Airton
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A pretty spot is Airton town,
In cloth of gold and green,
When summer dons her brightest gown,
And flowers their petals preen.
The meadows, by their homesteads gray.
Their cups of shining gold,
And eyes that tell the time of day,
To stainless skies unfold.
Lanes, hedgerow·wild from hill to hill,
Like trysting lovers meet;
And on the green, twixt mount and mill,
In peaceful parlance greet. .
From croft to croft, from garth to garth,
By church, and school, and green,
Health clings to each quaint cottage hearth,
'Midst Nature's changing scene.
The blue hills cast a haunting spell,
Like guardian gods they rise;
And Flasby rivals Kirkby Fell,
When seen by pilgrim eyes.
Unseen, the river murmurs low
Beneath the silent mill;
The slumb'ring sluice has ceased to flow,
And all seems strangely still.
But though, some day, the destined hour
Should wake their rustic dream,
And make a power-house and a power
Of mill and mill-race stream,
Yet still the Quaker house of prayer,
And life's last resting ground,
Shall breathe that tranquilising air
Which reigns supreme around.
Still shall the Summer School repair
To Airton's Home of Rest,
And find its balm of healing there
On Nature's gentle breast.
From women's lips shall learning's lore
To women still be given,
And Airton's Guest House, as of yore,
Be still a gate of heaven.
Each ghyll, each fell, each flow'ry lane~
Shall still its message bring,
Till tired souls take heart again,
And weary feet find wing.
So shall to ministrative heart.
Come peace, and love, and joy
To all, who choose the better part,
Life's cheer without alloy.
And what can mortal better bring
Than love's remembered lay-
Some fond refrain, on love's old string,
To Airton's summer day.
What better spot can mortal crave,
To tell again life's tale,
Than here where Aire thy banks doth lave,
Fair gem of Malhamdale.
Index
Malham
In wild retreat, sequestered far
From din of rail and dust of car,
The Dale of Malham lies;
The nursling waters of the Aire
From lake and spring foregather there
'Neath bracing crags and skies.
Beside the brook, that flows between
Stands Malham on its village green
In all its native charm;
The pale-faced rocks their vigil keep,
And breezy pastures sloping sweep
From fell and upland farm. .
Hard by, within a wooded dell,
The fairy Janet casts her spell
O'er silver fall and cave;
Nor less that ancient boulder stone
Recalls a tale of ages gone,
By Malham's crystal wave.
By devious routes, two rugged roads
Lead onward to the famed abodes
Of Malham's scenic wonders-
The silent Cove, sublimely steep, .
And Gorda~ where the waters leap
In caverned, lonesome thunders.
Twin temples they of Time's far dawn
Of days, 'ere human lore was born,
That immemorial are--
When Nature's handiwork divine
Raised here a double altar shrine,
In Malham's Cove and Scar.
And shall not hearts responsive thrill
At thought of Cowdon's cone-crowned hill,
When, like a flood of tears,
Its hidden well-springs issuing flow
From labyrinthine depths below,
Each half decade of years.
Lo! now a living lmpid stream
Wakes Malham from its rustic dream"
In swift, impassioned flight;
The hills, the groves, the caves around
Waft echoes of the rushing sound
O'er Cowdon's guardian height.
The morrow comes-the scene is changed
The fleecy flocks, ten thousand ranged,
Attest. the thronging fair;
The sturdy dalesmen-Craven's pride
And comrade dogs, in mingling tide,
With tumult rend the air.
As when intent on yearly games,
The good folks gather with their dames
In Malham'a vale below;
Tumultuous cheers the victors ga'eet,
When in the race or ring they meet,
Or weight unerring throw.
Thrice happy folk-thrice happy ye,
Whose Homeland is not doomed to see
Its old-world charm destroyed,
Surviving still the spoiler's hour,
Midst. virgin haunts of fern and flower,
Untainted, unalloyed.
And thou, sweet Airedale's fountain head,
By purest streams perennial fed-
By feet immortal trod-
Thee Ruskin, Wordsworth, Kingsley, Gray,
Proclaim the teacher of a lay,
Whose theme is Nature's God.
