Part 18 (2/2)

Since-many a summer's sun has set, An' time's graved-scar is on my brow, Yet I am free and willing yet To meet ould England's daring foe.

The Vale of Aire.

[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley.

My spirits began to be cheered, for lively grat.i.tude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Pa.s.sing the old mansion house, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the ”Altar Rock.” Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss covered bank, I said these words.]

Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line; Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.

No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name; But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give thee that applause thou shouldst duly claim.

All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains; All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild nature's grandeur reigns.

From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire; While musing nature's works full meet thy eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock falls, and rugged Marley hills, In Bingley's grand and quiet sequester'd dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rills, I see thy haunt and read thy ”Poacher's Tale.”

So, Homer like, thy harp was wont to tune, Thy native vale and glorious days of old, Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone, Her sages and her heroes great and bold.

No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part: In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.

Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pa.s.s along; Ages to come will sing the ”Vale of Aire,”

Her Nicholson and his historic song.

The Pauper's Box.

Thou odious box, as I look on thee, I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?

No, no! forbear!-yet then, yet then, 'Neath thy grim lid lie the men- Men whom fortune's blasted arrows. .h.i.t, And send them to the pauper's pit.

O, dig a grave somewhere for me, Deep, underneath some wither'd tree; Or bury me on the wildest heath, Where Boreas blows his wildest breath, Or 'mid some wild romantic rocks: But, oh! forbear the pauper's box.

Throw me into the ocean deep, Where many poor forgotten sleep; Or fling my corpse in the battle mound, With coffinless thousands 'neath the ground; I envy not the mightiest dome, But save me from a pauper's tomb.

I care not if 'twere the wild wolf's glen, Or the prison yard, with wicked men; Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled- Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world!

In fire, or smoke, on land, or sea, Than thy grim lid be closed on me.

But let me pause, ere I say more About thee, unoffending door; When I bethink me, now I pause, It is not thee who makes the laws, But villains who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, 'twere grand beneath yond wall, To lay with friends,-relations all; If sculptured tombstones were never there, But simple gra.s.s with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee 'Twere paradise, O cemetery.

[Picture: Decorative image]

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