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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 18, 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.
THE sun, at morn, on Ennerdale,
Shone dimly thro' a cloudy veil;
Yet friendship's influence divine,
Made the dull scene refulgent shine,
The lordly friends, a bliss, enjoy,
No fleeting cloud had power t'alloy;
Strange, that the sex, for softness framed,
That those, for winning graces famed,
Should harbour thoughts of vengeance dire,
And give their minds to stormy ire!
Strange! that, within the female soul,
Passion should rage, without controul:
"Yet, so it was," MONTORRAN said,
Who thus, DE CLIFFORD'S crimes, displayed.
"Oh! sure, MONTORRAN cannot prove
Ungrateful to my constant love:
The world believes thee dead; but I
Will all that world, to thee, supply."
"Cease, lady, cease! vain every art,
Thou ne'er wilt win MONTORRAN'S heart;
No, lady! tho' my heart were free,
It ne'er, thus wooed, could yield to thee!
Virtue alone, my soul can fire,
And fervent love's bright flame inspire."
Brief let me be: I was conveyed,
To the deep vault's horrific shade;
There, years of grief, with silent pace,
Destroyed, 'ere long, each fatal grace.
My GERTRUDE, every thought, employed,
For JANE, no more, my peace annoyed;
And soon I hoped, at rest, to be;
My soul seemed fluttering to be free.
"BERTHA, no more! my infant lost,
Myself, on war's rough billows, tost!
Would not a pleasing story swell,
Nor win this maiden's ear so well,
As the sad tale thou had'st to tell.
"The day," Lord EDENMERE resumed,
"When joy's last radiant gleam I viewed;
How pleasure's beam, our eyes illumed,
As they, our infant's form, pursued.
What joy serene my bosom blest,
As I, my wife or child caressed.
"Thy name is ISADORE, sweet maid!"
With fluttering hope, MONTORRAN said,
"Hast thou no gem, which might disclose,
Whence thy name and lineage flows?"
Hid, in her garment's modest fold,
The maiden wore a cross of gold;
The sacred emblem, forth she drew;
MONTORRAN, the memento, knew:
"This cross," he cried, "my sister wore,
When thou, wert wont, her love t'implore."
The waves of joy, that o'er her face,
Had rushed in bright succession bland;
With refluent flow, their course retrace,
Receding from their snowy strand.
Time rolled away;—no ARMYN came:
Suppense
distracts the sighing dame;
On her fair cheek the roses fade,
And new-born griefs her heart invade.
Lord EDENMERE the cause well knew,
Which blanched his beauteous daughter's cheek;
Yet time, he trusted, would subdue,
The grief that preyed upon her heart.
Heal disappointment's rankling smart,
And cease, with sorrow's dew, to steep
Her tearful eyes, whose sunny beam,
Thro' watry mists was seen to gleam.
"Oh! why my loved, my angel girl,
Thus yield thy youth to sad despair;
Let hope, her banner now unfurl,
For happiness thy heart prepare."
So, would the sire have soothed the maid,
But sobbed she still in anguish wild;
Fast from her eyes the tear's-drops strayed:
To EDENMERE then knelt his child.
"My sire, oh! grant this only boon,
Nor let my prayers in vain assail,
Since grief obscures my life's bright noon,
Let me assume the peaceful veil.
"Arise, my child!" her father cried,
It grieves me to thy suit deny;
But thou, my hope, my joy, my pride,
Must cease to heave the anguished sigh.
The Minstrel knows thou'rt placed as far
'Bove him, as stars in realms of air;
Think not thy loss, his bliss will mar,
He now will woo some lowlier fair."
He paused.—The warden's warning rang,
And, from his foaming courser, sprang
A knight, whose form, and winning smile,
Proclaimed the Lord of Albion's Isle.
Surprised, the Earl his Monarch hailed,
Whom wonder, love, and joy, assailed.
He thought not, that he there should find,
The loveliest of the female kind;
He, EDENMERE, with joy, embraced,
Who, his emotion, gladly traced.
As EDWARD, lost in pleased amaze,
Could only on the fair one gaze;
The raptures o'er his soul that stray,
His senses seem to take away.
While ISADORE'S distracted mind,
No pleasure in his love could find:
Her father, with delight, unfeigned,
The maiden's history explained.
"And now, my liege," said EDENMERE,
"What brings thy royal presence here?"
While, within these stately towers,
Of war and love, the adverse powers,
In turn, reigned o'er the monarch's mind,
By glory fired, to love inclined:—
To Raby's walls, MONTORRAN hies,
Each danger, for his love, defies;
"Alas! dear lord, my dismal tale,
Will make thy cheek, with horror, pale.
