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RIVAL ROSES;
OR
WARS
OF
YORK AND LANCASTER.
A METRICAL TALE.
-- Electronic text encoded by
Leigh Rios
Copyright ©2007, University of California
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-- Managing Editor
Charlotte Payne
-- Founding Editor
Nancy Kushigian
This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler I Suppl: 344. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I Suppl: 344mf.
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September 12, 2007
Charlotte Payne
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I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of arms, and notes of fire,
To echo from its rising swell,
How heroes fought, and kinsmen fell;
But still, to martial strains, unknown,
My lyre recurs to LOVE, alone.
LOUD, o'er the turrets of Glenmore,
The spirits of the tempest roar;
With ardent ire,
Set ether in a blaze;
Swiftly urge the lightning's fire,
And dart along its quivering rays.
Upon her couch, reclined,
Sate Glenmore's haughty dame,
Unheard, by her, the whistling wind;
Unseen the lightning's flame;
Unmarked the thunder's deep'ning roll;
For England's woes absorbed her soul.
Fierce discord stalked throughout the land,
And tossed aloft her fiery brand;
Horror, with tresses dipped in gore,
Bade shrieks resound from shore to shore;
And faction, versed in fraudful guile,
Bade patriot blood, fair Albion's fields, defile.
Not then, as in this happier day,
Did England own a BRUNSWICK'S sway:
Then flourished fair the 'Rose of snow,'
Triumphant o'er its ruddy foe;
And hapless HENRY mourned the fate,
That, o'er him, cast the robe of state,
And placed, within his feeble hand,
The sceptre of a mighty land.
If lowly born, had HENRY been,
No woes had gloomed his closing scene;
Contented he had trod the plain,
An artless, happy, rural swain:
Or heaven been pleased that he should dwell,
The inmate of a holy cell,
Musing o'er HENRY'S fallen fate,
And dropping oft the pensive tear,
The dame of Glenmore castle sate,
Now pressed with anguish, and now moved with fear;
While ISADORE, a maid of matchless grace,
With dazzled eyes beheld th'illumined space.
Sprung from no vulgar race she seem'd,
Tho' mystery's veil upon her birth was thrown,
From her bright form, what grace ethereal gleam'd!
What countless beauties, to herself unknown!
While, in the azure of her lucid eye,
Unnumber'd charms in secret ambush lie.
Sudden she starts, for, stealing on the gale,
A harp now flings its magic on her ear;
Then o'er the sound the rising gusts prevail;
The blasts subside, and lo! the harp is near:
Fair ISADORE, in mute attention, stands,
And the soft strain her inmost soul commands.
Echoes unusual float around;
Laughter fills the vaulted hall;
The harp pours forth a merry sound,
And dancing footsteps nimbly fall;
With peals of mirth, the tones they drown.
The lady, with an angry frown,
Summoned straight her vassal crew,
To learn whence their rude mirth they drew.
And why, she cried, does mirth invade
This ancient castle's solemn shade?
"BERTRAM, 'tis well!" the lady said,
And slowly raised her drooping head,
He comes! "art thou," the Countess cries,
"The minstrel youth, whose touch profane,
Bade, from the lyre, those sounds arise,
And waked the mirth-inspiring strain?"
She paused; the youth, with graceful air,
Bowed low to Glenmore's stately fair—
While ISADORE, in pleased amaze,
Regards the youth with fixed surprize;
Then turning from his ardent gaze,
Casts on the ground her modest eyes,
Ye tales of love, that from my lyre,
Were wont to flow in softest measure,
For you no more the strings respire,
Nor wake they now to notes of pleasure.
Resounding thro' th'affrighted isle,
The clang of war is heard alone,
Each hill and vale, and massy pile,
Re-echoes still the martial tone.
Ah! marked ye where the battling host
Together clashed with thundering jar,
When many a chief with haughty boast,
Led on his vassal train from far?
'Twas then, upon Northampton's field,
Many a gallant warrior died,
Each flashed on high his burnished shield,
And boldly each his foe defied.
I saw, amidst the blaze of day,
The hosts advancing to the fight,
Elate they marched in trim array,
Lordly chief, and 'squire, and knight.
I passed the spot when night and gloom
And fearful silence reign'd around,
Mourn, Britain, mourn thy nobles slain,
Thy monarch's fallen fate deplore,
Within his tent a captive ta'en,
Nor throne nor sceptre owns he more.
The red rose fades, the snowy foe,
With the bright blush of conquest glows,
Lancastrian HENRY sinks in woe,
For victory crowns the rival rose.
The cadence soft, the grander swell,
Evinced a master's power to please,
"Lady, that boon is great indeed;
Accept my thanks," he then replied,
"Yet in three days I hence must speed,
Nor longer in these towers abide."
"Your pleasure use," the dame returned;
"But stay, thy history unfold—
Dost thou a minstrel's life pursue?
Thy mien becomes a hero bold;
Thy valor is thy country's due,
Why is the warrior's laurel spurn'd?"
"Lady, my history would'st thou know,
Suffice, I am the child of woe;
For me, alas, no laurels bloom,
Misfortune, only, is my doom."
The fire that lighted up his eye,
The blaze of genius, sank before despair,
From his pale cheek the roseate graces fly,
Immersed in thought, he stood, a statue fair,
So fixed, immoveable, and mute his air.
The lady marked his musing mood,
She sighing viewed him as he stood;
Opprest with dangerous sympathy,
The maiden heaved a pitying sigh,
Which re-illum'd the minstrel fire.
The sweet musician wakened from his trance,
Snatched to his hand his sleeping lyre;
On ISADORE he cast a glance,
The harp respired, and soft, and slow,
The sounding chords, the rising notes,
Sweetly prolonged, with strong impressive flow;
The Virgin's hymn in lofty echoes floats,
And gives each breast a warmer, holier glow;
When softly died the solemn sound,
He graceful made obeisance round;
But lingering, looked a fond adieu,
And then receded from their view.
The elemental war no more
Raged o'er the time-moss'd towers,
The spirits' furious ire was o'er,
And hushed their angry powers.
Emerging from a sable cloud,
The night's pale empress now arose,
And cast her beams on Glenmore's gloomy pile.
Nature around seemed wrapt in calm repose,
Yet slept not Glenmore's lady proud,
Yet fled from ISADORE, sweet sleep awhile.
Why sleeps not the haughty dame?
Why do her feet so often trace
Her lofty chamber's ample space?
Alas! her frequent start, her feverish glow,
Her tears, too sure the tears of woe,
Her heart, a prey to grief, proclaim.
And why does sleep forsake those eyes
His feathery pinion wont to shade?
Say why on sable wing he flies,
From Glenmore's fair and matchless maid?
The latent cause I must declare,
'Twas love had gain'd an influence there.
