NOTES TO "THE RAVEN ON KERNAL CRAG."
Kernal Crag is a huge mass of solid rock, with a face of broken precipice, on the side of Coniston Old Man. In that unique and admirable Guide Book entitled "The Old Man; or Ravings and Ramblings round Conistone," it is said; "on this Crag, probably for ages, a pair of ravens have annually had their nest, and though their young have again and again been destroyed by the shepherds, they always return to this favourite spot; and frequently when one of the parents has been shot in the brooding season, the survivor has immediately been provided with another helpmate; and, what is still more extraordinary, and beautifully and literally illustrative of a certain impressive scripture passage—it happened a year or two since, that both the parent birds were shot, whilst the nest was full of unfledged young, and their duties were immediately undertaken by a couple of strange ravens, who attended assiduously to the wants of the orphan brood, until they were fit to forage for themselves."
LORD DERWENTWATER'S LIGHTS.
1716.
You yet in groves round Dilston Hall
May hear the chiding cushat's call;
Its true-love burden for the mate
That lingers far and wanders late.
But who in Dilston Hall shall gaze
On all its twenty hearths ablaze;
Its courteous hosts, its welcome free,
And all its hospitality;
The grace from courtly splendour, won
By Royal Seine, that round it shone;
Or feel again the pride or power
Of Radcliffe's name in hall and bower;—
As when the cause of exiled James
Filled northern hearts with loyal flames,
And summers wore their sweetest smile
Round Dilston's Courts and Derwent's Isle;
Ere Mar his standard wide unrolled,
And tower to tower the rising told,
And Southwards on the gathering came,
All kindling at the Prince's name?—
The glory and the pomp are shorn;
The banners rent, the charters torn;
The loved, the loving, dust alone;
Their honours, titles carved in stone.
On Witches' Peak the winds were laid:
Crept Glenderamakin mute in shade:
El-Velin's old mysterious reign
Hung stifling over field and plain.
Around on all the hills afar
Had died the sounds foreboding war.
Only a dull and sullen roar
Reached up the valley from Lodore.
Through all the arches of the sky
The Northern Lights streamed broad and high.
Wide o'er the realm their shields of light
Flung reddening tumults on the night.
Then dalesmen hoar and matrons old
Look'd out in fear from farm and fold:
Look'd out o'er Derwent, mere and isle,
On Skiddaw's mounds, Blencathra's pile.
They saw the vast ensanguined scroll
Across the stars the streamers roll:
The Derwent stain'd with crimson dyes:
And portents wandering through the skies.
And prophet-like the bodings came—
"The good Earl dies the death of fame;
For him the Prince that came in vain,
A King, to enjoy his own again."—
The sightless crone cried from her bed—
"'Tis blood that makes this midnight red.
I dreamed the young Earl heavenward rode;
His armour flashed, his standard glow'd."
The fearful maiden trembling spoke—
"The good Earl blessed me, and I woke.
The white and red cockade he wore;
He bade adieu for evermore."—
Far show'd huge Walla's craggy wall
The 'Lady's Kerchief' white and small,
Dropt when, pursued like doe from brake,
She scaled its rampart from the lake.
"I served my Lady when a bride:
I was her page:"—A stripling cried.
"I served her well on bended knee,
And many a smile she bent on me."—
—"Upon this breast, but twenty years
Are pass'd"—a matron spoke with tears—
"I nursed her; and in all her ways,
She was my constant theme of praise."—
Like flaming swords, that round them threw
Their radiance on the star-lit blue,
Flash'd and re-flash'd with dazzling ray
The splendours of that fiery fray.
—"When spies and foes watch'd Dilston Hall,
To seize him ere the trumpet-call"—
A yeoman spake that loved him well—
"I brought him mid our huts to dwell.
"We shelter'd him in farm and bield,
Till all was ready for the field,
Till all the northern bands around
Were arm'd, and for the battle bound.
"Then came he forth, and if he stay'd
A few short hours, and still delay'd,
'Twas for those priceless treasures near,
My lady and her children dear.
"I heard reproaches at his side!
—'Or take this jewelled fan'—she cried,
With high-born scornful look and word—
And I will bear the warrior's sword!'
"He called, 'To horse!'—his dapple grey
He welcomed forth, and rode away.
The white and red unstained he wore:
His heart was stainless evermore!"—
And thus the night was filled with moan.
And was the good Earl slain and gone?
For him the Prince that came in vain,
A King, to enjoy his own again.
From Derwent's Island-Castle gate,
In robe and coronet of state,
A phantom on the vapours borne,
Passed in the shadows of the morn.
Pale hollow forms in suits of woe
Appear'd like gleams to come and go.
And wreathed in mists was seen to rest
A 'scutcheon on Blencathra's breast.—
Full soon the speeding tidings came.
The Earl had died the death of fame,
By axe and block, on bended knee,
For true-love, faith, and loyalty.
And still, when o'er the Isles return
The Northern lights to blaze and burn;
The vales and hills repeat the moan
For him the good Earl slain and gone.