CONTENTS.

Page.

1

BRANTHWAITE HALL. A Poem of the Feudal Times.-

CANTO III.

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THE WARTHOL MULBERRY TREE..

STANZA on viewing Boothill's Grave, Kirkbampton Church Yard

STANZA on a Human Skeleton found in Scaleby Moss, Cumberland

STANZA on viewing Two Ancient Mounds, at Park Hill, in the

Parish of Dean; supposed to have been erected, in remote times,

for the practice of Archery

STANZA on hearing the Bell appointed to be rung from Michael-

mas until Candlemas, at Cockermouth

....

A TALE OF WHITBECK, founded on fact..

72

75

THE SHEEP, THE WOLVES, AND THE ELEPHANT.

A Fable.....

101

PREJUDICE.

104

THE MANIAC. A Fact of West Cumberland, 184—...............

106

AN ADDRESS, written and spoken by the author at the Tempe-

rance Festival, in the School Room of the New Wesleyan

Chapel, Cockermouth, 28th December, 1842.......

STANZA on the Death of John Dickinson, who was unfortunately

shot, by the accidental discharge of his own rifle, 21st July,

1848, in the county of Iowa, Wisconsin state, America

STANZA on the Death of a Young Lady, who died by poison

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118

123

STANZA to the Memory of John Nicholson, an old servant of the

author, who died at Cockermouth, aged 85 years

.......

STANZA on the Death of Sam Fletcher, 1849

STANZA

154

157

A NEW SONG. Sung at a Temperance Festival.

176

BRANTHWAITE HALL

A POEM OF THE FEUDAL TIMES.

CANTO III.

Skelton return'd to his dismantl'd home,

Its blacken'd walls stood like a ruin'd tomb,
The southern wing alone was left secure,
Big John and fire-proof walls preserv'd that tower;
No time he wasted vainly to complain,

Arm'd his whole band, and took the field again,

In hot pursuit, to follow on the track,

Smite the stern foe, and bring the plunder back;
Yet, ere his whole arrangement could be made,
Mild evening shadows gloom'd along the shade
Of waving woodlands, as they speed away,
Sternly resolv'd to overtake the prey,
Reclaim the plunder from the Scottish foe,
Revenge impelling, eagerly they go.

The setting sun beneath the western wave,
Sunk like a meteor to a watery grave,

Departing rays o'er Solway's briny streams,
Threw on the placid sea their waneing gleams
Of radiance, purpling each mountain head

That blush'd "good night" to Sol's dark wavey bed;
While sea birds walk'd slowly along the sand,
Their lengthening shadows stretching to the land,
And trains of rooks sail'd thro' the calm blue sky,
To Weddom woods a the dark procession fly,
Where the tall oaks wide canopies afford,
Birds safest shelter, beasts securest hoard;
And brigands often shelter'd there too, when
Flying from foes, they sought the gloomy fen,
Or tangling brake, or lonely moors remote,
Where dangerous bogs in shaking quagmires float;
Deep treacherous quicksands tremble on this shore,
When sea floods roll, and thundering storm winds roar;
And many a stranger, lonely doom'd to roam,
Here often sigh'd a last adieu to home;

Where wolves devour'd, and plundering foes decoy'd,
The wandering fugative was oft destroyed.

In Bowness moss and dark Cardornock's flow,
Many an ancient hero now lies low,
And rural swains, pursuing annual toil,
Digging their fuel from the deep peat soil,
The skeleton, embedded, often find;
Remnants of arms, relics of rude mankind,

The battle axe, the spear, and dirk are found,
Old swords, once blood-stain'd on this border ground;

The war horse, too, caparison'd beside

Its lord, sunk deep, where both engulph'd have died, And now, together found, darkly unfold

The dire results of war, in times of old;

The gorgeous steed, the warrior and his arms,
That o'er these lands spread terror and alarms,
Preserv'd amid the pyrolignous soils,

Prove sad memorials of intestine broils.

After the change time's rolling stream has made,
Turn'd thus to light again by peasant's spade,
Who, moralizing, throws the bones aside,
Crying, "behold the last remains of pride!
Of warlike splendour, and the pomp of war!
Warrior and arms-the war horse and its car,
That proudly once drove madly, void of fear,
The border brigand warrior's wild career.
Alas! that man should rage for human prey!-
When will destroying passions cease to sway

A suffering world?—That time will come, but when
Shall peace and love guide headstrong sons of men ?"
Then, with a sigh, he strides across the plain,

Turning to peaceful rustic toil again :

And when at eve returned to rural cot,
Sweet home of peace, contented with his lot,
To neighbouring cottagers relates the tale,
Till haply some listening maiden's cheek turns pale;
Heaving a sigh, she breathes a secret prayer,
Imploring Heaven to yield protecting care,