Still on the maiden's raptured ear,
The minstrel's accents murmuring stole;
The minstrel's glance, to memory dear,
Still shot its radiance o'er her soul;
His graceful form and tuneful art,
Might well, deep interest impart.
At length descends night's argent queen
Behind the English Apennine,
And ISADORE then sought repose;
Still, in the vision of the night,
Array'd in fancy's radiant vest,
In every charm of beauty drest,
With more than mortal graces bright,
The minstrel's shadowy form arose.
Two days had winged their rapid flight,
The next, when dawned the morning light,
From Glenmore would the minstrel go;
And not the dame's kind courtesy,
Nor ISADORE'S intreating eye,
Could stay this son of mystery,
This cloud-wrapt 'child of woe.'
ARMYN, the doubtful stranger's name;
In truth he was a gallant wight,
So brave his mien, the pensive dame,
Oft fancied him a wandering knight,
That, in disguise, thus sought to know
Who to his party was friend or foe.
The choice retreat of ISADORE,
Was an old and mould'ring tower;
In rude heaps, rough fragments lay,
And broken columns strewed the way;
While rapid Derwent's dashing wave,
Reflected, in his silver tide,
The pile his waters loved to lave,
With antique arches' ruined pride.
Reclining on a pedestal
That once a war-plumed statue bore,
Seeming to mark the river's swell,
Or gaze upon th' indented shore,
Her radiant locks of waving gold,
Floated upon the buoyant gale,
Which first displac'd the graceful fold,
Then wafted off her light-wove veil;
No friendly shade remain'd to hide
Of joy and love, the vermeil tide,
When ARMYN'S graceful form she spied.
He view'd her o'er with kindling eye,
Then eager spoke with ardor high;
"What secret cause, oh, maid divine!
Could make that orient blush arise?
And whence the brilliant beams that shine,
Within those ever-charming eyes?
'Twas not disdain, say was it joy?
My fears relieve or hopes destroy."
Confus'd, surpris'd, the youthful fair
Blush'd as his tale of love he told;
No more he wore a brow of care,
A brighter future seem'd unroll'd;
Then ARMYN vowed, "thy rolling tide,
Oh, rapid Derwent, flows away;
And yonder tower's stately pride,
Now sinks in ruinous decay;
But, oh, my love shall firmly stem
The tide of ill, or stream of woe,
And, as yon watchlight's fluttering flame,
Thro' life's long day shall brightly glow."
And ne'er will absence have the power
To make my love for thee decay;
Yet, oh, dear, beauteous ISADORE,
No more at Glenmore can I stay:
To-morrow I must hence"—the maid
Averted then her tear-dewed face;
He soothed her fears, and hushed her grief,
Breathed hopes that time would bring relief,
And clasped her in a fond embrace.
With blushes, bursting from his arms,
She bade a hasty, sweet farewell,
Then, with a sigh, that seemed to tell,
All love's regrets, and fond alarms,
THE harp's sweet sound, that lately broke
The silence of old Glenmore's towers,
No more in pleasing strains awoke
Long dormant echo's mimic powers:
But all a stiller horror wore,
More solemn seemed the silent gloom;
That radiant flash but shewed the more
How dismal was that living tomb:
And often by the Derwent's flood,
Fair ISADORE would weep and sigh:
'Twas on that spot the minstrel stood,
When last he met the maiden's eye;
'Twas there he vowed for aye to love,
'Twas there she did his suit approve.
She sought the maid, and gently led
To where a fragment formed her seat
"I too," she cried, "have inly bled,
And shed sad tears in this retreat;
Oh, ISADORE, by nature framed
For all that's gentle, good, and fair,
I feel affection by thee claimed,
And will my early life declare,"
The maiden cast a wondering gaze,
Delighted at the novel praise,
Gayly and featly in Raby's towers,
Music inspired the sprightly dance;
Not then enslaved by jarring powers,
Compatriots darted hostile glance.
No! all was happiness and peace,
Oh! days of transport, and of love,
When will your dear remembrance cease!
Ne'er, till I reach yon world above!
MONTORRAN graceful, led the ball,
Myself his partner in the hall:
Each maiden was with envy moved,
For none like GERTRUDE then was loved,
But one alone, by passion fired,
To poison bliss like ours desired,
'Twas cruel CLIFFORD'S sister vain,
Who sought MONTORRAN'S love to gain.
The daughters of the the NEVILLE race,
Adorned the scene with matchless grace,
Sweet ELLEN, PERCY'S gentle fair,
And beauteous CICELY were there,
They told me of her luring wiles,
And feared the fair might work me woe:
Lost on MONTORRAN were her smiles,
And I, secure, contemn'd my foe:
But oft, when least an ill we dread,
The deadliest woes around us spread:
With him there came, ah! woe to me!
The haughty chief of GLENMORE'S line;
A knight, renown'd in arms, was he,
No grace he own'd, no manners fine;
Rude, rough, impetuous, daring, bold,
He scorn'd each gentler courtesy;
He vaunted oft his heart was cold,
And ever, ever, would be free.
'Twas my hard fate t' unloose the ice,
That his cold frozen bosom bound;
And I with wonder and surprize,
Glenmore's proud lord, my suitor, found.
The banquet reign'd, gay pleasure smil'd,
And mirth the midnight hour beguil'd,
"Oh! rest his soul," MONTORRAN cried,
"Much he belies his valiant sire;
Oh where is MONMOUTH'S gallant pride,
Or his more youthful frolic fire?"
MONTORRAN first the goblet prest,
And pass'd it on, with sportive glee;
Myself he gaily then addrest,
"Oh! drink success to love and me,
Pledge not yon earl;"—from OSWALD'S hand,
The fatal glass I, blushing, took,
With answering smile, and action bland;
When GLENMORE, with a furious look,
The half-rais'd goblet dash'd away:
The red streams, o'er my garments, stray.
"No! no! proud maid!" said Glenmore's earl,
A draught, so sweet, shall ne'er be thine!
MONTORRAN'S lip, disdainful girl!
To nectar, chang'd, the ruby wine,
While I may hopelessly adore
And GERTRUDE'S love, in vain, implore;
Her favor, ne'er must hope, t'enjoy,
And still be slighted for a boy.
The indignation he inspir'd,
Glanc'd from brave WARWICK'S flashing eye,
And thus, with generous ardor, fir'd,
NEVIL return'd him answer high.
On lov'd MONTORRAN'S hand I hung,
To him I shudd'ring, sorrowing clung;
With lofty air and frowning brow,
He forth his glittering weapon drew,
I shriek'd "oh! OSWALD hear me now,
Let not his blood thy hands imbrue,
"With life alone will I resign
The fair whose love and vows are mine!"
My OSWALD said; Lord FITZHUGH cried,
"GERTRUDE! thou art thy father's pride,
But, dare MONTORRAN 'gain to see,
Thy father's curse attend on thee!"
O'ercome with woe, and new alarms,
I fainted in MONTORRAN'S arms.