Doubtless, thou bear'st remembrance true,
Of the sad night, I ever rue;
In hopes once more, thy dame to view,
For I believed she loved thee true,
I vowed to seek her lord's domain;
Resolved some artful tale to feign,
By which, to gain admittance there,
And see, once more, the injured fair.
As, wearied on the turf, I laid,
Reclined beneath an oak's broad shade,
"Beloved of my heart, my husband, my lover,
Since thou art no more!
The tomb, is alone, of my wishes, the goal;
Oh! how, when my journey thro' this life is o'er,
When my woes sink to rest, and the death-pang is over,
Will my spirit spring forth to unite with thy soul!
Then rushing toward the Derwent's tide,
In death, her griefs she sought to hide;
Pursuit I ceased, and with the child,
'Midst Cambria's mountains, high and wild;
Strove to forget the dreadful past,
And guarded, of thy line, the last.
Bold as the scenes, around him, spread,
Each dangerous path, the boy would tread;
I feared the secret to disclose,
Of thy sad end, and GERTRUDE'S woes;
Once from my lips, incautious broke,
Words, that his latent pride awoke.
"Alas!" I cried, "so brave a soul,
Ill fortune's power should nought controul;
MONTORRAN'S heart, that lately glowed,
And, with paternal pride, o'erflowed,
Now felt the chilling pang of woe;
Nor rose a sigh, nor tear would flow,
'Twas feeling past faint sorrow's show.
The sire, in grief's dumb trance remained;
In MANFRED'S mind mixed feelings reigned;
Yet, still amidst the gloom of care,
Hope seemed to triumph o'er despair.
Not long their thoughts could they pursue;
For, 'ere the day's bright lord anew
Illumed the cot, and gilt the main,
Chargers, trampling o'er the plain,
The chieftain past; and MANFRED said,
"Again, my lord, upon thine head,
Let the plume wave, the helmet shine;—
Oh! sink not thou, in grief, supine:
Arm thee with sword, and shield, and lance,
And daunt the foe-men with thy glance."
"Ah, MANFRED! still 'tis thine to feel
The warrior's fire, the soldier's zeal;
But, think'st thou, friend, my heart can know,
The gallant warmth, the hero's glow;
Oh, days of old! how is thy dark career,
Imprinted deep, in characters of gore;
When civil Discord reared his bloody spear,
Domestic virtues, died upon our shore.
Now, circling round Britannia's throne,
Or wide diffused throughout the land,
The graceful arts, to us, are known,
And heaven-born virtues join the band.
Oh! ye, who patriot zeal assume,
And kindly, would our minds, illume,
With generous ardor, strive to shew,
That England sinks in deepest woe;
Now, Muse, awake! attune the lyre,
To sing of deeds of deathless note;
And, loudly echoed from the wire,
Let the proud tale of glory, float.
Flows now the Aire with limpid wave?
Does silver Wharf his borders lave
Mark, where, upon the Aire's hoar strand,
The Lord FITZ-WALTER takes his stand;
Soon, Tawton
, doth thy blood-stained plain,
Groan with heaps of patriots slain;
Foes, on foes, impetuous dashing,
Glittering arms like lightning flashing;
Shining casques, cuirasses beaming,
Faulchions waving, lances gleaming,
As once, we read, on Illium's sacred plain,
In pomp of power, the Queen of battles stood;
With her own hand increased the heaps of slain,
And, of Troy's chieftains, spilt the bravest blood.
So ANJOU'S Princess in the fight appears,
No host she dreads, no hero's arm she fears;
Like PALLAS' self, great MARGARET seems to stand,
The faulchion waving in her lifted hand:
And, o'er her brow, with snowy feathers graced,
The beamy helm in shining pomp was placed.
"On, my brave troops? with thrilling voice she cries,
While fiery ardor darted from her eyes;
See WARWICK moves, his armour beaming far,
The great in arms, the terrible in war:
Majestic, as of old, stern AJAX trod,
When in the field, he spoke and looked a god.
By EDWARD'S youthful graces won,
Whole thousands to his standard run;
Where'er he turns his radiant eye,
It lights the flame of loyalty.
From rank to rank, young EDWARD flies,
And animates his brave allies:
When, unsuspicious of the blow,
Prone, on the ground, he lies full low,
The victim of a treacherous foe.
A knight, upon his sable steed,
Dealt around his deathful sword;
Where'er his prancing charger trod,
His was many a valiant deed;
His weapon many a hero gored,
And victory waited on his nod.
