 
 Fled from poor Kate, love, health, and youthful pride. 
 
 Her mind became a wilderness of woe. 
 
 Where bitter streams of poison'd waters flow. 
 
 Awhile she linger d, like a silent ghost ; 
 
 At length her spirit sought the Stygian coast — 
 
 Left her worn bodv on the same hard bed, 
 
 Where Millom's hero, Kate's young lover, bled : 
 
 And love-sick maids oft weep, and tell the tale, 
 
 Through Millom dales, and in the groves of Hail. 
 
STANZAS TO HEALTH. 
 (1812.) 
 
 I. 
 
 Sweet cherub, health ! of rosy mien. 
 To what seclusion art thou fled? 
 
 Thy smiling face, must it be seen 
 No longer near thy suppliant's bed ? 
 
 II, 
 
 Wilt thou never more infuse 
 
 Youthful vigour through this frame ? 
 Shall Strephon's lorn and grief-worn muse 
 
 No more invoke vouns: Rosa's name ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Must she, the much-lov'd, peerless maid. 
 Whose image warm'd this beating heart, 
 
 Witness poor Strephon's body laid 
 
 Low in the dust ? — and must we part ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! timid health ! why dost thou fly, 
 Like a scar'd dove, on trembling wings, 
 
 Leaving me here to weep and sigh. 
 
 Worn with the pain pale sickness brings ? 
 
 R 
 
182 STANZAS TO HEALTH. 
 
 V. 
 
 O let me court thee once again ! 
 
 Once more secure thy dimpling smiles ! 
 Thy healing balm to sooth my pain — 
 
 Thy helping hand to ease my toils ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then I could laugh at folly's toys — 
 Despise the insolence of pride ; 
 
 And all the pains deceit employs. 
 
 Its quibbling, knavish schemes to hide I 
 
 VII. 
 
 Could spurn the frowning lordling's scowl — 
 Expose the impotence of wealth ! 
 
 Could hear, unmov'd, life's tempest howl — 
 Calm and serene, embrac'd by health ! 
 
 VIIIo 
 
 Then come, young spirit of the air ! 
 
 Thy prostrate poet's prayers attend ; 
 Chase from his couch harsh pain and care. 
 
 And gratefvd orisons he'll send 
 
 IX. 
 
 To Heaven and thee, each morn and eve : 
 Thrice-pleasing task such thanks to pour ! 
 
 The voice of praise would never leave 
 Thy poet's tongue, till life's last hour. 
 
LINES 
 
 PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY^ WITH A ROSE-BUD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Accept this flow'ret, youthful maid. 
 Emblem and pledge of love, from me ; 
 
 Its vermil tints may change and fade. 
 But not mine ardent love to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like nature's fix'd, unchanging law, 
 My love from thee can not depart I 
 
 That love must nerve the latest throe, 
 That rends in death my faithful heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 Take, then, this pure, untainted flower—^ 
 A richer pledge than India's store, 
 
 That binds me from this happy hour. 
 Thy friend and slave, for ever more ! 
 
 R 2 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE 25tH MARCH, 1837. 
 
 The Birth-day of the Author. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ah ! fifty years to-day are gone. 
 
 Since this world's light first dawn'd upon 
 
 These eyes In that space, I have seen some change 
 
 Wrought in the chequer'd world by time; and strange 
 Inversions in the state of things — 
 In rural cots — in courts where kings 
 Have rul'd with power supreme. — 
 The change that time or nature brings. 
 Wakes in the mind a dream 
 Of shadowy thoughts; and memory's records fill 
 With notes of strange events, both good and ill. 
 
 II. 
 The toys of childhood youth disdains ; 
 Of youth's vain follies man complains. 
 Again, the philosophic sage can shew 
 The sinful errors of man's life below. 
 So — this world seems a school of care, 
 Open'd, that mankind may prepare 
 
 For some enlighten'd sphere ; 
 Aspire to soar in purer air, 
 And leave his miseries here. 
 Then ask thy conscience what may yet be done, 
 To learn true wisdom here beneath the sun. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 ^ *' Melhreaky^ a tall, conical mountain, whose shadow extends towards 
 the churchyard of Lowswater when the sun approaches the meridian ; 
 and, by a stretch of poetical imagination, may shadow the grave of my 
 eldest sister Mary. 
 
 ^ The fact w^as as here stated — when I saw Mary die, I sunk into some- 
 thing like a fainting fit. 
 
 ^ Frederick the Great of Prussia. 
 
 *^ Voltaire. 
 
 ^"From Lostrigg^s echoing glens below. 
 Loud, deep-ton'd growlings strain' dJ' 
 
 The fact was as here stated. The three hounds mentioned in these lines 
 were kept by Pearson ; and during the whole night that he died, their 
 howlings w^ere loud and unceasing through the deep glens below his 
 dwelling at Bannock Row, through which the rivulet of Lostrigg runs to 
 the Marron. A singular incident occurred to Will a short period before 
 his death. A female, with whom it was said he ought to have been 
 married, if he had done his own promise and her justice, and who lived 
 at some distance from Will's residence, died. The morning after her 
 decease, when he came down stairs to join the family at breakfast, he 
 told them that F — y was dead. ''Dead!" all exclaimed, "w^ho brought 
 the account?" '* No one," w^as the answer; "but I saw her last night, 
 and she spoke to me when I was in bed." '' Pooh ! nonsense !" " Fact," 
 quoth Will ; and immediately after that the clock struck one. Shortly 
 after this, a messenger brought word that the female in question had 
 actually died at one o'clock that morning. 
 