Now, in that hall, where lately bloom'd
Mirth, peace, and pleasure, love, and joy,
Those gentle powers were soon entombed,
By demons who their reign destroy.
Rancor, and hate, discord and rage,
Began their loud-ton'd war to wage;
With steadfast air and dauntless-mien,
MONTORRAN still my form sustains,
Re-animation faintly seen,
Steals softly thro' my fear-chill'd veins.
"GERTRUDE!" he cried, "hence let us fly,
With thee I'll live, for thee I'd die."
His waving sword on high was gleaming,
And on his brow his plum'd-helm beaming,
With me, his prize, uncheck'd by all,
He swiftly left the fatal hall.
Fix'd in amaze the chieftains stand:
For wonder seiz'd the warlike band.
Each court now cross'd, each barrier past,
One look on Raby's walls I cast;
To friendship gave a ling'ring sigh,
And filial tears suffus'd mine eye.
With haste, out-stripping far the wind,
Soon Raby's towers we left behind;
Nor did MONTORRAN'S speed give o'er,
Until we reach'd the ocean's shore.
For Gallia's coast, a vessel bound,
For favoring breezes waits,
The wind is fair, a welcome sound,
Soon echoes from her joyous mates.
Behold me now MONTORRAN'S bride;
By him lov'd, caress'd, ador'd;
Yet oft I trembled, wept, and sigh'd,
For fear of GLENMORE'S vengeful sword,
And still Lord FITZHUGH'S threat'ning vow,
Rang in my tortur'd ear;
Nor are forgotten, even now,
Those words I almost died to hear.
An infant boy increased my care,
I feared he was misfortune's heir;
"Oh! rather, lovely lady, say
What griefs obscure thy early day;
That thou, a dame so young and fair,
Should'st wander thus in lone despair?"
Before my lips could form reply,
My guardian OSWALD near me stood,
"GERTRUDE," he said, "there's danger nigh,"
The stranger darted in the wood.
"My child!" I cried, "with MANFRED he,
My wife, my love, hence let us flee!"
"Oh! ISADORE, tho' now I hide,
Beneath the haughty brow of pride
"While night, her dews, around us, shed,
Along the Durance' banks we sped,
"Is there no word of kindness meet,
For noble dame, her lord to greet?"
Said GLENMORE'S earl, for he it was
Who thus, unwish'd for, on their converse stole;
His mien betray'd how far the gentle laws
Of soft'ning courtesy, from his unyielding soul.
Since last Lord GLENMORE, thou wast here,
Has pass'd a period long and drear,
Nor deem'd I that thou wert so near;
With grin demoniac, her lord
Gave to the dame such taunting word;
Quick to her cheek indignant came,
Of virtuous ire the burning blush;
Not hers the guilty hue of shame,
Nor hers confusion's hectic flush,
Still, in proud silence, walked she on,
And, to her lord, deigned answer none.
'Ere long, December's cheerless sky,
Each prospect that once pleas'd the eye
Enwrapt in glooms horrific stole,
And shed its terrors o'er the whole.
The Countess and her youthful friend,
Would oft the battlements ascend,
To mark the scene so drear and white,
Spread before their dazzled sight.
Thither would they oft repair,
Spite of keen gale, and chilling air;
And ISADORE, whose glowing mind,
With youthful ardor warm,
Was not, to thought of ill, confin'd,
As little reck'd the wintry storm.
Still would she fondly oft retrace
The hours, when first the minstrel's lyre,
Awakened with seraphic grace,
Feeling's throb, and rapture's fire.
Tho' wide upon th' extended plain,
Stern winter spread his chilling reign,
In her warm breast remembrance glow'd;
And tho' from the frozen rill,
No more the bubbling streams distil,
Yet, in her heart, love's warmest current flow'd.
But starting from her reverie
She half with terror sinks, to view
Approaching near, a hostile band,
With gesture high, and sword in hand;
Their port is noble, daring, free,
Their course to Glenmore castle due.
Loudly echoing, near and far,
Resounds the dreadful din of war;
In vain Lord GLENMORE'S bands oppose,
The entrance of the hostile Rose.
They soon the castle walls surprise;
Columns of smoke, to heaven, ascend,
While flames, in wavy wreaths, arise,
And all in dread confusion blend.
The Countess and the damsel fair,
Some way t' escape at length prepare;
But all precaution found they vain,
Both, by the victor, captive ta'en.
To Sandale was the dame convey'd;
But MARCHE with youth's impetuous fire,
Declared that his should be the maid;
In her he centered each desire,
Ruins now cover'd Glenmore's scite,
Gone was its chieftain to the tomb,
For LANCASTER he dared his doom,
And rushed to realms of night.
HOW sighs the muse to tune the lay,
Fair Albion's woes to sing,
The strings their sadden'd homage pay,
And mournful music fling.
Ye guardian Genii of the land,
Ah whither were ye flown,
When woe encompass'd Britain's throne,
And hovered on her strand.
To Sandale's towers a pris'ner led,
Was Glenmore's lady high,
For England's woes her bosom bled,
But for herself she heav'd no sigh.
Grief on her fair, but faded form,
Had shed her various store of woes;
Her cheeks, no more, with healthful current, warm,
Seem'd ensigns of the paler rose.
When Sandale's gates were heard to close,
The lady's fortitude arose;
She steel'd her heart to bear each woe,
That pride on misery could bestow.
And she resolved, with life, to part,
'Ere cruelty's ingenious art,
Should wring one murmur from her heart.
She knew not that her early friend,
Her prison'd footsteps would attend;
She little thought she still should find,
The noble dame, so good, so kind;
Or that, upon her gentle breast,
Her aching head might sink to rest.
When sense return'd, illum'd her eyes,
The Duchess echoed those sad sighs,
That from the Countess' bosom rose;
Then sweetly sought to sooth her woes.
"And is it thus, lov'd friend, we meet,
Must no glad welcome, from me, greet
One, who so oft has been the theme,
Of anxious thought's ne'er stagnant stream?
Yet I will strive thy lot to cheer,
Think too, perhaps, relief is near;
Friendship's soft balm of healing power,
Poured influence sweet, upon that hour;
And confidence and sympathy,
More closely drew their gentle tie:
Requested by her friend to tell,
Each strange event that her befel,
Oh, CICELY! I need not tell,
To thee, what then my feelings were:
To peace, to joy, I bade farewell,
A wand'ring image of despair!
Amidst Vaucluse' embow'ring grove,
That famed retreat of hapless love,
One secret locked, within his breast,
I from MONTORRAN could not wrest;
He never would, to me disclose,
Whence our hasty flight arose,
I stooped to catch the cooling wave,
A steel-clad arm was round me cast;
I shrieked—MONTORRAN could not save:
Ah! then my OSWALD breathed his last.
My senses fled—when next I owned
Returning reason's glimmering ray,
Ah! sure my errors were atoned,
By what I suffer'd on that day.