Index
Otterburn-in-Craven,
Yorkshire
CRAVEN hath a thousand charms,
But, where'er I turn,
There is not a sweeter spot
Than little Otterburn.
Nestling in its grassy hills,
By its crystal stream,
And its tuneful groves, ah ! me,
'Tis a poet's dream.
From its rustic bridge behold
Inglehow's blue dome,
Watching, like a sentinel,
O'er my dear old home.
From its meadowed slope I see
Dusky Elso rise,
'Tis a witching scene, when viewed
'Neath the twilight skies.
At my feet, by green hills girt,
Like a hermit's cell.
Lo ! each garth half-hidden lies
In its creek-shaped dell.
Time hath many changes wrought,
But my love's the same
For the home that first awoke
Life's poetic flame.
Index
Stanzas
in Memory of John Ruskin
0 MUSE, make deaf mine ear
For one brief moment to the din of strife—
And that loud call which stirs our nation's life old, From far
and near !
Ruskin now sleeps for aye
Thou canst not call it death ; there was such peace
In that great spirit's hour of calm release
From earthly clay.
There is no room for grief
His work was done, and those declining years
Died like the forest when red autumn seres
Each stricken
There is no need to weep—
Brantwood he loved, and Brantwood holds him still,
The lake, the mountain, and the craggy hill,
Their vigil keep.
No temple, raised by hands,
Enshrines his dust,—no dim cathedral light
Makes dull his tomb—there where yon Lakeland height
Eternal stands.
The brook, near which he lies
In Nature's Temple, its wild anthem sings—
And day diviner glory round him flings
Through windowed skies.
"Perchance 'midst alpine snows
Death finds me wandering, there let me lie;
The snow shall be my stainless panoply,
Where Boreas blows."
So spake he with a tone
Gentle as woman's in its tenderness—
He who went to and fro, seeking to bless
The lost—the lone !
Prose-poet, prophet, seer,
A strange new music on his harp he woke,
Nobly fulfilled what he in precept spoke
To human ear.
God's zeal for truth and love
Were to his single heart no canting phrase ;
His mind saw clearly for 'twas purged with rays From heaven
above.
Nature and man's best art
He worshipped with a passion undefiled,
Nor let the trustful spirit of a child
From him depart.
0 rightly master named !
For he the Master followed all his days,
Whether the mountain glen, or citied ways,
His presence claimed.
E'en thus through life he walked,
Divinely anxious for all human weal,
And practising with philanthropic zeal
What others talked.
At last his dying eyes
Closed in the silence of that mountain home,
And in his heart he wished no more to roam
In pilgrim wise.
Heaven in the crimson west
Shone with a brighter glory than of yore,
And sunset, robed in splendour, gently bore
His soul to rest.
Index
Dreyfus
DREYFUS, brave victim of a base decree,
Saw through his tears the prison gates flung wide, When that
great cry rang out from sea to sea :
Loose wrongful chains whatever else betide !
We mourn, fair France, to think aught ill of thee,
For thou hast shed thy blood to set men free !
0 trample in the dust thy godless pride,
And that sword lust of thine to hate allied !
Give answer, priest,—the pardon was not thine :
'Twas by the people voiced—thou shar'st the shame
Of those thou call'st dictators : theirs a name
Thou vauntest, too, upon thine altar shrine—
Thy lips and theirs need love's seraphic fire
To purge what makes thy code and creed a liar.
Index
A
New Year's Reverie
Years now a triple lustrum bring
Since last I saw December's snow
O'er Inglehow its mantle fling
December's frost seal Otter's flow.
Far from my own, my native hills,
I wander down the garish street;
Yet sunset's charm my vision fills
Where o'er my home its glories meet.
I seem to see the lindens there
The fretted stream—the curtained fall—
To hear along the frosty air
The village cascade's tinkling call.
I seem to gaze on Crossbers height,
Where gloaming shapes its dusky throng;
And clouds of storm make fierce the light
That plays their misty alps among.
I see the sunset's kindling scorn
Its camp of cloud—its flashing ray —
I fear for morrow's cloudless morn,
When portents such as these have play.
