And Nature in her every form ;
The stonn at peace, or when the seas
Wave their white mantles to the storm ,
I see, though here ; yet from my sphere
My spirit soars on rapture's wings ;
My harp I take, its chords awake,
And sweep the chorus o'er the strings.
THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
Weep, all ye birds, ye bowers !
Ye friends, a vigil keep !
Send forth your tears, ye flowers !
All ye who knew her weep,
That she is gone who in your circle smil'd,
Far from her husband and her lovely child !
The lov'd, the virtuous wife,
Has enter'd into rest ;
Too weak for cares of life â
Call'd to her Father's breast ;
While like a cherub her sweet babe appears,
And smiles, unconscious of a father's tears.
Her bounty cheer'd the poor ;
Her hands the needy fed :
Now all her pains are o'er ;
Now that sweet flower is dead !
And her glad spirit, borne on seraph-wing,
Attunes the Christian's harp where angels sing.
FEOM A MOTHEE
TO HEE DAUGHTER IX LONDON.
How tlioughtful oft I sit alone.
My only child, and think of thee ;
I bear thee to the Almighty's throne,
^^^ene'e^ in prayer I bow the knee.
A mother's blessings and her prayers,
Are more than words can e'er express ;
A father's love, a father's cares,
Though less display'd, are still no less.
The midnight hour oft comes and goes.
And tells the death of each short day ;
I hear it oft before I close
Mine eyes, while thou art far away.
But why should I o'er this complain ?
For many a friend with God is there ;
Thou art not lost amid the main,
As many a mother's daughters are.
Thou hast not with the worthless fled.
On folly's miserable way ;
No word arrives, " Your Betsy's dead,"
In distant climes, far, far away.
224 FEOM A MOTHEK TO HER DAUGHTER.
But, blest with liealth, O let us praise
The Lord ! and not repine and mourn ;
For swiftly pass away the days,
Which bring my daughter's dear return.
Then I again shall hear her sing,
In mutual labour's sweet employ.
While Time flies swiftly on the wing,
And evenings pass away with joy.
TOien there is so much good and ill, â
may the good by her be lov'd !
]\Iay hcav'nly wisdom guide her will,
And may she bring a mind improv'd.
THE ABSENT LOYER
In vain the youths and rosy maids
iVll wish me to be gay,
For health declines, and pleasure fades,
While Henr}^'s far away.
The birds may strain their warbling throats
Upon the blossom'd spray ;
But there's no music in their notes,
When Henry's far away.
THE ABSENT LOVEK. 225
The sweets of June, the hill, the dale,
With Natui'e's beauties gay,
Ajopeai' to me but winter pale,
VvTien Heniy's far away.
The evening moments creep but slow,
And dull the brightest day ;
For none my airdous cares can know,
"When Heniy's far away.
My trembling harp no pleasui-e yields.
My hands forget to play ;
No joy at home, nor in the fields,
^^^lile Henry's far away.
The hours which now I think my best,
I wish them not to stay ;
For nought on earth can make me rest,
^Yhile Henry's far avv-ay.
Aurora ! cord afresh thy whip.
And on thy coursers lay.
To make them o'er the aziu'e skip.
While Heniy's far away.
And Night, upon thy sable throne.
Be scarce an horn- thy stay ;
But bid the weeks be swiftly gone.
While Heniy's far away.
Then, on the wings of rosy health,
IMay he be swiftly borne ;
For more to me than worlds of wealth
Will be his blest retui-n.
MOENING IN MAY.
The cascade's white mist o'er the trees is upreai'ing
Its white curling head from the valley below,
The bright glitt'ring dew-di'ops, like emeralds appear-
All waken at once with Am^ora's bright glow !
The dark low'ring tempests of winter are over,
And sweet is the breath of the high mountain gale ;
The hare leaves her favourite fields of white clover.
And starts as she treads the dry leaves in the vale.