This knight, a plain escutcheon, wore,
No crest it claimed, no arms it bore;
This motto, simply met the sight;
"For the White Rose, and my own right."
Now, on the plain, the rage of battle storms,
Slaughter and horror, wade thro' seas of blood;
Death, in his car drives o'er the sinking forms,
And grimly swells the sanguinary flood.
Yes! widely o'er th' embattled field,
See Death, his sable banner wave;
Bathe, in blood, his dusky shield,
And, in gore, his coursers lave.
For, oh! in warfare fierce contending,
Smoke, and fire, and carnage, blending,
Opposing kindred rush to war:
Each rose-crowned banner, proudly roared,
With blood, of sire and son, is smeared;
Oh! dire reverse of nature's law!
But when did Britain own a son,
Who courted not the meed of fame,
Nor proudly met his boldest foe?
Yet within his dauntless breast,
Fair mercy would for ever rest,
And pity's warmest feelings glow;
Thus did he brighter laurels claim,
Thus deathless wreaths of glory won.
Yes, when in his proudest might,
He raging rushed into the fight,
And if, when in that elder day,
'Ere courtesy here lent her smile,
Or, bent unto her gentle sway,
The children of our isle;
'Tis true, the blood will proudly flow,
To mark the race her sires have run;
The Briton's heart must warmly glow,
At feats, by EDWARDS, HENRYS, won:
But now, what ardor fills the heart,
Impetuous rolls its purple tide,
When we, those fame-crowned deeds impart,
That swell the soul with patriot pride.
Fame, to each future age shall tell,
And, on the theme, with transport, dwell;
How Britons, ardent, bold, and free,
Fought in the cause of LIBERTY!
Oppression roused each soul to ire,
And fanned, of war, the raging fire.
Not their own wrongs;—for England's boast,
Now, in this free and happy day,
Is, that, upon her sea-girt coast,
Freedom reflects her brightest ray.
To sing the glories of our land,
To sound the virtues of our King,
Demands, that an immortal hand,
Should sweep a heavenly-breathing string!
To rescue, from a tyrant's yoke,
An adverse power, we dealt the blow;
The bars of hatred, virtue broke,
Forgetting Spain was once our foe.
And, to the verge of latest time,
'T will ring thro' tamed Iberia's clime,
How Talavera saw the foe,
Thro' British arms, in dust, laid low;
How, Badajoz, upon thy plain,
France saw her boasting myriads slain.
How Salamanca's airy height,
Saw WELLINGTON, with matchless might,
A brighter torch of glory light:
My soul, amidst this radiant blaze,
Forgets the deeds of former days;
And, with reluctance, quits the theme,
To trace, of time, the distant stream.
From misty dawn, to twilight pale,
The deeds of blood, and death prevail;
Victorious 'mid the combat glare,
The ragged staff, and shaggy bear.
Hushed is the horrid noise of war,
The war horn's blast resounds no more;
The deeds of death, at length are o'er;
The bloody slaughter Towton saw!
The day that saw thee boldly rise,
With hope, inflated on thy crest,
At eve beholds thy downcast eyes,
Thy saddened heart, thy soul deprest,
Oh, MARGARET of Anjou!
No more thou art a potent Queen,
Commanding an undaunted band;
Dismay, on every face, is seen,
Thyself must fly to Scotia's land,
Kind pity's aid to woo.
What streams of woe were shed the while,
For the lost heroes of the isle!
How many youths, in early bloom,
Bravely met a soldier's doom!
How many knights of riper age,
Were blotted from the living page!
Then Albion's daughters shed the tear,
O'er each chieftain's honored bier;
Each wept a son, or father, slain.
Each spouse beloved was mourned in vain:
And weeping maids, with sighs deplore,
The lovers they behold no more.
Within his tent, the Monarch lies;
No sleep invades his watchful eyes;
He pondered much upon the past,
But chiefly on that day, when last,
He bade to ISADORE adieu;
The fair one whom he loved, so true.
He thought that, in her azure eye,
He saw a covert pleasure lie,
When last he whispered, love, good bye.
His heart then beat for her alone,
But she no love for him would own:
What wretchedness it is to feel,
Deep, fond concern for others weal;
As thus, he mused on ISADORE,
A stranger stood, his eyes, before;
A warrior rushed into the tent;
A piercing shriek, the lady sent;
On him, she fixed her glaring eye,
Then heaved a deep, convulsive sigh.
"Spectre, avaunt! oh, hide that brow!
Comest thou, to blast my dying hour?
Did fiends record the guilty vow,
That bound thee in my vengeful power?
Thy life to misery I gave:
Thou com'st to guide me to the grave.