E'en so the now departing year
Brings menace of approaching storm ;
Thou tremblest: 'tis no empty fear
That doth thy boding soul inform.
Scorn not its threat of coming ill
The nations arm— the murmurs grow —
The lust of hate is with us still—
One spark '—behold it madly glow!
Index
The
Beauties of Craven
Which is Craven's beauty spot?
Who can truly say?
Though he roam o'er hill and dale
Many a livelong day.
Craven hath a thousand charms,
But, where'er I turn,
There is not a sweeter spot
Than little Otterburn.
Nestling in its grassy hills,
By its limpid stream,
And its tuneful groves—ah, me!
'Tis a poet's dream.
From its rustic bridge behold
Ryeloaf's azure dome.
Watching, like a sentinel,
O'er my dear old home.
From its meadowed slope I see
Dusky Sharphaw rise.
'Tis a witching sight, w hen viewed
'Neath the. twilight skies ;
Down below, 'by green hills girt,
Like a hermit's cell,.
Lo ! each garth half-hidden lies
In its creek-shaped dell.
Heart of Craven—hamlet heart
Of the land I love,
Dull were he who could umnoved
Round thy green hills rove.
Would that thou wert still my home,
Still that place of rest,
Where. I oft have hushed life's care
On thy gentle breast !
Time bath many changes wrought,.
But my love's the same
For the home that first awoke
Life's poetic flame.
Craven bath a thousand charms,
But, where'er I turn,
There is not a sweeter spot
Than little Otterburn.
Index
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In the heart of the green hills
Lies Coniston Cold,
Where the green hills of Craven
Their beauties unfold;
And the lake in its hollow,
The church on its hill,
Dear scenes of my childhood
Are dear to me still.
For the dust thou art gnarding,
Sweet Temple of Prayer,
Lives again as I wander
Beside my loved Aire;
And the spire, as it peeps through
The wood on the hill,
With a childish devotion
My bosom doth fill.
And the lake in its hollow
Once more I espy,
Like a mirror held up to
The face of the sky;
From the *Fell top I· see it,
That lakelet so fair,
And I love to revisit
Those haunts of the Aire.
In the heart of the green hills
Lies Coniston Cold,
Where the green hills of Craven
Their beauties unfold;
And the lake in its hollow,
The church on its hill,
Dear scenes of my childhood,
Are dear to me still.
Index
Kirkby-in-Malhamdale
Old and gray, old and gray,
Thus ye tuned your Sabbath lay,
Dear old bells,
Beneath the fells!
Tower, and wall, and spacious aisle,
Mem'ries of the long since while,
Old and gray.
Softly tread, softly tread,
Thus with warning voice ye said,
Dear old bells,
Beneath the fells !
Hearts have graves: draw gently near,
With a reverential fear,
Softly tread.
Praisee and prayer, praise and prayer,
Thus your glad notes filled the air,
Dear old bells, ,
Beneath the fells!
Bidding truce to toil and care,
Calling men to praise and prayer,
Praise and prayer.
God us aid, God us aid,
Thus with accents low ye prayed,
Dear old bells,
Beneath the fells!
God us aid in weal and woe,
Young and old, where'er we go,
God us aid.
Symbol of the Holy Three;
Blessings on your symphony,
Dear old bells, Beneath the fells!
In your blossom-haunted gill,
By your brook and wooded hill,
Voices three.
Index
Eshton
'Neath the shadow of the fells,
Where the oaks fling lordly shade,
Tinkle-tankle, sound the bells
Of the cattle in the glade;
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Soft and sweet their music swells.
'Midst the babel of the street,
Hark! my Muse! the dulcet sound
Of their accents soft and aweet,
Where the glreen hills cluster round,
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Where the fells and mountains meet.
Through these alleys drab and drear,
Eshton's wooded walks I see;
Grange and stately hall appear!
And the cowbells minstrelsy,
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Chimes in fancy's list'ning ear.
Throned by heron-haunted fell,
Elso, Craven's mountain queen,
Casts o' er all her magic spell,
Regnant o'er the sylvan scene,
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Where those chimes their sweetness tell.
And my heart goes out to thee
Elso, friend of boyhood's days;
And my footsteps fain would be
Where the burn" 'midst woodland ways,
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Echoes to the tinkling lea.