The rooks and the ring-doves are flo'\\Ti to the fallow ;
From theh dew-sprinkled pillows the daisies awake ;
From the thatch of the cottage skims forth the swift
And strikes into circles the smooth polish'd lake.
Near the stream the winds move not the weak-waving
The cattle are laid on the bright dewy hill :
On the clear rippled stream hush'd to rest ev'ry billow.
The day-busy sons of the hamlet are still.
Hark ! the birds are all chanting their song of the
Ye vu'gins inviting to fields deck'd with dew !
The fresh op'ning flowers will greet your returning.
And bow their sweet heads in pure homage to you.
MOENING IN MAY. ^27
Blithe Health on the mountain sits smiling thus eai'ly.
With young Vernal Sweetness, her sister, in green;
AVhile Virtue, their mother, who loves them so dearly,
Points out to her daughters the beautiful scene.
They call on the youths and the innocent lasses
To see the rich beauties of Nature half dress'd ;
Forget all their joy-killing grief as it passes,
Live happy, and love, for such moments are bless'd.
They sit on the hill where the bull-finch is bending,
In beautiful plumage, the weak birchen bough ;
With gay feather'd songsters their mellow notes
In sweet rural chorus, where sloe-blossoms blow.
But to sing of the rich varied landscape before us,
With all the rich beauties that Nature displays,
Kequires all the Muses to join in the chorus.
And sweet smiling cherubs to chant in its praise !
LINES WEITTE]!T AT GOIT-STOCK,
Hail ! tliou sequester'd rural seat,
Which ever beauteous dost appear,
Where the sweet songsters oft repeat
Their varied concerts, wild and clear !
Upon thy crystal-bosom'd lake
Th' inverted rocks and trees are seen,-
Adorn'd with many a snowy flake.
Or in their leafy robes of green.
could a rural rhymer sing
The lovely scenes so richly dress'd,
"VMiere piety may plume her wing,
And sweet seclusion form her nest i
Here may the contemplative mind
Trace Nature and her beauties o'er.
And meditation rest reclin'd,
Lull'd by the neighbouring cataract's roar.
Here, wearied with gay scenes of life.
The sire may see his children play,
While heav'n has bless'd him with a wife,
"NATio smiles his happy hours away.
If ever fliiries tripp'd along.
Or danc'd around in airy mirth,
They surely to this place did throng,â
Or else they never danc'd on earth.
THE DESEETED MAID. 329
The Loves and Graces here might stay ;
Th' enamoiir'cl pah*, with bosoms true,
Unseen appoint the nuptial day,
Among these scenes for ever new ;
The poet tune his rustic lyre,
If genius trembled on the strings ;
And merit modestly aspire,
If friendship deign'd to plume his wings.
that I could meet tribute pay.
As 'tis upon my heart impress'd I
My song of friendship here would stay,
When wayes the grass above my breast
THE DESEETED MAID.
To some gloomy cave will I wander away,
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft,
And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day,
Since I by my lover am left.
There hang, ye dried ferns, in the cold dampy shade ;
Ye owls, fly around me in scorn,
As. ye hoot at a maid by her lover betray'd.
Whose features with weeping are worn.
^30 THE DESEKTED MAID.
! let not a flower be seen in the field.
Nor daisies spring up near my feet ;]
Thou beautiful bill ! no more primroses yield,
Where my lover and I used to meet.
Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud,
Nor throw it away to the wind ;
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood,
Where I on his bosom reclin'd.
But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose,
Nor bloom in your exquisite charms,
As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes,
Luird to peace in a false lover's arms.
Ye ringdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost.
Let your cooings be accents of pain ;
In woe sing, je birds, that my lover is lost,
Till the crrottos re-echo the strain.
The gems that he bought, in my bosom I'll beai'
I only the jewels will view.
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear,
Which springs from a bosom that's true.
Wlien life has ebb'd out to the last fatal day,
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath,
If then I can speak for my Edwin I'll pray.
And show that I lov'd him in death.
THE DEUXEAED'S EETEIBUTION.