With force, the gallant warrior strove,
T' avert the ire of jealous love.
Awhile, aghast the warriors staid;
Then, on the couch, the corse they laid;
And, rushing from the scene of death,
Scarce could they draw their fluttering breath.
With horror written on each eye,
To WARWICK'S neighbouring tent they hie;
As, of his sleep, they break the bands,
He, starting from his rest, demands,
Soon as the direful fray was done,
And EDWARD, had the battle, won,
Dispatched he quick, to Raby's towers,
Lord EDENMERE, with special powers,
To free the dames,—who, there confined,
To pining grief, their days resigned.
The White Rose waves in triumph high,
Wide open, now, the portals fly;
Each strange reverse, had CICELY known,
Once, wife of him, who claimed the throne;
They bend their way to Ennerdale,
But GERTRUDE still, deep griefs assail;
These, will friends and kindred meet,
But none, will wretched GERTRUDE, greet;—
Then, deeply sighed the noble dame,
Her feelings, then, no words can name.
For there it was, in early youth,
She first, the loved MONTORRAN, viewed;
There, first, his vows of love and truth,
Her ear, with fond delight, imbued.
Then, in her beauty's blooming prime,
Nor cares, nor griefs had wrung her heart,
Nor chilled her ardent soul;
While he she loved, enraptured hung,
On the soft accents of her tongue;
While he she loved, her love returned,
And none so fair as her discerned;
Could thought of sorrow e'er invade,
The mind of the then happy maid?
But since, of grief, most dire and dark,
Had hapless GERTRUDE been the mark;
And, with the contrast sad, opprest,
The throes of misery heaved her breast.
But now, see, by the portal stand,
The youthful monarch of the land;
With duteous grace he bends the knee,
And hails the noble CICELY.
The lordly host, then near her drew,
And gave the princess welcome, due;
Then, lovely ISADORE, the last,
But she, the Duchess heedless past:
To GERTRUDE'S arms, with transport flew,
While joyful tears her cheeks bedew.
Then graceful turning to the dame,
"Forgive," she said, "this earlier claim;
GERTRUDE, with pensive, saddened gaze,
Seemed, for awhile, entranced, to stand;
She marked, where, in her early days,
MONTORRAN first, obtained her hand,
And trod, with her, the dances maze.
Advancing, from a pillar's shade,
A noble form, now homage paid;
His dark eye ever sent its ray,
Where GERTRUDE seemed, spell-bound, to stay:
Her eyes she raised, and dyed
away.
The knight with anxious, fond alarm,
Supports her with his circling arm;
While gratitude with wonder blends,
Around them press their joyful friends;
Soon was prepared the bridal rite,
But ISADORE knew not delight:
Then EDWARD whispered to the fair,
"How well becomes thy graceful air,
How well adorns thy matchless mien,
The high estate of England's Queen;
My subjects will thy merits hail,
And joy, thro' all my land, prevail;
In armor clad, arrayed like knight,
A graceful form, burst on their sight,
With noble air, and manly grace;
And youth shone brightly in his face:
His radiant eyes, with ardent ray,
Thro' silken shades, beamed lustrous day;
Upon his brow's expansive line,
Firm truth, and awful honor shine:
In ebon ringlets waved his hair;
Unhelmed, he moved with lofty air;
Awhile, he gazed upon the fair:
The motives now we must display,
Which urged Sir REGINALD to stray,
Where towered the turrets of GLENMORE;
And why, the Minstrel's garb, he wore.
He wished him name and birth to learn;
But MANFRED'S air and voice were stern,
If e'er he touched upon that strain:
As, him to urge, he knew were vain,
The youth resolved to ask no more;
But England's white-cliffed isle explore,
And the mysterious secret trace,
That seemed to shade his lineal race.
Glenmore, he fearless sought; but there,
All was enwrapt in gloom and care;
Absent its lord;—but Glenmore's maid,
Awhile, his wandering project, staid.
DE CLIFFORD'S name had met his ear,
As one, whose power, he ought to fear;
But if she were his father's foe,
His hapless son, she could not know:
Some whispered tale, or chance, might there,
Display the truth to OSWALD'S heir.
He sought admission to the dame,
Asserted then his minstrel claim;
And often might the Minstrel 'spy,
Her quivering lip, her rolling eye;
And how her conscience seemed to bleed,
Whene'er he sang of murd'rous deed,
And marked he well, the vengeful air,
With which she viewed the much-loved fair:
When he, the stranger's story, knew,
Some hope, within his bosom, grew;
Nor MANFRED, could the hero find,
Yet nought could daunt his ardent mind;
Resolved, he then, by deeds of arms,
T' obtain the dame, whose youthful charms,
His vows, impassioned, early gained,
And, but for her, he life disdained.