188 NOTES. 
 
 Communicating the substance of the preceding note to a reputable per- 
 son in the town of Cockermouth, whose character for veracity is unimpeach- 
 able, and who is a person of neither a querulous imagination, nor romantic 
 temper, I was told that a brother of his was killed by an accident near 
 Workington, about twenty-five years ago. On the evening on which he 
 died, he was seen, or supposed to be seen, by a sister in Carlisle, who also 
 heard his voice call her by name three times — by a brother at Longtown — 
 by another brother at Penrith — and by himself, who was a fourth, and 
 then residing in the country beyond Penrith. Let schoolmen answer 
 this. 
 
 ^ '' Blithe Davy now may range forlorn,^' 
 
 David Hudart of Great Broughton, a hunting comrade, of little less 
 celebrity than famous Will himself. 
 
 ^ Also hunting companions of our hero. 
 
 ^ *' When Curwen, chief of Cumbrian brave. ^* 
 
 J. C. Curwen, Esq. of Workington Hall, embodied a regiment of volun- 
 teers in 1804. A company (of which my father was captain) was raised 
 in the country, at Branthwaite : Will was drill-serjeant of that company. 
 I was in the ranks, and witnessed Will's enthusiasm on every occasion. 
 An idea of the attachment of the men to Will may be formed from the 
 circumstance of their having purchased, by subscription, an elegant green 
 hunting-coat, to compliment him. This coat he held in high veneration, 
 and bequeathed it to David Hudart, when he died. 
 
 * '' Marron^s silver stream J' 
 
 The Marron is a small but interesting trout-stream, that runs through 
 Branthwaite. The margin of the Marron, at Ullock, Branthw^aite, and at 
 Bridgefoot and Clifton, has often witnessed Will, in all his glory, at the 
 athletic sports and exercises, which were much in vogue among the rustic 
 youth of that day. Will was a first-rate runner ; at jumping, second- 
 rate ; at wrestling, only third or fourth-rate, although he occasionally 
 threw first-rate men — being six feet high — by haming. At such meet- 
 ings, however, Will's urbanity, veracity, temper, and judgment, made him 
 a great favourite ; and I have witnessed many a turbulent broil end with- 
 out a general fight, through Will's judicious interference. 
 
 ^ Pearson's place of residence. 
 
NOTES. 189 
 
 ^Loch Kinder, a small clear lake on the mountain of Crefell, in Scotland. 
 
 ^ A favourite spaniel of the poet's. 
 
 " Sewell died at Quebec, in North America, where he had emigrated 
 for the benefit of his health, and was interred there. 
 
 ^ See Gen. chap. vi. verses 1 and 2. 
 
 "^''Hollin's wood;' a wood well known upon the Branthwaite Hall 
 estate, whose appearance marks it as having been coeval with the wild 
 forest state of the country. 
 
 ^ '' Calva's round-topp'd hill/' a singular conical eminence near to 
 Branthwaite Hall. 
 
 s '' Castle's green.'' In the north-east corner of a field upon the glebe 
 estate of Dean, near Branthwaite Hall, called Green Castle, somethino- 
 like the remains of a castle and moat appear, though evidently of very 
 remote origin. 
 
 ^ '' Old Ewelock dale, and Storebank's lonely wood," 
 
 Were similar to Hollin's wood ; but of these much have been cleared 
 away, making room for the plough. 
 
 ^ '' Harry Gill," a deep ravine near the junction of the Derwent and 
 the Marron, below^ Clifton, thickly covered with timber and under-wood, 
 and well adapted for sheltering the marauding parties of those days. 
 ^ '' A valiant hand the warrior chieftain led." 
 
 A band is here enumerated, beyond what strict historical truth will 
 allow, to Skelton ; but he certainly mustered a small band, when sum- 
 moned upon the service of the Borders ; and their numbers are stated in 
 authentic records of that time. Poetical licence is the only apology for 
 this and similar other liberties which are taken by the author in various 
 parts of this poem. 
 
 ^ '' Barnkin," the outermost w^ard of a Castle or Hall, within which 
 were the barns, cattle-sheds, stables, granaries, &c. 
 
 y '* Copeland forest" *' Randolph de Meschines, out of the grant of 
 Cumberland by the Conqueror to him, gave to his brother Wilham, the 
 great barony or forest of Copeland — a goodh', great forest, full of woods, 
 red and fallow deer, wild swine, and all manner of wild beasts ; lying 
 between the rivers Duddon and Derwent to the sea." — Denton, 
 
190 NOTES. 
 
 ^ *' Millom Thane.'* I have taken my heroic chief from the Millom 
 family of Huddleston, as being most prominent, of the most ancient gene- 
 alogy, and most immediately connected with the district of Copeland. 
 The family were of the ancient nobility before the Conquest, and seated 
 in Yorkshire. The first Huddleston, lord of Millom, was Sir John Huddle- 
 ston, who took it with his wife Joan, heiress of Adam de Bayvell, in the 
 reign of Henry III. For the pedigree of the lords of Millom, see Hutchin- 
 son's History of Cumberland, vol. 1st, page 527. 
 
 aa (( Ponsonhy.'* The ancestor of the Ponsonbys came into England 
 with the Conqueror from Picardy, and finally settled at Hail. 
 