Wheee is the ink so sable in its hue,
That can portray the picture dark and true ;
The horrid state which language fails to tell.
The dark confusion, and the eai'thly hell !
In such sad state how often have I thought â
! that I could sink backward into nought !
Eeason o'erthro^Ti and anguish in its place,
1 thought myself below the reach of grace.
Despair o'envhelm'd my soul, and keen remorse ;
To know I liv'd, became my bitterest cm'se ;
My sorrowing friends appeai-'d my greatest foes,
And cheerful songs but added to my woes.
The phantom trumpets, the imagin'd band,
Methought I heard, which summon'd me to stand
High in the pillory â to meet disgrace ;
My trembling heart shrunk back from every face.
Thus swiftly did imagination rove.
And o'er the prostrate throne of reason drove.
Afraid of poison from a mother kind,
I dm'st not di-ink, â suspicion fill'd my mind.
Each trembling leaf, if shalvcn by the blast,
Struck me with terror as I hurried past.
I deem'd myself the cause of all the guilt
That fills the earth â of all the blood e'er spilt.
And that kind heaven would deign on eai'th to dwell,
Were I but huiTied to the deepest hell.
OlS^ A CALM SUMMEE'S MGHT.
The niglit is calm, tlie cygnet's down
Scarce skims the lake along ;
The throstle to the hazel's flown,
To trill his evening song.
The curling woodbine now appears
More sweet than fragrant gums ;
The sky a rohe of crimson wears.
The scale-clad beetle hums.
What pleasure, walking witli my Jane,
Earth's truest, best delight,
Eeturning to embrace again.
And loath to bid good night.
ON THE DEATH OF LADY KICKITTS*
Well maj^ the tears of overwhelming woe
Down the pale cheeks of niim'rous inoui'iiers flow !
They fall for one whose beauty and whose worth
Exceeded all I ever knew on earth.
In vain I turn in hopes to hear the strings
Responsive wake to her sweet carolings ;
Then to the marble which in silence stands ;
Then to the harp that trembled 'neath her hands ;
Then to her tomb, where all that art can give,
Stands in pure love to make her mem'ry live.
In vain my spirit strives to track her flight
To the far regions of eternal light :
The awful bourn of death my friend hath pass'd,
And rests beyond dark sorrow's keenest blast ;
She \ievis no more the changing scenes of earth, â
She only liv'd to give a cherub birth,
Then fl^ew away to heaven's most blest abode,
To rest upon the bosom of her God.
* Daughter of Col, Tempest, of Tong Hall, and Wife of
Sir Cornwallis Rickitts.
The birks may. wave, the heath may bloom,
The lasses trip the mountains o'er,
And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom.
But I can touch my harp no more.
The Iambs may skip, the fishes sport,
And glitter in their woodland rills,
But I no more the muse can court.
Where thyme perfumes the purple hills.
There oft my sweet Elvina sung,
And softly trill'd the rural lay,
Till raptures in my bosom sprung,
As pleasure wing'd my hours away.
But Nature now is fresh in vain ;
The richest gifts to me are poor.
For bliss can never come again.
And I can touch my harp no more.
No more with joy can I behold
Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom ;
The hand which oft I press'd is cold.
The heart that lov'd me in the tomb.
But still she lives in realms of day.
Far distant from a world of pain :
! could I soar to her away.
Then would I touch my harp again.
Wild the night, my love, my ^lary !
But I i^romis'd tliee to meet ;
^YincIs and rain sound dreary, dreaiy â
Yet thou listen'st for my feet !
Dai'k the woods which he between us,
High the rocks I have to pass,
Where the village swains have seen us,
Each one happy with his lass.
Trail the plank across the river,
Slipp'17 ^-ith a night of rain;
One false stepâ I'm gone for ever,
Ne'er to meet my love again ;
Swollen the streams of ev'iy fountain ;
Trackless is the stormy moor ;
Capp'd with mist the lofty mountain
, A\Tiich I have to wander o'er.
