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ruri. College Library,

Nov. 14, 801,
LOWELL BEQUEST,

(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

TO THE REVERED MEMORY OF MY FATHER,

JANUARY, 1885.

My father still—I know not why,
To me thou didst not wholly die;
Though oft I hear on village ways,
Rude voices hushed to tell thy praise,
And, ere I speak, the tear will start-
Thou played'st so well a neighbour's part-
At memory of darksome days,
And thy quick help and genial ways;
Though round thy grave our service done,
Thy friends are gathering one by one,
The old, the poor—I see them now
Bareheaded stand, and mutely bow,
I see them now—'tis all I would,
They deemed thee wise and truly good ;
Thou wert, thou art-I know not why,
To me thou didst not wholly die.
My father still—though thou hast trod
Thy long and lonely path to God,
A fiery path-our watching eyes
Scarce bore thy parting agonies,
And many a prayerful sigh arose
For the swift closing of thy throes,
And yet no prayer for thee was prayed,
No for mercy uttered
When thy sweet spirit faintly fled;
'Twere wrong, when all thy powers were dim,
To doubt thy peace and rest in Him,
Who by thy side had ever gone,
And through all perils led thee on;
For thou wert safe, and hadst no need,
Or all the world were lost indeed.
My father still—though thou art gone,
And I am desolate and lone;
For when my spirit silent bleeds

cry

I see thee on the shining meads
Lost in thy meditative mood,
Slow pacing o'er the daisied sod,
And, half-impatient of delay,
I see thee captured on thy way
With piteous tales of loss and grief ;
The glittering tokens of relief,
The dubious loitering at the place,
The kindly sadness on thy face,
I see them all and I am glad,
And yet I know thy heart was sad.
And still when in thy chair I sit,
And firelight shadows round me flit,
And my full heart its pains must know,
There come, I know not whence or how,
Faint and afar like evening chimes,
The sweet soft sounds of happier times,
And, issuing low, an undertone
I recognize as thine alone
Grows swiftly on my listening ear
To words articulate and clear,
And thy full voice sonorous thrills
And all my charmed spirit fills;
For thou hadst made, to thee unknown,
The great Isaiah's tones thine own,
And all his blissful promises
Were thine to rest on in distress.
Still, still I hear thy wisdom's store,
“ Be ever gentle to the poor,
Not just alone, their poverty
Claims reverence from thine and thee;
'Tis only justice to their lot
That all their frailties be forgot.
Soft pity may such service claim,
'Tis justice under holier name;
'Tis heavenly wisdom's nearest kin,
To doubt if sin be really sin
Among the poor”—and I have been
Among great-thoughted and strange-mannered men,
Beside the bed of death I've knelt,
And there thy wisdom most have felt,
God's justice mercy is, and I
Have learnt from thee how good men die.

THE

CASTLE OF KNARESBURGH.

PREFACE.

The most interesting as well as the most important epoch in the Civil War was that which commenced with the arrival of the Scots on the banks of the Ouse, culminated in the battle of Marston Moor, and terminated with the fall of York. The great victory which decided on Marston fields the issue of the war was a yeoman's victory, in which the individual skill or genius of commanders played an insignificant part. Indeed, so little did its leaders rule the strife when once begun, that modern historians have found it impossible to follow with precision the movements of the tide of battle as it ebbed and flowed from one part of the field to another. What, however, was abundantly manifested on every part of the huge chess-board of Marston Moor was the indomitable courage of the race and the honest belief in the goodness of their cause, whether men fought under the banner of the Cavalier prince, or side by side with their hereditary enemies from the North.

“The Castle of Knaresburgh” is an attempt to describe the chief historic incidents of this epoch from the standpoint of the Yorkshire yeoman of two centuries ago. The characters are drawn from the ranks of those to whom the victory was due; and the

scenes are laid chiefly in and about Knaresburgh, a neighbourhood teeming with history and romance. The relief of York and the battle of Marston Moor claim a few words of explanation beyond what is accorded to them in the narrative. The former event, the result of one of the most brilliant pieces of strategy in the Civil War, is left unexplained by all modern writers, notwithstanding that the display of generalship in the movement was more remarkable than any exhibited by the leaders on either side in the great battle of Marston Moor. For, although the united Parliamentarian and Scottish armies besieging York exceeded in numbers the combined forces of Prince Rupert and the garrison, the city was relieved without the loss of a soldier or a beast of burden, and this was done, notwithstanding the important fact that the beleaguering force had been in possession of the ground for six weeks, and was well aware of the purpose for which the Royalist army was being mustered in Lancashire. The key to the success of the effort at relief lay in the position of Knaresburgh as a stronghold in regard to York and the river Ouse. army coming from the west to York with a view to its relief three main roads lay open, if the attack was to fall on the most accessible and vulnerable part of the besieging force; the more southerly road by Tadcaster, the west road by Wetherby, and the north-west road by Knaresburgh. Prince Rupert chose none of these, but, having reached Knaresburgh on Sunday afternoon (June 30), and stayed there long enough for the news of his arrival to be carried to the besiegers and induce in them a belief that his attack would be made by the road from Knaresburgh, he marched due north to Boroughbridge, crossed the river early on Monday, and by keeping well to the

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