THE FRINGE OF CIVIL WAR-NIDDERDALE.
'Tis May-time in the vale below,
And softly sweet the breezes blow,
And fair and fresh the meadows gleam
On either side Nidd's umber stream,
That dances joyously along
To measure of some mystic song,
Caught on the cliff or mossy fell
From gleams of golden asphodel,
Or Delphos-born Parnassian grass
And sundew of the dark morass,
When summer crowned each mountain height
And clothed the moorland with delight;
Here rising hoarsely wild and high,
Where Woodale Scar frowns darkly nigh,
And still to louder, deeper note,
Where lost in Goydon's cavern throat;
Here softened to more natural tone
By every flower it glances on,
And every graceful fern that weeps
On lonely How-Stean's marble steeps,
Till issuing in the wider vale
Nidd half forgets her mountain tale,
And tunes it to more peaceful scene
Of sunny fields and meadows green,
Where beams the primrose on the bank
In-folded by the herbage dank,
And half the glory of the spring
Dwells in the hawthorn's blossoming.
'Tis May-time in the vale below,
But on the hills lies winter's snow;
And still at dawn from crag and cliff
The frozen fern hangs cold and stiff;
While from the moorland, bleak and brown,
The torrents leap to summer down;
And in the upland forest chill
Scant are the signs of vernal thrill,
And tardy wakening from duress
Of long and lonely dreariness;
Though spring, o'erflowing from the dale,
Softens and sweetens all the gale,
And bears to solitude and gloom
The joys that wake when meadows bloom,
And echoes of the songs that rise
From sunny fields to sunny skies.
But all too low and too sincere
Is Nature's song for human ear,
And Nature's grief to human eye
Has nought to wake our sympathy;
'Tis only when we feel her power,
And thunders roll and storm-clouds lower,
And Terror riding on the wind
Brings Ruin on the flood behind,—
E'en then we learn not to revere,
But only how and when to fear.
On Guyscliffe many a sun had set,
And many a sun shall redden yet
On Brimham's wild and broken steep,
And Hartwith's forest dark and deep;
And warn the hind to flee the glade
And seek lone Felbeck's deepest shade;
And oft at eve shall Rainstang frown,
And Nidd at dawn come thundering down,
And echoing dells their tribute yield
Till Nidd flows far o'er bank and field;
And many a moon her beams shall throw
On Brownstay's ridge and Heyshaw's brow,
And rouse the stag from bracken bed
On Greenhow's lone and lofty head;
And wake the elfin folk that play
Among the ruins, weird and gray,
Of castles of Titanic power,
Whose battled wall and keep and tower,
The giant race in days of yore
By magic reared on Brimham moor.
Ay, many a peaceful moon shall shed
Her beams on forest, cliff, and mead ;
And many a threatening sun shall set
Ere Nidd, thy echoing steeps forget
The cries of rage and fear and wail
That, rising on the evening gale,
Startle the dale from crest to crest,
From Swarcliff's brow to Raven's Nest.
For loud from Willsill's stony street
Is heard the rush of hurrying feet,
And Dacre's hamlet, high and lone,
Hoarsely resounds with curse and groan
From yeomen in uneven strife,
Battling for home and child and wife;
And oft renewing hopeless fight
To gain some respite for the flight
Of all the helpless throng that speeds
Where'er bewildering terror leads;
Or frenzied hope some shelter sees
In the deep shade of leafy trees,
And guides unerringly and well
The fugitives to copse and dell.
Ye would have deemed that Douglas bold
Once more had left his Northern hold,
And Randolph led his Scottish crew
To fire and wreck the land anew,—
So wild and fierce along the dale
Sweep the loud cries of rage and wail:
And startling every craggy steep,
From hill to hill the echoes leap.
But long ere this the sounds of mirth
Had fled each yeoman's kindly hearth,
And ancient hatred of the Scot
In newer wrongs was nigh forgot!
For Knaresburgh's stubborn walls that braved
The storms of fight that round them raved,
And oft in olden time defied
The ruthless hordes from Cheviot's side,-
Now hold within their ample bound
The minions of a king disowned,
Troopers that speak the southern tongue,
And from no yeoman lineage sprung,
But hirelings bought by hireling pay
And promise of marauders' prey,
To daunt with menaces and harm
Whoe'er in Commons' cause might arm.
These own no chief but their own will,
And do no deeds but deeds of ill;
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