Though the winds he cold and drearv%
I have promis'd thee to meet ;
If I reach my love, my deary,
'Twill hut make om' hhss more sweet !
336 ox EETURNING FEOM LONDON.
What the rocks or misty mountains ?
\^liat the darlaiess of the woods ?
What the roaring of the fountains,
Though the rills he swoll'n to floods ?
\Miat the tracldess moor or river,
Though some demon should appear ?
Can those stop me ? no, â never !
Soon I clasp thee, Mary dear !
Then my plaid I will throw o'er me.
Sing of Mary on the way ;
Though great dangers lie before me,
Yet I cannot, will not stay.
0^ EETUENING FEOM LOl^DOK"
Hovv' oft the glorious morning broke
On rock-crown'd hills â Time's paintings grey-
When from his bed the lark awoke,
And warbled to the clouds his lay.
The hills rejoice â ^^vith glory blush,
Like gold the ciystal rivers shine,
The blackbird carols with the thrush, â
Sweet Bingley vale, such scenes are thine ;
ON EETURXTNG FROM LONDON. 237
And siicli they were when all its woods
Had bow'd not to the woodman's stroke,
"VMien salmon in its winding floods,
The smooth still deeps to surges broke.
Give me a cot, a garden near.
By kindred silent in the tomb ;
Should greatest monai'chs ask me where,
I'd answer â this shall be my home.
The works of art I oft have seen,
The touches of a master's hand.
But never like the hills so green.
Or Alpme rocks of Cimiberland.
See the pale features of the tovm,
With all their fine exterior gi'ace, â
Though deck'd with jewels and a crown.
To Yorkshire lasses must give place.
Then be content, 'tis e'er the best,
From wives, from neighbours, ne'er remove ;
It takes long years to try the breast.
Then who can judge a stranger's love ?
The eagle mounting to the sun,
Wliile on the rocks the ravens cry,
As goats along the ledges run.
And falcons perch with piercing eye : â
These have we seen, and may we long
Gaze on each native hill and vale ;
And listen to the nu*al song,
And smile to hear our children's tale.
THE DYING LOVEE.
Ah ! soon, sweet maid, tliis heart of mine,
Will give its beating o'er ;
This weaiy aching head recline
Upon thy breast no more.
These hands can pluck no more for thee
The heather's purple bloom ;
No more must I accompany
IMy lovely Mary home.
But, hush those sighs of fragrant breath !
The lovely crystal tear
Can no impression make on Death,
Or keep me longer here.
Go, touch thy sweet piano's strings,
And chant me into rest.
Till angels come, and on their wings
Convey me to the blest.
And mourn not as I soar away
To tune my harp on high ;
Useless the tears upon my clay.
For I'm prepar'd to die.
ODE ON THE DEATH
OF TKE POET'S CHILD m LONDON.
A SOLEMN scene was here !
Absorb'd in anguisli wild,
Weeping upon the bier
Of his departed child,
The father stood â parental grief was there â
He kiss'd the corse â a prey to sad despah\
Death ! cruel Death ! ^
In fearful garb array'd.
How could'st thou snatch the breath
Of this sweet babe, here laid?
See, see thy victim. ! on her cold pale face,
A smile yet dwells, though clasp'd in thy embrace.
Clos'd are those sparlding eyes :
Fled is my baby's bloom ;
Her cherub form now hes
Enshrouded for the tomb.
Martha is gone â has breath'd her last â ^her thread
Of life is spun â ^is snapp'd; â the babe is dead.
Angels ! take her soid above.
And, as you beai^ her thi'ough the sky.
Sing a seraph's song of love,
A song of heav'nly hai-mony.
Now let celestial music sound,
Strike, strike the lyre ! ye heav'nly choir I
Angehc music breathe around !
THE HUNTEE'S DIEGE.
Ye woods that near old Illshwortli grow,
That oft have echo'd to the horn !
Ye hills that blnsh'd with scarlet glow
Of hunters gay at early morn !