And now, with glory, round him beaming,
He sought his love;—presumptuous deeming,
And now, in EDWARD'S wavering mind,
Honor and love, alternate reign;
Pleased, in Sir REGINALD, to find,
His brave preserver of the plain:
He now, his gratitude could shew,
But must he ISADORE forego?—
Distraction, horror, grief, and woe!
The rites are staid;—mute, EDWARD stands:
His visage covered with his hands;
Honor, at length, the victory gained;
And, in his soul, the hero reigned:
Of each, he seized a willing hand;—
"Be joined," he cried, "in sacred band.
I fondly hoped, assiduous love,
Might win that heart, all pride above!
But truth's revealed, I clearly see,
Wretched, the fair, had been, with me.
He slowly raised his saddened eyes,
They spake how vast the sacrifice;
One lingering gaze, one last embrace,
The monarch claimed, and left the place:
And then were joined, to part no more,
Sir REGINALD, and ISADORE.
EDWARD pursued his hasty way,
To where bright Sol's refulgent ray,
The Muse will now, no more disclose,
The triumphs of each rival Rose;
But EDWARD leaves, awhile, to wield
The sceptre of the dear bought field.
Yet, 'ere she quite resigns the theme,
Irrelevant, she cannot deem,
A heaven-descended art, to name,
Which CAXTON, raised, to endless fame:
An art, which, like a blazing star,
Its light, transcendant, beamed afar;
All, to that art, should homage give!
Without it, would their actions live?
Religion! tell thy sacred band,
'T was this, to honor, raised the land!
In vain, had LUTHER'S zealous ire,
Inflamed his line, with holy fire!
Vainly, had fought, JOVE'S conquering son,
Or CÆSAR passed the Rubicon,
Or victory crowned great WELLINGTON!
But, that this art, now stamps the page,
With annals that outlive the age;
Vainly, might Rome, her glories boast,
And Greece, her vast Athenian host:
Possessed by few, their annals lay,
And Ignorance obscured the day.
When, lo! thro' thee, see Learning rise,
And Science lift her languid eyes:
For names like these, a Bard divine,
The wreath poetic, should entwine.
Those, then, I leave;—this latter day
Boasts names, whose ornamental ray,
Excels the prowess of my lay.
And would'st thou, for a NIDING base,
Thy name, thy rank, thy sire, disgrace?
On the effectual power of words, there have been great disputes, among great wits, in all ages. The Pythagoreans extolled it; the Jews ascribed all miracles to a name which was engraved in the revestiary of the Temple, watched
Reclined beneath an oak's broad shade,
The sacred banks of Dee beside;
That holy Dee, whose flowing tide,
The Druid rites, beholds no more;
The Dee was held in great veneration by our British ancestors, and its waters regarded as sacred and purifying. It derives its origin in the mountainous district of Merionethshire; and, after forming the lake of Pimble-Mere, passes through a series of very picturesque and grand scenes, and approaches the western border of this county, to which it forms a boundary from Worthenbury, to Aldford. It then passes on to Chester, whose fortified walls it nearly encircles, and afterwards flows to the west through an artificial channel; this river also forms a large sandy estuary, between the county of Flint and the hundred of Wirral, and joins the Irish Sea about fourteen miles from Chester. —Beauties of England.
The Druidæ, or Druids, were so called from Dryis, an oak, because the woods were the places of their residence. These ministers of religion, among the ancient Gauls and Britons, were divided into different classes called the Bardi, the Eubages, the Vates, the Semnothei, the Sarronides, and the Samothei. They taught the doctrine of the Metempsychosis, and believed the immortality of the soul. They were cruelly put to death, bravely defending the freedom of their country against the Roman governor Suetonius Paulinus, who totally destroyed every mark of Druidism in this island.
The orde of Druids is of great antiquity, as there were Druids in the time of Pythagoras, more than 600 years before our Saviour appeared on the earth.
It is also probable that the Druids derived their doctrine of the transmigration of souls from Pythagoras; for, as that great philosopher traversed the eastern part of the world in pursuit of knowledge, and to converse with the Brachmans, &c. it is very possible, that the same desire of information might lead him to visit the opposite part of the globe, to acquire a knowledge of
The Druids were original in Britain, and thence, the order passed into Gaul; of this, Cæsar gives express evidence.
The Druids taught their pupils in metre; hence the Bards held so high a rank among them. The verses of the ancient Bards is the sort of metre in which the Druids taught their Tyroes; some of these are traditional in Wales, Cornwall, and Scotland.
