A SCENE NEAR NETHER STOWEY,
A GREEN and silent spot amid the hills!
A small and silent dell!-O'er stiller place
No singing skylark ever poised himself!
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely; but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn field, or the unripe flax,
When through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
O, tis a quiet spirit-healing nook,
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who in his youthful years
Knew just so much of folly as had made
His early manhood more securely wise:
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath,
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy which solitude loves best)
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapp'd
In a half-sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark!
That singest like an angel in the clouds.
HIGH on yon foreland's rugged brow,
Which beetles o'er the surge below,
Of yore in military show
A stately fortress stood:
Seven centuries have roll'd away
Since first those towers with lichens gray
Reflected bright the western ray
Upon the foaming flood.
Since first by Albemarle * its crest
In war's accoutrements was dress'd,
How many a gallant corse unbless'd
Has bleach'd its walls around!
For stormy have its fortunes been,
And, oft of battle-broils the scene,
It bears upon its time-worn mien
The deep-indented wound.
Nor from the stroke of civil rage,
When hosts with kindred hosts engage,
And sire and son sad conflict wage,
Has Scarbro' singly bled:
Oft too the Scot, with onset rude,
Fierce issuing from his solitude,
His hand in borderer's gore imbrued,
The bolt of death has sped.
This castle was built about the year 1136 by William Le Gros, Earl of Albeinarle and Holderness; a nobleman described by an early chronicler, as Juvenis strenuissimus, in armis multum exercitatus. Hinderwell's History of Scarborough.
And lo! through fields of flame and blood,
Remorseless, pouring like a flood,
They rush o'er moss and wold and wood!
'Tis Scotia's grim array.
By baby's scream and matron's shriek
Unsoften'd, southron spoil they seek:-
But, O foul forayers, this your freak
Full dearly shall ye pay.
On Cuton-Moor to your pale gaze
His standard Albemarle * displays!
Hallow'd by many a mystic phrase,
Its silken foldings flow :
For there, as erst to Constantine,
The Cross's silver splendours shine,
And broider'd characters divine
In rich effulgence glow.
And venerable bishops there
Lift high their feeble arms in air,
With pious rite and fervent prayer
Invoking Heaven to bless :
Nor shrink they from the banner'd field,
To plumed casques where mitres yield,
Nor shun the patriot blade to wield,
The flying foe to press.
* In 1138 was fought on Cuton-Moor, near Northallerton, between the Earl of Albemarle and David King of Scotland, the battle of the Standard;' so called from a mast borne upon a wheel-carriage, surmounted by a silver cross, under which were suspended three banners dedicated to St. Peter of York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfrid of Ripon. With this standard in their van the English accounted themselves invincible. Ralph, Bishop of the Orkneys, harangued, absolved, and blessed them before the engagement; and infirmity alone prevented Roger, Archbishop of York, from accompanying them to the field. Of the Scottish infantry above 10,000 were left dead upon the spot.
But not, with Scottish blood-drops wet,
That sword could charm Plantagenet,
Or guard the princely coronet
On Albemarle's* red brow:
Not zeal for England's honour shown
From royal wrath could shield his own,
Nor all his laurel-wreathed renown
Avert the lightning blow.
His vassal hind and yellow strand
Obey another chief's command;
And, echoing o'er the orphan'd land,
The stranger's horn is heard:
'Tis Ebor's crosier'd lord, I ween,
Whose standard flouts the drooping scene;
Where yon proud tower o'erhangs the green,
In pomp prelatic rear'd.
Boots not young Bardolph's + fate to tell,
Who by his monarch's mandate fell,
When back from Acre's citadel,
Besmear'd with paynim gore,
And treacherous Austria's dungeon cave,
Bounding across the ocean-wave,
Great Coeur-de-Lion, wildly brave,
Retrod his native shore.
* On the accession of Henry II. Albemarle was deprived of his government, rebelled, and only upon the intercession of Archbishop Roger obtained his sovereign's pardon.
+ The younger son of Lord Bardolph, appointed in 1191 to the command of Scarborough Castle by Richard I. with whom he was a great favourite; during his prince's absence in the Holy Land he was guilty of various misdemeanours which cost him his office.
William de Dacre of the North' was appointed by Henry III. and John and William de Vesci (brothers) successively by Edward I. to the same splendid station.
O, blame not thou the red-cross zeal,
Which sharpen'd Europe's pious steel,
To win the tomb, when myriads fell,
Of Him who died for all:
Though Famine perch'd upon their board,
And many a noble heart was gored
By Saladin's heroic sword
Beneath the holy wall!
Yet blessed they who 'mid the storm,
Where Death display'd his grisliest form,
Their breasts with generous passion warm,
Bore from the field of strife
Arts which, with flowers of Eden, dress'd
The wildernesses of the west,
And giving social hours their zest,
The courtesies of life!-
Great names it next was thine to boast,
Dread empress of Brigantia's coast;
Nor may they, in oblivion lost,
Escape the Muse's eye:
She notes where, flaunting in the beam
Of noonday suns, with golden gleam
The northern Dacre's banners stream
Athwart the azure sky.
And there with rival radiance glows
De Vesci's helm, whose sovereign* chose
To give his mailed limbs repose
Within thy pleasant halls;
Ere thundering o'er the Scottish strand,
He twangs the bow and hurls the brand,
And his by battle-right the land
Triumphantly he calls.
* Edward I. resided for some time in Scarborough Castle.
|