What triumph flashed from GLENMORE'S eye,
When, sinking in the western sky,
The sun emitted his last ray,
And night's dun shades invaded day.
Thither reluctant, shuddering, led,
The nuptial room I trembling tread;
I searched, with scrutinizing eye,
In hopes some means I yet might 'spy,
T' escape my dreadful destiny.
A sword against the wall was hung,
With sudden thought to it I sprung;
Then dimly visible in distant gloom,
(The waning taper cast a wavering light,)
Pale and terrific, recent from the tomb,
MONTORRAN'S figure met my frenzied sight.
Stiffened his limbs, his heart with fear appall'd,
Stood Glenmore's lord in horror's fix'd dismay,
My piercing shriek the flitting shade recall'd;
Ah! stay, I cried, beloved immortal, stay!
But from that awe-creating hour,
I heeded not my tyrant's pow'r;
Altho' beneath his castle roof,
From worldly converse held aloof;
My sire at length his curse repealed:
Then, taking arms on HENRY'S side,
Fell on St. Alban's bloody field:
None now remain to me allied.
With hasty step and hurried air,
He sought his anxious wife;
She fear'd the woes of civil strife,
Which mark'd her pensive brow with care.
Oh! happy Albion! blest, beyond compare,
Think, grateful think, what blessings now you share!
See haughty MARGARET, her standard raise,
Fair ANJOU'S arms the pond'rous faulchion wields,
In glittering pomp, opposing patriots blaze,
And sire and son, imbrue their native fields.
Yet from amidst the dread intestine jar,
Arose fair LIBERTY'S resplendent star,
Far-beaming herald of the future day,
When this famed land should own her blissful sway.
Then first, were fixed, the Senate's noblest laws,
Then first, impartial, was the high debate;
Meek HENRY'S virtues gained their due applause,
But YORK was owned Protector of the State.
'Twas MARGARET, HENRY'S haughty wife,
Who first provoked intestine strife;
But MARGARET'S high unbending soul,
Had never yielded to controul.
Hers, subtle art, and tow'ring mind,
To conquer, not submit, inclin'd;
And her's was every beauty too,
That could the heart of man subdue.
Her art and beauty ruled her royal lord,
She frowned, he yielded, smiled, and he ador'd.
Soon MARGARET led her bright array,
To where the plain of Wakefield lay.
Where Wakefield's plains now peaceful, bear,
The produce rich, of golden grain;
Where Calder rolls along so fair,
And wealth and commerce, hold their reign.
Dire was the combat, dire the fray;
Those fields were dyed with patriot blood,
And purple ran the Calder's wave;
Not only on that signal day,
Has the life-stream of warrior brave,
Commix'd with its translucent flood.
Soon wrapt in death, brave RICHARD lies,
The victim of his bold comprise.
The voice, which thousands awed before,
For ever mute, is heard no more:
The Queen victorious, led her train,
Where Sandall's towers frowned o'er the plain,
Then with resentment cruel, fired,
To see the wife of YORK desired.
She came.—"Why, MARGARET," she said,
While dignity adorn'd her mien;
"Would'st thou view me before thee led,
A pris'ner sad?—Oh! haughty Queen,
Oft CICELY, of rank so high,
Had heav'd before, the anguish'd sigh;
Sad proof, nor beauty, wealth, nor birth,
Can shield from woe, the child of earth.
And now, in MARGARET'S bosom lie,
Hatred, revenge, and cruelty.
Relentless Queen! oh, spare the dead!
Is pity from thy bosom fled?
Suits fell revenge, the female breast?
Peaceful, let the warrior rest!
But MARGARET'S ire, and CLIFFORD'S hate,
Not e'en his death could fully sate.
Then too, brave SALISBURY, thou wert slain,
Of NEVILLE'S race, aud
WARWICK'S sire;
The victim of proud MARGARET'S ire,
Such cruel deeds her triumph stain.
Upon that rock, where erst of old,
Cambria's prophetic Bard foretold,
That joyless laurels should enwreath,
Great EDWARD'S victor brow;
Heaped curses dire upon his foe,
And bade the lay of vengeance breathe;
When, from Glenmore's fallen towers,
EDWARD led his martial powers;
Attended by his trusty band,
He sought, with speed, the Cambrian land.
Now, welcome to his anxious eyes,
The beacons bright, before him rise.
But ISADORE, with shuddering gaze,
Beheld the flaming watch-lights blaze;
The dame, who own'd the wild domain,
Was CLIFFORD'S sister, haughty JANE:
The same, who once, in Raby's hall,
MONTORRAN brave, had wish'd t' enthrall.
CLIFFORD, in HENRY'S cause, was brave;
For YORK, JANE'S star-decked pennons wave.
EDWARD, the gallant and the young,
For her, the lay had lightly sung;
A blast is blown, the mountains round,
Reverberate the brazen sound.
Soon they gain admittance free;
"Thou shalt not mourn thy liberty,"
Said EDWARD, as he fondly prest,
The hand of her, whom he addrest.
The trembling fair he onward drew,
To where the dame impatient staid;
But, oh! how fled JANE'S roseate hue,
When she perceiv'd the beauteous maid.
"See, lovely lady!" EDWARD cries,
"I here have brought a peerless prize;
Thou wilt, I know, each art employ,
Fair hopes to raise, and grief destroy."
Her sparkling eyes, with anger shine,
Ah! then they beamed, as stars malign;
For jealousy's fierce flame she felt,
Kindness and pity quickly melt.
Yet, with keen art, and deep disguise,
She hid the truth from EDWARD'S eyes;
So free a welcome promptly feigned,
That she, their confidence, obtained.
Few were the dames that could defy,
The radiance of young EDWARD'S eye;
Where brightly arch, or gayly wild,
The playful loves encurtained smiled.
Oh! who could meet his glances warm,
Or view his tall majestic form?
Could mark that form's attractive grace,
And scan the wonders of his face—
That to brave EDWARD, could be cold,
If formed of less than icy mould?
But while his words, in ardent flow,
Gave to her cheek, a livelier glow,
Fair ISADORE'S cold air represt,
The hopes which flutter'd in his breast.
"My lord, we'll to the hall repair,"
Exclaimed Rock-Cader's haughty fair;
"And there, in mirthful revelry,
Dilate our hearts with joy and glee."
As they partake of their repast,
EDWARD plies the goblet fast;
The night it was drear, the keen winds were blowing,
Around the forked light'nings all vividly played;
The thunder loud roared, each horror bestowing,
As the minstrel in gloom disconsolate strayed.
Ah! little he deemed what forms him surrounded,
And danced on the flash, or lurked in the cloud;
He saw not the powers, that in darkness confounded,
Directed his steps to battlements proud.
Could he then believe that the Genii of Love,
Were flitting around him in fanciful guise;
No, the ken of mortality far, far, above,
They met not the sight of the wanderer's eyes.