The oldest kind of British verse is that called, by Rhy's Grammar, Englyn Millar.
Among the Druids an age or generation was only thirty years, which seems to account for the number of years mentioned in old traditional accounts; which, at first view, according to our modern method of computation, gives them the appearance of being fabulous; but, when an age consisted only of thirty years, it was easy to give to their subjects an air of antiquity; and stories, which we might suppose were begun before the world was created, may be reasonably imagined to date their
The forest wild, of Delamere,
The Forest of Delamere is a very extensive tract, comprising great part of the hundred of Eddisbury. In the time of Leland, it abounded with red and fallow deer; but it is now a bleak and dreary waste, composed of deep sand and steril heath, and chiefly inhabited by rabbits, with a few black terns, which skim over the pools and stagnant waters that occupy it. Near a place called the Chamber of the Forest, once the centre of the woodland, a few stunted trees remain. This hundred contains no town of consequence; though tradition reports, that a large town formerly was seated in it; but no distinct records concerning it exist.—Beauties of England and Wales.—— Cheshire.
With daring bound, and agile leap,
Would climb Trecarris' rugged steep.
On the Eifl Hills is the most perfect and magnificent, as well as the most artful, of any British post I ever beheld. It is called Tre'r Caeri, or the Town of the Fortresses. This, which was the accessible side, is defended by three walls; the lowest is very imperfect, the next tolerably entire, and has in it the grand entrance. The Eifl mountains, make a distinguished figure with the Sugar-loaf points from various, and distant parts of the country; they range obliquely, and separate Lleyn from the hundred of Arfon, and jut into the sea near Vortigern's valley.
And on a scene sublime and grand,
From Vann's high mount, to Cleddau's strand,
Or proud Plinlimmon's lofty brow,
To where the Taffe's swift waters flow.
The base of the vast hill of Plinlimmon is most extensive, the top boggy and the view over a wild and almost uninhabited country. Part of it lies in the county of Montgomery, and part in Cardiganshire; besides the Severn, it gives rise to the Ridal, which flows to the sea near Abergstwyth; and the Wye, which precipitating, from its fountains, down some most romantic rocks, continues its course till it falls into the Severn near Chepstow.
The Vann, or Brecknock Beacon, is the highest mountain in South Wales.
The Cleddau in Pembrokeshire, and the swift flowing Taffe, are two small rivers which add much to the beauty of the counties through which they pass.
For not great EDWARD'S conquering powers,
Could chase from those, their native bowers,
The Minstrels' song, the
Borne on the gale their accents swell;
Still sounds the harp, on mountains high,
And vocal vales the notes reply.
"Though EDWARD THE FIRST, after the conquest of Wales, exercised a political cruelty over the Bards of his time, yet future princes thought fit to revive the Eisteddfod; an institution likely to soften the manners of a fierce people. These Eisteddfods were the British Olympics. Fired, at first, with generous emulation, our poets crowded into the list, and carried off the prize, contented at first, with victory. The Bardi (Bierdds of the Britons) were of great authority among the Celtic nations: the Germans were animated in battle, by verses delivered in a deep and solemn tone; among the Gauls, they sung the actions of great men; and particularly celebrated, in their hymns, the heroes who fell in battle.
"It is highly probable, that the Bards and Minstrels were under certain regulations, during the time of Druidism; but we find no proofs of them till long after: till the days of Cadwaladr, last king of Britain, who died at Rome, about the year 688. Of him, it is said, that being at an assembly of this nature, there came a Minstrel and played in a key so displeasing, that he and all his brethren were prohibited, under a severe penalty, from ever playing on it any more; but were ordered to
"I imagine, that previous to this, there had been musical regulations in Britain; for I find that a tune, called Gosteg yn Halen, or the prelude of the salt, was always played whenever the salt-seller was placed before King Arthur's Knights, at his round table.
"After Cadwaladr, the next princes who undertook the reform of our minstrelsy, were Bleddyn ap Cynsyn, and Gryffydd ap Cynan. The first was contemporary with the Conqueror; the last, with King Stephen. After the time of these princes, the great men, their descendants, took these people under their protection, allowing them the liberty of circuiting their respective territories thrice a year, viz. at Christmas, Easter, and Whitsunday; and principality, once in three years.