And to thee, in noontide hour,
From the rushing street I turn,
For thou hast a healing power
Greater than the wooded burn,
Tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle,
Than the bells in, Eshton's bower.
Index
Otterburn
The azure dome of *Inglehow
From Pennine heights looks proudly down,
And green hills, each with wooded brow
The nearer view serenely crown.
The bridge that spans the moorland burm,
Harmonious fits the sylvan scene;
And hither still the byways turn,
As in the days that long have been.
Creations of a. bygone age;
The round greenhills encircling rise ;
And peaceful thoughts the mind engage,
Where in their midst the hamlet lies.
Here midmost flows the crystal stream;
Here groves their louder anthem swell;
Here, restful in their noontide dream,
Seven homesteads grace the wooded dell:-
The Grove, whose yew-trees twin-like grow,
Whose walls a lover's legend share;
The Cottage with its ceiling low;
Quaint portico, and stone-built stair;
Bodkyn, with meadow-fronted lawn,
And spreading plane, the hamlet's pride;
The Hall, with windows towards the dawn,
And glimpse of *ElSo's mountain side;
The Lodge, with meadows nestling round;
The Green, with beech and linden tall.;
Hill House, hard by the lulling sound
Of Otter's crooning waterfall.
These are thy homes, sequestered spot,
And, truly, peace his bosom fills
Who learns to love his simple lot.,
In shepherding the round, green hilIs.
On him each day benignant shines;
Each morn wafts freshness on its wings;
For garish scenes he ne'er repines;
Nor dull regret to labour brings.
Sunshine and storm alternate bless,
And, in the silent, watching hills,
He finds a comrade loneliness
That all his heart with patience fills.
Index
Love's
Lament
My bonnie boy was like a flower
That blossoms for a ,fleeting hour—
That gladdens by its fragrant power.
My bonnie bloom no more I see,
One only thought now comforts me :
He blossomed not, 0 grave, for thee.
A flower—but not for earth alone,
A primrose for the Father's throne :
Be still, sad heart, let this atone.
Index
Stanzas
suggested by the
Dissolution of 1900
Dame Nature's Dissolution is at hand,
For sweet September—Summer's last farewell--
Alas! too soon hath fled, and Autumn's knell
Tolls out the bright clays from our Pennine land,--
And the wan leaves, like to a spectral band,
Startle the slombers of each wooded dell,—
And break in trembling flight the gentle spell,
Which reigned from hill to hill at her command.
Sweet month, methinks thou hast been passing sweet, And thy
rich gifts, from meadow, field, and tree,
With more than earthly blessing seemed to greet,
What time our pilgrim steps we turned to thee,—
And felt thy kisses bathe our weary feet,—
And prayed that thou would'st stay, and with us longer be.
*************** * * * *
Farewell, sweet month,—farewell such musings more! Of
other Dissolution let me sing
Than that which Nature to the earth cloth bring,
When she, amidst October's troubled roar,
I ler tresses to the red-winged winds doth bring,---
And cloth her life blood down the valleys pour,
Till ey'ry bank is brimming o'er and o'er,—
And all the groves with sacrifice do ring.
Yet Nature, with a wonder-working power,
Shall rise again o'er mountain, land, and sea,
And our Blest Isle, from Dissolution's hour
Shall wake to hail the dawning century,
And with new strength, like risen Nature, shower
O'er distant climes of earth her blessings full and free.
*************** * * *
E'en now, My Country, thou art face to face
With that momentous change, whose issues are
Far-reaching as the sun or polar star,
For Destiny hath called thee to efface
A tyrant's sway, and bend a stiff-necked race
By the stern lesson of a long-drawn war,—
Till thou across the veldt, in conq'ring car,
Hast to the foeman slim given final chase.
Yet from thy task of Empire turn not now !
Thou ow'st a debt of honour to each son
Whose grave lies lonely 'neath the kopje's brow--
To make secure the peace which thou hast won,
This is thy task, and this the issue thou
A rt pledged to carry through, ere all thy work is done.