A castle he viewed, 'twas the temple of joy,
The fond vows of a maiden he there quickly gain'd;
No time shall the dear recollection destroy,
When that maiden approved of his raptures unfeign'd.
"Minstrel, cease!" said Lady JANE,
"I rather sought a soothing strain;
Nor flames nor raptures please me now:
Say, can'st thou sing of broken vow?
No more of joy the minstrel sings,
Or tells of bliss the raptured tale;
To falsehood, wake the trembling strings,
Well may their wonted powers fail.
That fair one in whose snowy breast,
Each shining virtue seemed enthroned;
Has now another love confest,
The lowly minstrel is disowned.
Alas! no more the minstrel's vow,
In fancy, dwells upon her ear;
A high-born lover wooes her now,
And she, well pleased, his vows can hear.
While o'er her cheek, in crimson tides,
Confusion's blushing torrent, glides;
The maiden, with a timid eye,
Glanced at the son of minstrelsy.
The youth withdrew, the guests retired,
And various thoughts, each breast inspired;
Young EDWARD, lost in calm repose,
Dreamt of love, and conquered foes,
While ISADORE, with grief, opprest,
Wooed, but in vain, refreshing rest;
And, in DE CLIFFORD'S bosom, reigned
The rancorous ire of love disdained.
When all seemed wrapt in peaceful sleep,
And, save the river's foaming wave,
That wound around the rocky steep,
And deeply murmuring, music gave,
Thus, of the band, replied, the chief,
In mingled tones of rage and grief.
"Queen MARGARET has the battle won,
The head of YORK is on a spear,
And many a ruthless deed is done;
WARWICK, the chief whom we revere,
Has sent us for brave RICHARD'S son.
Clear shone the stars, and Luna's beam,
The snowy prospect, made, more bright;
And, dancing in each silvered stream,
Gave added beauties, to the night.
It was a scene, in very truth,
Might charm the eye of careless youth;
Inspire devotion in the breast,
And bid each thought, in heaven, to rest.
His hasty route, by night or day,
Impatient EDWARD would not stay,
But danger hovered on his way.
Now the tide of conquest turned,
And victory, that ere while,
Her lambent flame, o'er MARGARET, burned,
On EDWARD seemed to smile.
For tho', on Barnet's blood-stained field,
The YORKISTS to LANCASTRIANS yield;
But now we must revert to where,
O'ercome by fury and despair,
The Lady JANE beheld her prey
Snatched, from her deadly grasp, away.
Sad ISADORE no sleep had known;
Peace was no more, and joy was flown;
Her ARMYN'S doubts within her breast,
Bade grief tumultuous, baffle rest.
The warden's blast then struck her ear,
She started from her couch with fear;
"What danger now besets?" she cried,
"Yet powers divine, oh! guard my love;
Whatever fate may, me, betide,
My ARMYN save, ye powers above!"
"Hark! what sound then met mine ear?
No mortal can inhabit here!"
The awe-struck minstrel said.
"Sweet ISADORE! oh, deign to join
Thy soft persuasive voice with mine,
That we may set this stranger free,
And hail together, liberty."
When ARMYN ceased, the unknown cried,
"If, for thyself, thou hast little care,
Yet haste, lest ill the fair betide,
Who seems thy destiny to share."
Thro' a rude grate, with dusky beam,
Began the morning rays to gleam;
The broken sun-beams faintly shed,
A misty radiance, o'er the dead:
At length, persuasion's gentle power,
The captive's wilful mood o'ercame;
His fetters loosed, that fateful hour,
He foiled the vengeful dame.
Many a dreary passage past,
Whose endless echoes loudly roll,
A briar-choaked outlet gained at last:
"Thanks to our Lady! here's the goal."
Said ARMYN:—Then, with eager haste,
He lightly clasped the damsel's waist;
And, with his burthen, swiftly flew
To where, a boat, lay moored in view:
But soon the cheering scene was flown,
An arrowy sleet poured forth;
Rude wintry storms were roughly blown,
Sent from the keen and blustering north.
Upon each rolling billow's verge,
Death seemed his course, tow'rds them to urge.
The minstrel, with his precious care,
Stemmed, for awhile, the ocean's power;
His frame at length no more can bear,
In youth's bright morn, in beauty's flower,
Oh, must the minstrel die?
No! see where on the stormy wave,
A bark approaches prompt to save;
And see the welcome signals fly,
They meet young ARMYN'S drooping eye;
Now near the welcome harbour lies,
And lofty turrets distant rise;
Then, told MONTORRAN, how his foe,
Had wounded him, with ambushed bow;
And that, to GERTRUDE'S tearful eye,
He seemed, of that base wound, to die.
"Lady! it is my boast," he said,
"Thy sex's honor, to defend;
And sooner shalt thou view me dead,
Than, to such love, an ear I'll lend.
Those fearful threats made OSWALD fly,
DE CLIFFORD'S fury to defy;
She, who to passion, yields the rein,
Nor art, nor force, can e'er restrain.
On malice bent, as once, on love,
She followed to Vaucluse's grove;
When lo! faint life, the dame perceives,
Again, the wretched OSWALD breathes;
And thro' th' empassioned fair one's aid,
The tides of health his frame pervade.
He speeds away, to England's shore,
And seeks the towers of dark Glenmore;
No bright inhabitant of heaven,
To GERTRUDE'S gazing eye was given.
It was no immaterial sprite,
MONTORRAN living, met her sight;
Arrived just in the fateful hour;
He saved her from a tyrant's power.
There paused MONTORRAN;—and his friend
Bade, for awhile, the tale to cease;
To-morrow shall thy story end,
To-night we'll pledge thy joy's increase.
But ISADORE, fatigued and spent,
Declined the generous feast to share;
Repose, restoring influence lent,
And softly hovered o'er the fair.
Then flourished fair, the Rose of snow,
Triumphant o'er its ruddy foe.
The Poem commences after the defeat of the Lancastrians, at Northampton, in 1460; when the unfortunate HENRY was taken prisoner in his tent. The badge of the House of Lancaster, was a Red Rose; that of York, was the White.
The Author is aware that she has not spelt the name of her heroine according to the original orthography; but
Sudden she starts, for stealing on the gale,
A harp now flings its magic on her ear;
The Author acknowledges that she borrowed the idea of the Minstrel, from the Novel of the "Novice of St. Dominick;" when reading that performance it occurred to her that the civil warfare between the Houses of York and Lancaster, would furnish a scene in England, somewhat similar to that described by Miss Owenson, in France; and she directly commenced the preceding Poem. The poetic enthusiasm of Scott has shed an interest over his native Caledonia; which, long as his works are read, must ever be felt: and the bard of the "Emerald Isle," has sung the attributes of Ireland, with all the warmth of a true son of Erin. The Amor Patriæ glows as warmly in the mind of the author of
Ye tales of love, that from my lyre,
Were wont to flow in softest measure,
To you no more the strings respire,
Nor wake they now to notes of pleasure.
