The Fox’s Lair.
Bleak is that spot, prone to the west,
When winter lays it bare,
And when among those rocks the blast
Moans harshly on the ear.
But there, though bleak, though rough, though wild,
Old Reynard makes his bed,
And shelter’d by those rocks, beguil’d,
Serenely rests his head.
Therein he lurks the livelong day,
There sleeps the wily thief;
He, like a robber, plans for prey,
But comes at last to grief.
Around and ’bout those mossy stones,
Wherein the felon prowls,
Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones—
The sunder’d frames of fowls,
Of lambs, and other innocents,
Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate:
Those sundry farm-yard ’habitants
Met a most wretched fate!
The sunbeams gild not Reynard’s brow,
He shuns it with dismay;
He feeds not with the old milch-cow
In open fields of day.
The last streaks of the sunken Joy
Are signals to advance;
Then the foul cave he leaves so coy,
And like a rogue doth glance
Below, above; his eyes roll round,
He sniffs the breath of night:
All’s silent now,—no yelping sound
Prevents his hasty flight.
Out, and upon his deathly track,
The coppice combs his hair;
Instinctively he weens his back
Will have a prize to bear.
Behold him on the farm-yard fence,
Surveying the peaceful fold:
See how the tartar sneaks from thence—
Ah! see—his jaws have hold! * * *
His little lambkin victim dies:
Then, with accustom’d skill,
He hurls it on his back, and flies
Home to the stony-hill.
There in his haunt (rocks and dank earth),
The daring burglar spills
His victim’s blood, with brigand’s mirth,
And sends it forth in rills * * *
Next morn, as usual, all the flock
Is counted o’er, and o’er,—
Suspicion is arous’d—the stock
Is minus one! (not more)—
The farmer hurriedly looks ’round,
Unwilling to believe
His little lamb’s not to be found,
Then he begins to grieve:
So ’round and ’round the yard he paced,
Scann’d every thought-of nook;
At length upon the fence he traced
The course the rebel took.
Beyond the fence a narrow pass
Through thick-grown furze led on
To where there was a patch of grass,
A spot both dank and lone;
Here turn’d the fiend through dwarfish oak,
Which stretch’d up half a mile,
Then nimbly cross’d a limpid brook,
And gain’d the granite pile.
Long ere the farmer reach’d this den
The wolfish feast was past:
He mourn’d his lost one, but ’twas vain,
And said—“This is thy last.”
Six rough-hair’d terriers, fresh from sleep,
All eager for the fray,
Compell’d the laughing fiend to weep
Before it was noon-day.
The clacking of each battle dog
Surprised the sharp-nosed thief;
Who doubtless stood shrunk like a slug,
Yet desperate in his grief.
Now raged the conflict doubly fierce:
Uncertain which had won,
The farmer listen’d: shrieks then pierce
His ear: he listen’d on—
Alas! he miss’d his favourite’s voice—
His darling’s tongue was hush’d;
From him—the warrior-dog of choice—
Life’s stream had freely gush’d,
Though his was not the only wound:
A pause: now all is mute:—
Then came five grisly dogs to ground;
They limp—the pain’s so ’cute.
Spill’d blood bespatter’d each rough skin,
Which spoke the dreadful strife
That murderously had raged within,
With sacrifice of life.
Yes! out they came, and bore along
The corpse of their slain mate:—
The farmer’s heart was sorely wrung
To see his favourite’s fate!
The Petrified Nest.[89]
This bulfinch’ nest, which you behold,
For thirty pence to me was sold:—
Bound round with tape, and fix’d in place,
Was petrified in twelve months’ space;
Then taken down, brought to the inn,
Where “Mother Shipton’s” sign is seen—
(Herself, the dear old lady’s drawn
In antique mantle, hood, and gown,)—
On which is writ, as trav’lers see,
The following lines of poetry—
“Near to this petrifying well,
I first drew breath, as records tell.”