*************** * .* * *
Let other issues wait—they well can so--
Till the arch-plotter of'our Eciipire's fall
H ath ceased upon his dupes to loudly call,
In hope to seal our first great overthrow—
That all the world our fixed intent may know—
That they no more may seek our sons to thrall—
Till then do thou make vocal once for all
The wish that in thy heart burns with unquenching glow.
Thy pride of Empire is no despot's pride !
Thou op'st thy gates world-wide, thy flag flies free
For all whose ships within thy harbours ride,—
Thou art th' Imperial Mistress of the Sea!—
Thou call'st—and o'er ten thousand leagues of tide
Thine answ'ring children speed to tight thy fights with
thee!
*************** * * *
Craven !—my Home !--my Country's Palestine!
Thou Yorkshire Canaan—Land of Hill and Stream— Fair
Nurse of Wharfe, Aire, Ribble—this my theme
To thee I dedicate, for I am thine.
And thou mine ever dearest Auld Lang Syne!
Thou, too, help'st to fulfil our Empire's dream,
And by the Vaal thy yeomen spears do gleam,
Than whom none 'braver rout the foe's retreating line!
Thou hast a trusty leader, one whose fame
Thou know'st of old, and long hast tried his worth—
To Morrison be staunch !—and put to shame
Those who to hirelings sell their right of birth,
For loyalty to-day is no mere name,
But to all Britons true the strongest bond on earth !
Index
Craven Ever
Dear to Me
Craven. ever dear to me,
Lo, 1 bring my love to thee!
Love, who say'st thou lov'st me so,
Let us through her valleys go
By the brook, along the lane,
Into Gordale's reeky fane
There I took thee, maiden fair,
Led thee up the torrent stair ;
'Neath the beetling crag we stood,
High o'er Janet's fabled wood
O'er the foss that lulled to sleep
Gu thrum in his caverned keep.
Hearts , our hearts, with love aflame,
Tarn ! to thee we pilgrims came —
Oh ! the golden plans we laid !
Oh ! the' vows we fondly made
Nursling of the mountains thou,
By thy Waves we sealed our vow.
Flashed upon our homeward sight,
Malham Cove ! Thy stately height
Down thy pale abysmal steep
See the phantom harrier leap;
See the source of Aire's dark flow
In thy hidden caves below.
Tides of sorrow roll between
Plighted love's remembered scene,
And today--love, speak again :
Say, I love as I loved then—
What though tears bedew thy kiss,
Chide they not, they chasten bliss?
Index
Tarns
of Craven
Tarn of Giggleswick ! oh, can it be
That these eyes are dry,
When my thoughts revert to thee
And the days gone by ?Boyish ventures o'er the scar, Up the
valley and afar
Pennygant's bold crag to climb,
Or proud Ingle's height sublime
Childish tears were they
In that byegone day:
Welling quickly—quickly dried
Tear:, like rain in summertide?
Dry as thy tarn tear,
Oh! this many a year,
Are the tears that came
From some pain or passion childhood could not tame!
Tarn of Eshton ! can it be •
That these eyes are dry,
When my thoughts revert to thee
And the days gone by ?
Days of angling by that stream
Crystal Aire whose silver beam
Flasheth near the tranquil scene
Where thou, like a tear, art seen !?
Those were freer days—
Hence the tears they raise,
As I think of home and thee
Ellen's face, and days that thee,
Days thet are not now so free
As when I lived near to thee :
Hence the tears that well
As I think of thee and Eshton's mansioned dell !
Tarn of Malham! can it be •
I list these eyes are dry',
When my thoughts revert to thee
And the days gone by
Musing on the citadel
Of the pine-o'er mantled fell,
On the mansion, moor, and thee,
Lo the past comes back to me—
Days of angling there,
Perch at eve to snare— •
Or to woo thee as a bride,
Gazing from the mountain side :
Oh ! the rapid, rushing tears—
As I dwell on vanished years,
Vanished faces !— but for one,
Vanished nigh two summers gone,
Fall and freely flow apace
Tears 1 tenderly erase
Loth to wipe the stains they trace
On a sorrowing father's face—
Tears that constant flow
E'en as thine, O Tarn, whose founts no ceasing know!
Index
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