The Minstrel here declares that his harp cannot breathe the notes of joy; when just before, he is represented as having excited the mirth of the domestics by the gay sound of his lyre.—As an apology for this inconsistency, it must be remembered that the bards were obliged to suit their lays to the humour of their auditors. The rude and sprightly disposition of the domestics,
'Twas then, upon Northampton's field,
Many a gallant warrior died;
The battle of Northampton was very desperate and bloody, though the conflict lasted only five hours; the King's army was commanded by the courageous and resolute MARGARET of Anjou, his Queen; the Yorkists were headed by the renowned EARL OF WARWICK; who, like another ULYSSES, was equally great in council and in the field. The Lancastrian army consisted of twenty-five thousand men; the opposite amounted to forty thousand. WARWICK was victorious, and the Queen had the affliction of beholding her unfortunate consort taken prisoner in his tent; she then fled into Wales with her infant son, attended by the DUKE OF EXETER and a few followers. HENRY was taken in
At length descends night's argent Queen,
Behind the English Appennine,
The English Appennines are a ridge of hills forming the western boundary of Yorkshire, in which county the castle of Glenmore is supposed to have been situated.
While rapid Derwent's dashing wave,
Reflected in his silver tide, &c.
The Derwent is one of those rivers by which the county of York is intersected, and is equally remarkable for the rapidity of its stream and the clearness of its wave.
Gayly and featly in Raby's towers,
Music inspired the sprightly dance.
This ancient and noble fabric is situated in the county of Durham; it was then, in the possession of the high and powerful family of NEVIL, but is now the property of the EARL OF DARLINGTON.
Not then enslaved by jarring powers,
Compatriots darted hostile glance, &c.
The Countess begins her story from about the year 1441; at which time, the aspiring YORK had not revealed his views, or commenced those operations, which afterwards occasioned such dreadful havoc in the kingdom.
The daughters of the NEVIL race,
Adorned the scene with matchless grace;
Sweet ELLEN, PERCY'S gentle fair,
And beauteous CICELY were there,
With noble DACRE'S loyal dame, &c.
These ladies were all daughters of RALPH NEVIL, then styled the great EARL OF WESTMORELAND; the lady ELLEN married HENRY PERCY, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND, son of the renowned HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR. The name of PERCY, is of very
Health to our KING! he loudly cried:
Long may he live the nation's pride.
LORD GLENMORE could only add an eulogium upon his monarch from a spirit of perverseness, as HENRY THE SIXTH, though a worthy man, was not a king for any people to be proud of; and at that period, though civil war had not yet deluged the land with kindred blood, yet dissatisfaction pervaded the minds of many, and the indignities which the DUKE OF YORK had received from the government had highly offended him, though he had not at that time taken arms against HENRY.
Oh! where is MONMOUTH'S gallant pride,
Or his more youthful frolic fire?
HENRY THE FIFTH, born at Monmouth, was as remarkable for his bravery and spirit, as his unfortunate son was the reverse. In his youth, when PRINCE OF
The indignation he inspired
Glanced from brave WARWICK'S flashing eye.
The COUNTESS here speaks of the EARL OF WARWICK by the title which he bore at the time she relates her story to ISADORE, as he did not assume that title till the year 1449, when he obtained it in right of his lady, who was ANNE DE BEAUCHAMP, daughter of the EARL OF WARWICK, and who in her infancy, became the
Where myrtles form an od'rous shade,
Waving o'er Durance' azure tide.
The Durance rises in the Alps, and, flowing through Provence, falls into the Rhone three miles below Avignon.
MONTORRAN quickly hurried on,
To gain the scite of Avignon.
Avignon, the capital of a district of the same name, is the see of an archbishop. In Avignon they reckoned seven gates, seven palaces, seven colleges, seven hospitals, seven monasteries, seven nunneries, and seven
To Sandale was the dame conveyed.
Sandal Castle was one of the seats of the DUKE OF YORK, and was situated near Wakefield, in Yorkshire.
But MARCHE, with youth's impetuous fire,
Declared that his should be the maid.
EDWARD, EARL OF MARCH, was the eldest son of the DUKE OF YORK, and was shortly after acknowledged as King, under the title of EDWARD THE FOURTH.
That EDWARD did besiege the castle of any Lord at that time is not recorded in history, but as the circumstance was not improbable in those times of civil warfare, the author hopes she may be excused for having availed herself of a poetical license.
At HENRY'S court, each fair above,
She shone the leading star of love!
CICELY, DUCHESS OF YORK, was one of the most beautiful women of her age, and also one of the most virtuous and amiable.
Nor were those pangs the last
This lovely victim had endured,
From duty's path by love allured.
It is the author's wish that the history of LADY GERTRUDE should exhibit a striking lesson on the ill consequences of rashness, and disobedience; had she but had resolution to resist the entreaties of MONTORRAN, she would have avoided many of those sorrows which afterwards embittered her days.
Amidst Vaucluse' embowering grove,
That famed retreat of hapless love:
By that pellucid fountain's side,
Where PETRARCH for his LAURA mourned.
The valley of Vaucluse is a short distance from the town of Avignon, and is remarkable for having been the retreat of the celebrated PETRARCH; he there planted a
My sire at length his curse repealed,
And, taking arms on HENRY'S side,
Fell on St. Alban's bloody field.
The following particulars of the first battle, fought at St. Albans', are extracted from a curious and valuable work, entitled "Original Letters, written in the reigns of Henry the Sixth, Edward the Fourth, and Richard the Third."
"Furthermore letting you weet (know), as for such tidings as we have here such (these) three Lords be dead, the Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland, and the Lord Clifford; and as for any other men
"As for any other Lords, many of them be hurt.— And as for any great multitude of people that there was, as we can tell, there was at most slain six score; and as for the lords that were with the King, they and their men were pilled (plundered) and spoiled out of all their harness and horses; and as for what rule we shall have yet I weet not; save only there be made new certain officers. My Lord of York, Constable of England; my Lord of Warwick is made Captain of Calais; my Lord Burgchier (Bourchier) is made Treasurer of England; and as yet other tidings have I none."
"And for our Sovereign Lord, thanked be God, he hath no great harm."
"Written at Lamehith (Lambeth) on Whitsunday,"This letter refers to the first battle of St. Alban's, which Rapin says was fought on the 31st of May 1455,
"We are told by our historians that the King lost 5000 or 8000 men, though Hollingshead thinks it should be only 800, whereas this letter says only six score; how this prodigious difference in numbers can be reconciled, I own I cannot form any conjecture."
"William Quotton, or Cotton, of Landwade, in Cambridgeshire, was vice-chamberlain to Henry the Sixth."
"The family of Crane flourished at that time in Norfolk and Suffolk."