 ^^ *' Thornholm,'" a farming district now in the valley of the Calder. 
 
 " *' ScalderscaiVj" another farming district, farther up the banks of the 
 same river. 
 
 dd << Pdy^ Thwaite,'* a tenement on the opposite bank of the same woody 
 valley. The last wild cat seen in the forest was killed by the owner of 
 this estate, Mr. Henry Steel of Far Thwaite. For a long period it 
 had been the destroyer of young lambs and poultry — sheltering itself, 
 and evading all pursuit, by burrowing among the rocks of the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 ^® " Bleng Tongue Hill,'" a green hill, sloping towards the valley of the 
 Bleng — a mountain stream that flows through Gosforth to the river Irt. 
 
 ff " Dent,'' a low mountain or fell, situated within the parishes of Egre- 
 mont and Cleator, from the top of which you descend into the valley of 
 Hail, in the direct line from Bran thwaite Hall. 
 
 ffs" ** Bij her long neck she hangs from yonder toirer.'' 
 
 The absolute and despotic rule of the feudal lords over their vassals is 
 well known and authenticated, however harsh and grating such threaten- 
 ings as these may sound in modern ears. In those days, the lord's order 
 was law within the boundary of his own district, without any appeal to 
 his vassals. 
 
 hh t* Crow-park,*' a wood-covered field adjoining the Hall, where was a 
 large rookery. 
 
 " '' WhitehoW'heady'* a farm tenement on the Hall estate, on the side of 
 the vale opposite to the Hall. 
 
NOTES. 191 
 
 kk '< Tortlay/' another tenement, situated upon an eminence higher up, 
 towards Dent. 
 
 ^^ *' Caldevy' a river well known in the west. 
 
 njni *' Side wood,'' a wood celebrated for game of various kinds. 
 
 "° " Will Pearson's Ccesar." Pearson of Bannock Row. 
 
 ^0 '' Joe Bank's Dido." Joseph Bank of Lowswater. 
 
 PP *' Cawfell and the Grains." Cawfell is a well-known high mountain 
 in Copeland forest. The Grains are three mountain streams, that flow in 
 rocky channels from different parts of the mountain, and unite in the 
 valley below. 
 
 ^^ " Tom Moody" a veteran well known in the annals of sporting. Tom 
 was principal huntsman to George Forrester, Esq. of Wooley Hall, near 
 Rockwood, in Shropshire, and breathed his last on the field. His dying 
 request was, that he might be buried as described in the text, which was 
 complied with by all his companions. 
 
 " " The eagle." The sea eagle, and the cinereous or white-tailed eagle, 
 at the time of the poem, were indigenous to the mountain districts of 
 Cumberland. 
 
 «■ ** Browny Edge" a mountain in Wasdale. 
 
 *^ *' Where nine sons late had grac'd the family hoard." 
 
 The nine sons here alluded to lived at a later period of this family's 
 history, viz. '' a Sir William Huddleston, who held the manor, and eight 
 brothers — John, colonel of dragoons ; Ferdinand, a major of foot ; 
 Richard, a lieutenant-colonel of foot, slain at York ; Ralph, a captain of 
 foot ; Robert, a captain of foot ; Ingleby, a captain of foot ; Joseph, a 
 captain of horse ; and Edward, a major of foot. All of these, but the two 
 first mentioned, died without issue.'' — History of Cumberland, 
 
 ^^ " Harry of Monmouth ," Henry V., king of England. 
 
 XX *' Scot's Croft." " In a large enclosure at Whicham Hall, now the 
 estate of the Earl of Lonsdale, tradition says a bloody battle was fought 
 between the EngUsh and Scots — the place to this day being called Scot's 
 Croft." — Hutchinson's History of Cumberland. 
 
 yy *' Swinside." *' In the neighbourhood of Millom, at a place called 
 Swinside, is a small but beautiful druidical monument. It is composed of 
 
192 NOTES. 
 
 stones standing from six to eight feet high — is circular— and about twenty 
 yards diameter.'' — History of Cumberland. 
 
 ^^' " Kirk Sancton's sunken kirns.^' '' At a place called Kirk Sancton, is 
 a small tumulus, on the summit' of which are two huge stones pitched 
 end-wise, eight or nine feet in height, and about fifteen feet asunder. 
 Nearly adjoining to this monument, several other large stones lately stood, 
 placed in a rude manner." — History of Cumberland. 
 
 CHARLES THURNAM, PRINTER, CARLISLE, 
 
:C'^^:'... ' '-O 
 
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