Weep till yom- tears in ciystal rills
Make winding Aire with grief run o'er,
That on the hrown-rob'd heathy hills,
The huntsman's shout is heard no more.
Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds
By changing echoes borne away,
As fleet ye sped behind the hounds
Across the moors, on sportive day !
Go sit, where you unearth'd the fox,
And mourn till Echo hear and weep ;
Wet with your tears the time-w^orn rocks â
That modern squhes no huntsmen keep.
]Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient raee ;
Eound IMarley Hall in sorrow tread ;
Where dwelt the gloiy of the chase,
Who oft the noble sportsmen led.
Then take the horn, the requiem blow
O'er rural bliss that now is- lost ;
And sound the dirge o'er those laid low,
Who never sigh'd at hunting's cost !
Thy beauties, Biiigley I never have been sung
By stranger-bard, or native poet's tongue ;
Then may my humble muse with thee prevail
To pardon my j)re sumption, if I fail
In this attempt thy beauties to rehearse
In rustic strains of my untutor'd verse.
Of all the learned youths whom thou hast sent
To distant seas, or some far continent,
Though these on thee have thought in other climes.
All have forgot to praise thee in their rhymes.
"WTien on thy lovely vale I stand to gaze,
I feel thou need'st from me no meed of praise :
Thy hanging woods, thy fountains, and thy bowers.
Thy dashing floods, thy landscapes, and thy flowers,"^
Thy bold grey rocks, thy heathy purple fells,
AMiere silent solitude with beauty dwells ;
Thy homes where honest worth stiU finds a seat,
And love and virtue a serene retreat â
Such scenes as these should plume the poet's wing,
And swell his heart while he attempts to sing.
O may Religion, life's best hope and stay,
The maids of Bingley teach the better way !
Their minds instruct, their innocence protect.
Their maimers soften, and their paths direct ;
242 ON BINGLEY.
May tliey be like the turtles of the wood,
That dip their bills in Aire's meandering flood ;
Then, at the last, faith's sunshine on each breast,
Soar to the mansions of eternal rest I
Innate their principle of truth and love,
Pure as the plumage of the turtle dove,
Sweet as the flowers when bending to the sun,
Are Bingley's daughters when they love but one.
We have the mountain breeze, the cold pure spring ;
The woods where ev'ry British bird doth sing ;
Wild plants and flowers, wild birds, and scenes as
Or soft as any on which nature smil'd ;
Blooming and lovely, as the moon is fair.
And pure as ether are the nymphs of Aire.
The weeping birch, the great majestic oak,
Where dark green i^-y forms a winter's cloak ;
The purple heath, where dappled moorcocks crow ;
The sylvan vales, with limping hares below,
The brooding pheasant, beauty of the wood.
And spotted trouts that cleave the amber flood.
For finer Avalks, for more sequester'd bowers,
For cooler grottos, and for richer flowers.
For streams that wind more beautiful along.
For birds with louder chorus to their song,
For all that gen'rous Nature can bestow,
All Yorkshire scenes to Bingley-vale must bow.
TO THE CEITICS.
Sat down by my wee rusted lyre,
And musing wliich way to get through,
Ye quenchers of poets' best fire,
How oft have I trembled at you I
The -vTiltui-e may seize the young himb.
The raven may tortm-e the dove,
And critics may tell what I am,
But let your censures be love I
Ye weighers of man's little wit,
^^^lich comes in a book to your eye.
Like spiders on cobwebs you sit,
To mangle and murder a fly.
Write yom" praise or dispraise for the great.
And rail on the muse of a lord,
Shoot at those who are laughing at fate,
And strike wdth your fame-killing sword.
But come to my cottage, and view
WTiat feathers I have for my wings :
And then you will own there are few
So lowly durst strike at the strings.
I gaze on my children asleep,
Assur'd that their lot is but hard ;
Y'es, while I write verses I weep
To think their best friend is the bard.
O Thou, whose name, with trembling, angels use â
A name no human language can express I
Be Thou my hght, ni}' glory, and my muse,
And stoop the meanest womi on earth to bless.
