Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud, And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd; Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright,...
The unremitting voice of nightly streams That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers, If neither soothing to the worm that gleams Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers,...
Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples, fit to be the homes...
The damsel from the field returns, The sun is sinking in the west; Her bundle on her head she sets, And in her hand she bears A bunch of roses and of violets. To-morrow is a holiday,...
You have builded your ships in the sun-lands, And launched them with song and wine; They are boweled with your stanchest engines, And masted with bravest pine; You have met in your closet councils,...
Where the lone creek, chafing nightly in the cold and sad moonshine, Beats beneath the twisted fern-roots and the drenched and dripping vine; Where the gum trees, ringed and ragged, from the mazy margins rise,...
[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]
They hide in the brook when I seek to draw nearer, Laughing amain when I feign to depart; Often I hear them, now faint and now clearer Innocent bold or so sweetly discreet....
In days long gone by it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the forest to assemble at the Great Cataract and offer a human sacrifice to the Spirit of the Falls. The offering consisted of a white canoe, full of ripe fruits ...
High on a point of rugged ground Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell Above the loftiest ridge or mound Where foresters or shepherds dwell, An edifice of warlike frame Stands single Norton Tower its name...
From Bolton's old monastic tower The bells ring loud with gladsome power; The sun shines bright; the fields are gay With people in their best array Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,...
'Tis night: in silence looking down, The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, And Castle, like a stately crown On the steep rocks of winding Tees;...
The Harp in lowliness obeyed; And first we sang of the greenwood shade And a solitary Maid; Beginning, where the song must end, With her, and with her sylvan Friend;...
Why comes not Francis? From the doleful City He fled, and, in his flight, could hear The death-sounds of the Minster-bell: That sullen stroke pronounced farewell To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!...
Now joy for you who from the towers Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear, Telling melancholy hours! Proclaim it, let your Masters hear That Norton with his band is near!...