As o'er the daisied lawns they move
By glittering rill or dusky grove,
Old Needwood calls his softest gale,
Bids all his fragrant buds exhale:
His gazing herds around them throng,
His plighted birds suspend their song,
Each on her urn his Naiads lean,
And woodnymphs peep from allies green.
Where this gay mount* o'erlooks the wood,
Charm'd with the scene a monarch stood,
Call'd these fair plains the richest gem
That deck'd his triple diadem,
Awhile the cares of state forgot,
And with its name adorn'd the spot.
Down yon meridian fields afar,
When Mercia led her chiefs to war,
Fell in one hour three monarchs brave,
And Lichfield's bower+ protects their grave:
Her stately spires amidst the skies
Tinged by the orient sun arise,
With golden vanes invite the gale,—
Triumphant ladies of the vale!
Down yon mid vale the British Nile ‡,
Fair Dove, comes winding many a mile;
And from his copious urn distils
The fatness of a thousand hills.
Swell, generous river, leave thy banks,
The thirsty soil shall give thee thanks!-
* A beautiful eminence called King's Standing.
+ Lichfield bower is supposed to be the tumulus of three Saxon kings slain in battle near that spot.
Dr. Plott calls the Dove the Nile of England, and attributes the fertility of its floods to the sheep-dung washed from the hills in the moorlands.
The generous river swells, and leads
His waters o'er impoverish'd meads,
And lays his ample treasure down,
Rich emblem of thy bounty, Brown*!
Pleased on yon high abode I gaze,
Whence C'andish + foaming Dove surveys:
And where those humbler vales extend
Of thine, Fitzherbert‡, cheerful friend.
Or mark upon yon round ascent
The social flags and open tent,
Where life's smooth paths with sweets are strown, And mirth makes every hour its own.
Where spreads this grove its umbrage wide,
Late the bold outlaw || fought and died.
Oft in its dark recess the oak
Had fallen beneath his secret stroke;
Full many a deer the night's dim ray
Beheld his silent arrow slay;
Deep furze conceal'd the fawns in vain,
And lust of lucre thinn'd the plain.
Here, by no power before controll'd,
He met a forester as bold;
O'er their fierce conflict frown'd the wood,
And drank with thirsty roots his blood.
* Hawkins Brown, Esq. of Foston-upon-Dove.
Richard Fitzherbert, Esq. of Sommershall.
Messrs. Adderly and Scott have pitched a tent upon a fine hill above Coton, from whence a flag flies when they are at home, as a signal to their friends.
A deer stealer, refusing to surrender, was here slain by a keeper.
Yon bank demands a pitying look,
Where life a gentler breast* forsook ;
Sole comfort of an aged pair!
The truelove of a damsel fair!-
At prime of dawn he stepp'd away;
Long was the journey, short the day;
The wintry blast blew loud and chill:
Night caught him on the unshelter'd hill;
Fatigued he fell; no help came nigh;
His faithful dog alone was by;
Who, as he fondly lick'd his cheek,
Heard his expiring master speak.
'Heap not for me thy cottage fire;
Cold grows my heart, unhappy sire!
But turn to my unfinish'd loom,
And weave the web and bear it home!
Prepare not, dame, my evening meal;
But bid them ring my passing peal!
Deck not thyself, dear maid, to meet
Thy love; but bring his windingsheet!
I come not to your festive cheer;
Ye comrades, place me on my bier!'-
-The morrow found him stiff and pale:
Mournful the Muse recounts his tale.
Her stately tower there Hanbury rears,
Which proudly looks o'er distant shires;
Down the chill slope and darken'd glade
Projects afar its length of shade;
* This unfortunate young man being sent on an errand by the Author of this Poem, died on his return; he was found next morning in the forest within a mile of his home, his dog standing by him. He was a weaver, supported his father and mother; and was engaged on the night of his death to meet his sweetheart at a Christmas feast in the neighbourhood.
Assails the skies with giant force,
And checks the whirlwind in its course;
Or, when black clouds involve the pole,
Disarms the thunders as they roll!-
Beneath how Nature throws around
Grand inequalities of ground,
While down the dells and o'er the steeps
The wavy line of Paphos creeps!—
With awful sorrow I behold
Yon cliff*, that frowns with ruins old;
Stout Ferrers + there kept faithless ward,
And Gaunt perform'd his castle-guard.
There captive Mary § look'd in vain
For Norfolk and her nuptial train;
Enrich'd with royal tears the Dove,
But sigh'd for freedom, not from love,
'Twas once the seat of festive state,
Where highborn dames and nobles sat;
While minstrels ||, each in order heard,
Their venerable songs preferr❜d.
False memory of its state remains
In the rude sport ¶ of brutal swains.
Robert de Ferrers joining a rebellion against Henry III. forfeited the possession of Tutbury.
A service imposed upon those to whom castles and estates adjoining were granted.
Mary Queen of Scols was a prisoner in Tutbury Castle at the time of the Duke of Norfolk's intrigues: she listened to his proposals of marriage, as the only means of obtaining her liberty, declaring herself otherwise averse to farther matrimo nial connexions.
The minstrels formerly crowded to Tutbury Castle in such numbers as to require regulations of order and presidence amongst them, the person appointed for this purpose was called King of the Minstrels.
The annual bull-running. VOL. II.
Now serpents hiss and foxes dwell
Amidst the mouldering citadel;
And time but spares those broken towers
In mockery of human powers.
Yon hill that glows with southern rays,
All conscious of superior praise,
Swells her smooth top and pastures green,
And of her sisters seems the queen;
Proud from her ancient seats to trace
The lineage of a generous race.
'That generous race,' fair Sudbury cries,
'Is mine,' and bids her turrets rise,
Lifts from the lap of Peace her dome,
Where finds Munificence a home;
Then wide her shining lake she leads
Through blossom'd groves and emerald meads,
Clothes with dark woods the distant scene,
And pours her dappled herds between.
-Ah me! what sudden sadness lours
O'er her fair front and vernal bowers!
There sinks to her untimely tomb
A virgin flower in beauty's bloom!
O, thou wast all that youth admires,
A parent loves, or friend desires!
I knew thee well! my sorrowing heart
Bears in thy loss a bitter part!-
Whilst the sad Muse in plaintive verse
Strews all her flowers around thy hearse,
Let Pity quit thy grave, and go
A mourner to yon house of woe.
There from thy father's bosom break
Sighs which too eloquently speak:
* Hound Hill, the ancient seat of the Vernons.
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