"The above letter was written to "John Paston," and most of the letters were written by or to particular persons of the family of Paston, in Norfolk, (who lived in the reigns of Henry the Sixth, Edward the Fourth, and Richard the Third) were carefully preserved in that family in several descents; and were finally in the possession of the Earl of Yarmouth; they then became the property of that great collector and antiquary, Peter Le Neve, Esq., Norroy; from him they devolved to Mr.
"Then first were fixed the Senate's noblest laws,
Then first impartial was the high debate."
The preceding stanza, and the two lines above, refer to the independent conduct of the parliament then assembled; before that period the senators had generally sided with the strongest party, whenever the kingdom was agitated by contending powers; but at that time a spirit of freedom, which has ever since characterized the English senate, took possession of their minds, and justice triumphed over force. After the battle of Northampton the DUKE OF YORK, who had formerly been satisfied with the title of Protector, claimed the crown; his party was the most powerful, he therefore expected not to meet with any opposition to his demand; but the Parliament did not comply with his wishes: the DUKE OF YORK was declared heir to the throne, but the unof-
But YORK was owned Protector of the State;
For HENRY, lost in lethargy,
Could not a monarch's care supply.
Though the Parliament refused the immediate grant of the crown to the DUKE OF YORK, they unanimously appointed him Protector of the Realm, because their monarch was then in a lethargic state, though not to the same degree as he had been before. "The following letter, conveys to us a very particular account of the King's disorder, from himself; he mentions his total toss of memory, which, from the circumstances here related, appears to have commenced about October, 1453, and to have continued till Christmas, 1454." From this letter, likewise, we may form a true judgment of this King's character and disposition, as to charity, devotion, and meekness.
"Right well beloved Cousin, I recommend me to you, letting you weet such tidings as we have. Blessed be God! the King is well amended, and hath been since Christmas Day; and on St. John's day commanded his almoner to ride to Canterbury with his offering, and commanded his secretary to offer at St. Edward's."
"And on the Monday afternoon, the Queen came to him, and brought my Lord Prince with her, and then he asked what the Prince's name was, and the Queen told him Edward; and then he held up his hands, and thanked God thereof.
"And he said, he never knew him till that time; nor wist not what was said to him, nor wist not where he had been, whilst he had been sick, till now; and he asked who were godfathers, and the Queen told him; and he was well apaid (content).
"And she told him the Cardinal was dead; and he said, he knew never thereof till that time; and he said, one of the wisest lords in this land was dead.
"And my Lord of Winchester, and my Lord of Saint John's, were with him on the morrow after twelfth-day, and he speak to them as well as ever he did; and when they came out, they wept for joy.
"And he saith, he is in charity with all the world, and so he would the Lords were.
"And now he saith Matins of our Lady, and Evensong, and heareth Mass devoutly.
"Written at Greenwich, on Thursday after twelfth-day,
"By your Cousin,"Prince Edward was born at Westminster, in October, 1453. The Cardinal alluded to, was John Kemp, Archbishop of Canterbury; he died on the 22d of March, 1453. Greenwich was, at that time, the residence of the Court; in which Edmund Clere, the writer of this letter, had an appointment. He was a younger son of John Clere, by Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Philip
Who can read the above letter, and not feel deep regret, at the sad fate of the unfortunate HENRY? in the contemplation of such truly christian virtues, our reverence for their possessor is excited; and we can only be sorry that the qualities necessary for a hero, were not in him, combined with the virtues of a saint.
'Twas MARGARET, HENRY'S haughty wife,
Who first provoked intestine strife;
MARGARET, the wife of HENRY THE SIXTH, was daughter of REGNIER, DUKE OF ANJOU, and titular King of Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem. She was of a masculine and courageous disposition; in temper enterprising, and in understanding, solid, yet vivacious; lovely in person, as she was towering in mind, the haughty and
The noble GLOUCESTER'S hapless fate,
HUMPHREY, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, uncle to HENRY THE SIXTH, was one of the best and wisest men of the age in which he lived; but his virtues did not pro-
While SUFFOLK'S crimes, and BEAUFORT'S art,
Caused YORK t' assume an hostile part;
History gives us every reason to believe that the DUKE OF SUFFOLK was guilty of many crimes; and that he was concerned in the murder of the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, from every concomitant circumstance, we have too just reason to suppose; but that the DUKE OF SUFFOLK was a confirmed villain, it is impossible to believe, after the perusal of a letter of advice from him to his son, which contains every sentiment worthy of the christian, and the father. Let it be hoped, that the cruel death he
Just were his claims: but ne'er his right,
Had been the cause of deadly fight,
Had then the royal HENRY been
Unbiassed, by his artful Queen;
Or MARGARET been content to share,
With MORTIMER'S illustrious heir,
The kingdom's trust, and regal care.
Secure, within his fortress strong,
Might noble YORK have tarried long.
The fate of the DUKE OF YORK cannot but present a striking lesson to every reflecting mind; he had nearly obtained the object of his ambition, when, through his
Where Wakefield's plains, now peaceful, bear
The produce rich of golden grain;
[…]
Dire was the combat, dire the fray."
Wakefield is a large well-built town in Yorkshire, and has a bridge over the river Calder, upon which stands a handsome chapel, built by EDWARD THE FOURTH, in memory of those who were slain in battle here; this
And purple ran the Calder's wave;
Nor only on that signal day,
His the life stream of warrior brave,
Commixed with its translucent flood.
Wakefield was also the scene of bloodshed in the wars, during the reign, of the unfortunate CHARLES THE FIRST. On the right hand of the road from Wakefield to Sandal, there is a square plot of ground hedged in from a close; whereon (before the civil war between King CHARLES and the Parliament,) stood a cross of stone, where the DUKE OF YORK was slain.
On that same day, his blooming son,
RUTLAND, in youth's primeval pride,
His race of glory quickly run,
By CLIFFORD'S treacherous dagger died.
The EARL OF RUTLAND, the second son of the DUKE OF YORK, was sacrificed to the resentment of LORD CLIFFORD after the battle; the young Earl was flying from the field with his Governor, when he was overtaken by the cruel CLIFFORD, who plunged his dagger into his breast. THOMAS, LORD CLIFFORD, having been slain in the battle of St. Albans, by the DUKE OF YORK, this LORD CLIFFORD swore he would not leave one branch of the YORK line standing.—Vide Rapin, and Leland Col.
The Queen victorious, led her train,
Where Sandal's towers frowned o'er the plain.
Sandal Castle, about two miles to the south by east
Oft CICELY, of rank so high
Had heaved, before, the anguished sigh,
[…]
For she could ne'er of battle hear,
That wept she not, for kinsmen dear.