"The Bards were in the highest repute. They were supposed to be endowed with powers equal to inspiration. They were the oral historians of all past transactions public and private. They related great events of the state; and, like the Scalds of the northern nations, retained the memory of transactions, which, otherwise
"A commission for holding an Eisteddfod at Caerwys in Flintshire in 1568, is still in possession of the Mostyn family, together with the SILVER HARP, which had, from time immemorial, been in the gift of their ancestors to bestow on the chief of the faculty. This badge of honor is about five or six inches long, and furnished with strings equal to the number of the Muses."—Account of the Eisteddfod, in Pennant's Tour in Wales.
To MARGARET of the bloody Rose,
Augusta's gates would not unclose;
With EDWARD'S name her confines ring,
And WARWICK hails him England's King.
The northern soldiers of MARGARET, declared they
Mark, where, upon the Aire's hoar strand,
The LORD FITZWALTER takes his stand.
As soon as EDWARD was come to Pontefract, he detached the LORD FITZWALTER to secure the passage of Ferribridge, upon the river Aire; which was necessarily to be passed in order to join his enemies. FITZWALTER
The DUKE OF SOMERSET, hearing EDWARD had secured the passage of Ferribridge, did not doubt that it was with intention to fight, and to oblige him to do it with disadvantage, resolved to dislodge FITZWALTER, in order to have the river between him and his enemies. Pursuant to this resolution, the LORD CLIFFORD was detached to recover the post seized by FITZWALTER. Whether FITZWALTER was guilty of any negligencer or was not timely supported, he could not withstand CLIFFORD'S attack, who drove his troops over the rive , with great slaughter. FITZWALTER and a natural son of the EARL OF SALISBURY, were slain in the action.—Rapin.
When WARWICK'S ears the tidings meet,
The blood forsakes the chieftain's cheek,
The EARL OF WARWICK was considered as the soul of EDWARD'S army. The King was looked upon as a valiant young prince without experience, and the EARL OF WARWICK as the real general. Accordingly, all eyes were fixed upon him, to see, by his countenance, whether there was reason to hope or fear. The news of FITZWALTER'S defeat being brought to the EARL, he seemed in a great consternation, dreading this first check might discourage the army. He immediately hasted to inform the King, with an emotion, that plainly discovered how apprehensive he was of the consequences. But, withal, to shew his fears were not personal, he stabbed his horse and kissing the hilt of his sword, made like a cross, swore that though the whole army should take flight, he would alone defend the King's cause.—Rapin.
But EDWARD, all courageous, hears,
What fills great WARWICK'S breast with fears.
EDWARD, perceiving the Earl's concern, judged it necessary to prevent the ill-effects it might produce among the troops. Instead, therefore, of being alarmed at the news, he made proclamation, that all who desired it, might depart; that he would reward all that should do their duty; but there was no favor to be expected for those who should fly during the battle.—Rapin.
Then FAUCONBRIDGE, with sword and lance,
And secret haste, he bade t' advance.
EDWARD detached WILLIAM NEVIL, LORD FAUCONBRIDGE to pass the Aire at Castleford, about three miles from Ferribridge, with orders to attack those who guarded the post so lately lost. FAUCONBRIDGE executed his orders with such secrecy and expedition, that he passed the river at Castleford, before the enemies had the least notice. Then marching along the river, he met
The post he gained, the pass he won,
So from the cloud emerged the sun;
The device of EDWARD was a SUN; which now, bursting from the obstacles which momentarily impeded its bright career, illumed the youthful owner to victory. "The post of Ferribridge being thus fortunately recovered, EDWARD, who held himself ready, passed his army over the river and immediately marched in quest of his enemies."—Rapin.
Then, to the vengeful CLIFFORD'S heart,
Was urged, by fate, an iron dart;
By death, the bloody chief was seized,
And RUTLAND'S manes were appeased.
"CLIFFORD was slain with an arrow, in the beginning of the battle;—too light a punishment for his in-
That CLIFFORD'S treatment of the youthful and unoffending EARL OF RUTLAND, was inhuman, every feeling heart must acknowledge,—But it must be remembered that CLIFFORD lived in a barbarous age; and it is to be hoped that the motive of his crime, and his death, expiated his fault in the eyes of the Judge of all men. The father of CLIFFORD was slain by RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, at the battle of St. Alban's; when CLIFFORD vowed vengeance on the whole line of YORK. Thus, filial love mingles with his revenge, and serves as a palliative for what must otherwise be deemed a wanton act of cruelty.
Soon, Tawton
, doth thy blood-stained plain,
Groan with heaps of patriots slain;
The following Letter gives us a very curious and authentic account of the bloody battle of Tawton , a village about ten miles S. W. from York, fought on Palm Sunday, the 29th of March 1461; within a month after
The facts here related are those sent by the King himself to his mother, CICELY, DUCHESS OF YORK. This account did not arrive in London, till six days after the battle.