* * * * *
O Knaresboro’, Knaresboro’! charms are thine;
Thee,[90] thousand beauties do combine:
Oh! would that thou wert my abode,—
Thou glorious spot inwrought by God!
With Him no workman can compare,
His skilful works are everywhere:
And He alone did carve the world,
Round which the mighty ocean curl’d.
Incumbent rocks, as they were hurl’d,
And mountains, tow’ring to the skies,
And verdant valleys, greet our eyes.
Here, ancient castles (once so grand)
Show marks of Time’s defacing hand;
Some, shatter’d by war’s hissing shot,
Leave only stones to tell the spot;
Whilst others, towers still abide
To mourn, alas! their former pride:
And thine, O Knaresboro’, shares the fall—
Now little but a crumbling wall.
[89] These lines were composed to accompany the nest, which the author purchased at the little museum of petrified curiosities in “Mother Shipton’s” Inn, situated about a quarter of a mile from the Dropping Wells at Knaresborough, and which he presented to his much respected friend and benefactor, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., then residing at Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, August, 1865.
[90] Use the article “a.”
The Kingly Oak[91] of Bagot’s Park.[92]
The fearless monarch—old, yet hale,
More proud than in his youth—
Laughs and enjoys the passing gale,
Is happy; and—forsooth—
He’s like a king (who chance be good)
Surrounded by his court,
Or like a lord of merry mood,
Obtains a meet report.
He loves the fair one’s gentle touch,
The squeeze of hardier hands;
And with a bow—no elms can match—
Conveys “he understands.”
Two hundred winters now have fled
Since forth the seedling came;
A hundred more may crown his head,
Ere his is but a name.
Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,
And curl around his form;
Horus, of old, shall oft go down;
While many a dreadful storm
Shall drench the monarch to the skin,
And ravage Bagot’s Park,
Ere his stout heart shall yield within
Its noble coat of bark.
Though grand his mien, he never boasts,
Nor e’er usurps the green;
But loves to see the minor hosts
Salute his distant queen.[93]
Many a tourist scans this oak:[94]
Some, measuring round his base,[95]
Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to look
Upon his fine old face!”
Now when he’s angry (true ’tis not
That often he doth frown),
And when the winds, concerting, plot
To hurl him from his throne,
’Tis then he asserts his majesty,
And lifts his powerful voice;
But when the storm hath passèd by,
You will again rejoice
To see him as he deigns to laugh
And gently bend his head,
Inviting you to come, and quaff
Upon the grassy bed,—
(On which, and ’round about, regale
The antler’d buck, and deer,
And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhale
The perfumes of the year.
Profoundly silent,[96] acres lay
Invig’rated by Time;
Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay,
And deck the favour’d clime.
O! may’st thou[97] live to teach the young
The secret of that gift,
Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong,
Before thy trunk is rift;
That each may wear upon his brow,
Like thine—an honest mark,
And so retain, as thou dost now,
The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”[98]
[91] Supposed to be more than two centuries old.
[92] In Staffordshire.
[93] Another very large oak, called the “Queen.”
[94] The King.
[95] About twenty-four feet round, as measured by the author (of the poem) and his friend, Mr. E. Emery, of Abbots Bromley.
[96] Land, in its forest-like condition.
[97] The “Kingly Oak”.
[98] This poem was composed during the author’s visit to his friend, J. C——, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Sept., 1865.
SONG.
Up, up my Brave Comrades![99]
(An Exhortation to the Volunteers)
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay:
And although its shrill blast bears no tidings of war,
Nor the boom of the gun on the ocean afar
Tells of death and destruction, yet of you we have need
For the weal of our Country, our Throne, and our Creed.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay.
Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;
As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;
But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy near
To encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:
Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearth
Will be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—
Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,
For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.
March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;
On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;
And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,
There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:
There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,
While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;
While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,
We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.
[99] Composed on the occasion of the first Volunteer Review at Dover, on Easter Monday, 22nd April, 1867.