CICELY, DUCHESS OF YORK, was peculiarly unfortunate, in being allied to the chiefs of both the rival Houses. And from what may be gathered from the Original Letters, she knew little rest, during those tumultuous times; as, till her son EDWARD was placed on the throne, she seems to have been often moving to various parts of the kingdom. At the battle of St. Albans, fell
Ill suited it with Queenly power,
Stern MARGARET'S cruelty;
Ill, indeed, did it accord with the character of a Queen, to wreak her vengeance on the dead; RICHARD could oppose her no more, it would therefore have been more consistent with the heroic tenor of her conduct, had she spared his manes. But MARGARET knew little of the softer feelings of her sex; and she caused the
To Raby, were the dames conveyed.
The castle of Raby was a place of too high importance, at the period of civil warfare between the Yorkists and Lancastrians, to be slightly passed over; therefore, though before adverted to in a short note, the Author here begs leave to give some further particulars of this fabric; the residence of the ancestors of CICELY, DUCHESS OF YORK, from whom descended all the Sovereigns, who, from that memorable era, to this period, have filled the throne of England.
"Raby castle is situated about one mile north from Staindrop, on the east side of an extensive park. This noble pile is indebted, for its splendor, to JOHN DE
"The situation of Raby castle is extremely fine, though not lofty: it occupies a rising ground with a rocky foundation, and is surrounded with an embrasured wall and parapet, inclosing about two acres of land. "Raby," says Leland, "is the largest castel of logginges in all the north country, and is of a strong building, but not set other on hill, or very strong ground. As I enterid by a causey into it, ther was a litle stagne on the right honde; and in the first area were but two towres on a ech ende as entres, and no other builded: in the 2 area, as in entring, was a great gate of iren,
"The interior of the castle is distributed into a great number of apartments. The entrance hall is uncommonly grand; its vastness, and apparent stability, never failing to excite admiration. The roof is arched, and supported on six pillars, with capitals, diverging and spreading along the ceiling. Above the hall is another spacious apartment, ninety feet in length, thirty-six in height, and thirty-four in breadth. This room was the place where the ancient baronial festivals were celebrated; and 700 Knights, who held of the NEVILLES, are recorded to have been entertained here at one time.
"Raby castle continued to be the grand residence of the NEVILLES, till the reign of ELIZABETH, when CHARLES, the sixth and last EARL OF WESTMORELAND, of that family, engaged in a weak conspiracy to dethrone his Sovereign. Being obliged to abandon his country, he fled to the Netherlands, where he died a miserable exile, in 1584. His immense estates were declared forfeited; and, in the reign of JAMES THE FIRST, were consigned, by grant, to certain citizens of London, for sale: of them the castle and demesnes of Raby, were purchased by Sir Henry Vane, Knt. from whom they have descended to the present noble possessor."—Vide the Description of the County of Durham, in the fifth volume of the "Beauties of England and Wales.''
On Pomfret's scite of bloody fame.
Pontefract, commonly called Pomfret, is twenty-two
Frowning over Conway's stream,
Since the above was written, the author has reperused the Poem, before alluded to in the same stanza, and discovered a line very similar to her own, which, however, had entirely escaped her recollection; as a long time
Few were the dames that could defy,
The radiance of Young EDWARD'S eye;
EDWARD THE FOURTH is said to have been the handsomest man of his age; and his fine person, joined to
Swift passed they Snowdon's mountain high.
The author does not mean that EDWARD and his followers passed over the mountain, but near it; for in this part of the county are such a number of rocks and craggy places, and so many valleys, encumbered with woods and lakes, that they are not only impassable to an army, but even to men lightly armed. These mountains may be called the British Alps; they extend from north to south; one of them, named Snowdon hill, is much higher than the rest, but, having a top considerably broader, the difference in height is not very visible at a distance. The Welsh name for these mountains is Kreigieu Eryrew, and the lower parts of them are so fertile in grass, that it is a common saying among the Welsh, that the mountains of Eryrew would, in case of necessity, afford pasture enough for all the cattle in Wales.—Vide "Description of England and Wales."
So beauteous was the scene, and grand,
That near pure Bala's frozen strand,
The Lake of Bala, or Pimblemeer, is a fine expanse of clear water; it is situated in a vale beneath the lofty Berwyn hills, which are celebrated in ancient superstitious legends, for having been the residence of MERLIN, the reputed Magician
For JASPER TUDOR, PEMBROKE hight,
In arms, a famed and valorous knight,
Against thee, MARGARET has sent,
MARGARET hearing, as she was advancing towards London that EDWARD began to move, detached JASPER TUDOR, EARL OF PEMBROKE, to oppose the new enemy, whom she did not imagine to be so strong as he was. The heir of YORK, being informed of the Queen's motion towards London, altered his course, and, instead of
'Ere long, by Mortimer's famed cross,
The foes were met, the battle tried.
EDWARD met the EARL OF PEMBROKE, who was supported by JAMES BUTLER, EARL OF ORMOND, with a body of Welsh and Irish, on the second of February 1461. This battle was fought near Mortimer's Cross, in Herefordshire; and, as EDWARD was much superior in number of troops, he easily defeated him and slew three thousand eight hundred of his men.—Rapin.
Then OWEN TUDOR'S hapless fate,
Avenged the cause of SALISBURY dead,
OWEN TUDOR, according to Hollingshead and Stow, was the father of the EARL OF PEMBROKE; he was taken prisoner at Mortimer's Cross, and beheaded, with several others, in revenge for the EARL OF SALISBURY.
Treachery, the short-lived triumph gained,
MARGARET defeated the EARL OF WARWICK, at Albans, soon after the battle of Mortimer's Cross; for LOVELACE, who commanded one of the wings of the army of the EARL OF WARWICK, either through treachery or some other cause, not engaging in time, victory declared for the Queen. She had the satisfaction to free the King, whom the EARL OF WARWICK would not venture to leave in London. The vanquished lost two thousand three hundred men, and no man of note among
Though the following letter contains nothing very interesting, and certainly nothing which relates to the subject of her Poem, the author ventures to present it to her readers as an original production of one of the most distinguished characters of the age he lived in; and, to the curious, every vestige of antiquity is valuable; it also, in the mention of "our Lady Walsingham," shews the superstition of those times. Oh! may this nation never relapse into those errors of bigotry and superstition, from which we have now long been free.
"Right trusty and well-beloved, We greet you heartily well: and of your benevolence, aid, and tender love by you, at the instance and at the reverence of Us, to our right trusty and well-beloved in God, the Prior and Convent of the House of our Lady of Walsingham,
This letter of the DUKE OF YORK, written by his Secretary, with his title at the top, and in the Regal style, was most probably sent, when he was Protector of
The Image of our Lady of Walsingham, in Norfolk, was, in those days, and had been for ages, particularly resorted to by all ranks of people, from the king to the peasant, by foreigners as well as natives; and was held in the highest veneration for the various miracles, &c. ascribed to her.
This famous and wonder-working image was, however, in 1538, in the reign of King HENRY THE EIGHTH, brought to Chelsea and there burnt.