"Little of use thy trooper's sword,
If thou hast pledged a soldier's word;
Little of use that arm will be,
If thou hast sold thy liberty;
But thou hast done a soldier's work,
And still may feast with us in York,
If Heworth Moor and summer skies
Afford fit lodging in thine eyes.
If thou couldst quench thy martial flame,
Nor join the fight if near it came,
If thou couldst scorn thy comrades' jest,
I'd bid thee stay and take thy rest;
'Tis Honour's death to strike a blow,
Keep thou thy promise-stay or go."
'Twas all he wished or thought to ask,
To doff in camp his soldier's caske;
To lay his sword and harness by,
And live unarmed, nay, even fly,
If battle rage on Heworth soil,
Or sortie fierce the leaguer spoil.
In simple words his thanks he paid
To Fairfax for his generous aid,
Then took the rein and slowly led
To the bleak moor his weary steed.
But much he mused as on he went,
And firmer grew his strong intent;
"If fighting Fairfax holds it right
To keep my word, and shun the fight,
No mortal power this arm shall raise ;
No comrade's tongue shall Bryan praise
For valiant deed; e'en friend distrest
Shall ne'er draw Bryan's sword from rest.
Soon end the war, as end it may,
But promise broke is broke for aye."
And now the moor before him lies,
And now in glad, unfeigned surprise,
With joyous shout and boisterous mirth
Welcomed their comrade in the North
The yeoman troopers from the Nidd
And Wharfe from Cawood to the Strid.
There, Bolton, stand thy ruins gray
'Mid spreading lawns and meadows gay,
And Austin monks in early days
Lifted to heaven their chaunt of praise;
'Twas hither came at break of morn
Young Romilly with hound and horn,
And loud thy woods, from crest to base,
Rung with the clamour of the chase;
And, far below, the struggling tide
Of Wharfe in hoarser tones replied.
By noon the echoing chase was o'er,
And louder rose Wharfe's warning roar.
Come not near, oh, come not near,
Life is joy, and death is here;
Come not near, oh, come not near,
Life is Light, and Night is here;
Come not near.
By thy lonely mother's fears,
By her solitary tears,
Come not near.
Wharfe would bid thee fly, and never
Tread his banks for aye and ever;
Hark! a widow's tears are falling,
Harka mother's cry appalling,
"Come not near."
Linger, linger, but in fear,
List, oh, list, but come not near,
"Come not near."
Wouldst thou in my caverns sleep,
Lie in darkness chill and deep?
Come then near, and dare to leap.
Again he came ;-a hound untrained,
The stripling in the leash restrained;
Light on the wave-worn rock he stept
To take the leap so often leapt ;
One careless bound-the timorous brute
Hung from the spring irresolute-
And, far beneath the caverned bank,
For hours, ere yet his corse had sank,
In unseen whirlpools idly tost,
By hideous arches over-crost,
Skipton, thy youthful lord was lost.
And long in Bolton's abbey fair,
The holy men with bead and prayer,
For Romilly so young and brave,
For rest of soul and mercy crave;
And oft at eve their steps would trace
With pious reverence to the place,
And gaze with sad and tearful eye,
When Wharfe his restless breast heaved high.
Still longer have the striplings tried
The leap where Romilly leaped and died;
And cast the bracken sheaf or bough,
Where narrowest ran the stream below,
And maddest was Wharfe's frantic throe;
And seemed to see Lord Romilly's corse
Whirling in eddies, wild and hoarse;
Now on the surface tost and near,
Now swift as arrow disappear,
Now struggling in some monster's clasp,
Now flying from his ghostly grasp,
Till, for an hour unseen, at last
The wreck on Bolton's marge is cast.
And still the stranger feels the spell,
When village swains the story tell,
And point to Barden's castled fell;
Not all-unhallowed is the spot,
Nor Romilly's sad tale forgot.
Fair Nidd, thy banks are sad and still;
No song is heard on moor or hill;
Echoes no strain thy cliffs between,
Nor urchin's shout from village green.
On Ripley meads, at close of day,
The wild deer from the forest stray,
And in the sacred porch may find
Safe shelter from the shower and wind;
The timid hare may sleep in peace,
'Mongst mouldering tombs her terrors cease;
The heron slumbers 'neath the bridge,
The moor game leaves the distant ridge,
And in thy orchards rears her brood,
Unconscious of her hardihood.
No angler's foot pollutes thy stream,
No lure disturbs the troutlet's dream,
No voice upon the silence falls,
No baying hound the pate appals;
E'en dawn scarce warns him to his den,
To sleep secure from hostile ken;
And lonely housewives of the dale
His predatory skill bewail.
By Knaresburgh's castle, old and hoar,
From Monckton on to Middlesmoor,
Upon thy breeze no joy-notes swell
From festival or wedding bell,
Only the burial and the passing knell.
Rusted is ploughshare, scythe, and bill;
The team ox wanders at his will,
Forgetful of the yoke and goad,
Forgetful of the hated road;
For level ing and upland field
This year no fragrant load shall yield;
Thy sons have sought far other work,
And joined the leaguering host at York,
Unmindful of young Slingsby's claims,
Or orders Ingilby proclaims.
Little they recked of squire or knight;
They heard of war and joined the fight.
THE LAST SUNDAY OF THE SIEGE-YORK.
OLD comrades now round Bryan throng;
War's friendships make a greeting strong;
Rough hands grasp his, then off they tear
And fling the gauntlet high in air;
Unclasp the chain and doff the caske,
While twenty tongues their questions ask.
Where was his latest skirmish fought?
What news of Rupert had he brought?
Who, in the villages he knew,
Were waiting for his murderous crew?
Guy Dayrell, was he still at large?
Was Knaresburgh in young Slingsby's charge?
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