Thron'd in the heaven of heavens, eternal Sire I
I less than nothing in Thy sight appear ;
Thine is this spark of immaterial fire,
That warms my breast, and acts the umpire there.
To Thee, great Source of being and of light,
May I this heart in adoration raise !.
Bow dovm before Thy majesty and might.
And with deep rev'rence give Thee worthy praise !
AVhere I have err'd, as I too oft have done,
]\Iay deep repentance for my eiTors flow !
While with sincerity I mourn alone,
Far from the crowd of ostentatious show.
in yon vast region of unbounded space,
Thine arm, unseen, sustains each flammg ball ;
And shall proud mortals circumscribe Thy grace;
As insufficient for the wants of all ?
A PRAYER. 245
What is this earth, with all it doth contain,
Its lofty mountains and imfathom'd sea? â
The sea a drop, the earth itself a grain,
Weigh'd in the balance with immensity.
Such is Thy mercy's sea, without a shore.
That ev'ry soul in ev'ry human breast
Needs but to ask, (Thou dost require no more,)
To give that mercy, and to make it bless'd. â
]\Iine be that boon when life's short day shall end,
And to some unknown world my soul shall soar !
Be Thou my God, my Fatlier, and my Friend, â
O grant me this, and I can ask no more !
ON THE LYRE OF EBOR.
Page 1, Line 10.
All these are seen near Bardens ancient toicer.
â¢' Barden was so called, from Bar and Dene, the
valley of the wild boar, and was well adapted to the
habits of that animal, from the deep solitude of its
woods, and the profusion of acorns which they must
have shed. The forest stretches near foui' miles on
the banks of the river Wharf, from the confines of
Burnsall to those of Bolton. The buildings of the
inhabitants are thatched, and generally supported on
crooks, and carry back the imagination at least three
centuries. Barden, in the 4th of Edward Second, had
six lodges for the accommodation of the keepers, and
protection of deer. â These were often square towers,
constructed for defence, and mav be considered as a
kind of minor castles ; one of which, Henry Lord
Clifford enlarged, prefering the retreat of Barden to
the bustle of greater houses. It appears from an old
compotus, that in 1517, five yeai's after the battle of
Elodden, wages at Barden were paid to more than
Page 2, Line 16.
And find the cavern of the furious hoar.
From a passage of one of tlie earliest charters of
Skiptoii, it appears that the forests of Craven were
enclosed with a pale. The Saxon forests, as far as
is known, lay open, and the practice of enclosing
these immense tracts must have heen introduced by
the Norman lords. The animals nourished in these
inclosures, were the stag, the wild boar, and the fallow
Page 4, Line 7.
Then high oer Hohers hill, u'hose sable crest.
" The dark brown mountain of Hober, with its
rivals, Barden Fell and Simon Seat, are among the
most noble features in the beautiful scenery of Bolton;
and close the landscapes with a most noble barrier of
Page 13., Line 15.
Three times we hare seen the great cross of our sires
Destroyed as a brand in the 2ilt(iiderers' fires.
" The cross was once regarded as an instrument of
horror and detestation, as the instrmnent of the most
dreadful punishment, and the vilest of criminals were
only subject to its ignominy.
"Constantino first abolished the use of it among the
Romans. He rescued it from an appropriation to
purposes that rendered it an object of aversion, and
made it reverenced and beloved. It was carved on
his military standards after he embraced Christianity,
engraven on his banners, and esteemed as the noblest
ornament of his diadem. His veneration for this
sacred trophy, is said to have had a miraculous origin.
He was himself the historian of the appearance, and
he sanctioned the truth of his narrative, Vvith the
solemnity of an oath. â Ahoiit mid-day he saw in the
heavens, a himinous representation of the cross,
j)laced above the sun, and accompanied by an inscrip-
tion in Latin, " By this I conquer." He it was who
first made the cross an object of veneration; and
through centuries christians have reverenced it as a
memorial of their faith."