"Please you to know and weet of such tidings, as my LADY OF YORK hath by a letter of credence, under the sign manual of our Sovereign Lord, King EDWARD; which letter came unto our said Lady, this same day Easter Even at eleven o'clock, and was seen and read by one William Paston.
"First, Our Sovereign Lord hath won the field; and upon the Monday next after Palm Sunday, he was received into York with great solemnity and processions. And the Mayor and Commons of the said city made their means (mediation) to have grace, by Lord Montague, and Lord Banners; which, before the King's coming into the said city, desired him of grace for the said city, which granted him grace.
"On the King's part is slain Lord Fitzwalter, and
"On the contrary part is dead, Lord Clifford, Lord Welles, Lord Wylloughby, Anthony Lord Scale, Lord Henry (query Stafford), and by supposition the Earl of Northumberland, Andrew Trollop, with many others, gentle and commons, to the number of twenty thousand.
"Item, King Harry, the Queen, the Prince, Duke of Somerset, Duke of Exeter, Lord Roos, be fled into Scotland, and they be chased and followed, &c. We send no er (no sooner) unto you, because we had none certain till now, for unto this day London was as sorry city as might; and because Spordams had no certain tidings, we thought ye should take them a worth (as you would) till more certain.
"Item, Thorp Waterfield is yielded, as Spordams can tell you.
"And Jesu speed you; we pray you that this tidings my mother may know.
"By your Brother,On a piece of paper pinned to the above letter, is a list of the names of the nobleman and knights and the number of soldiers slain at the above battle of Towton, as follows:
This number is considerably less than that given by our historians. (Rapin mentions six and thirty thousand.)
"Sir Richard Fynes was at this time Lord Dacre, but he was not killed in this battle."—Original Letters.
So Anjou's Princess in the fight appears,
According to Rapin, &c. MARGARET OF ANJOU was not present at this battle, but remained at York with her royal and unfortunate husband; however, as the author met with an old account which mentioned her commanding in person at Towton, she has adopted the latter idea as adding to the interest of the scene.
See WARWICK moves, his armour beaming far,
The great in arms, the terrible in war;
Majestic, as of old, stern AJAX trod,
When in the field, he spoke and looked a god.
The EARL OF WARWICK is too remarkable a character
The following Letter is from him to a friend; and, as only two of his private letters are extant, it will be interesting from its rarity, and being the production of so great a character.
"Right trusty, and well-beloved friend, we greet you well, heartily desiring to hear of your welfare, which we pray God to preserve to your heart's desire; and if please you to hear of our welfare; we were in good health at the making of this letter, pray you heartily that ye will consider our message, which our Chaplain, Master Robert Hopton, shall inform you of; for as God knoweth, we have great business daily, and have had here before this time; wherefore, we pray you to consider the purchase which we have made with one John Swyffhcote (Southcote), an Esquire of Lincolnshire, of £88 by the year, whereupon, we must pay the last payment the Monday next after St. Martin's day (11th of November), which sum is £458: wherefore, we pray you with all our heart, that ye will lend us ten or twenty pounds, or what the said Master Robert wants of his payment, as we may
"Written at London, on All-Soul's day, within our lodging, in the Grey Friars, within Newgate.
"RICHARD, EARL OF WARWICK."His promise for the repayment of the money at the time fixed, is by his Knighthood, a sacred promise in that age of Chivalry.
"The EARL OF WARWICK lodged at his house in the Grey Friars, when he came to London, by the King's desire, in 1458, to meet the Lords of the opposite party on amicable terms. The seal of this letter is of red wax,
In this epistle we learn the difference between the value of money in that age, and the present, for the great Earl of Warwick seems as anxious to borrow ten or twenty pounds as many noblemen and gentlemen in our age are to obtain ten or twenty thousand, and the value of the sum may be estimated by the sacred promise which the Earl gives of repayment; had it not been reckoned considerable he would not surely have thought it necessary to pledge his Knigthood .
In favour of their kindred rose
Then fall the fast-descending snows.
And guided by the driving wind
The troops of Lancaster they blind.
More fatal prove the darts of air
Than those which in their hands they bear.
Henry's army was sixty thousand strong, and Ed-
To sing the glories of our land,
To sound the virtues of our King,
Demands that an immortal hand
Should sweep a heavenly-breathing string.
The Author trusts that every loyal Briton who honors this Poem with a perusal, will pardon the digression in
From misty dawn, to twilight pale,
The deeds of blood and death prevail.
This terrible battle lasted from seven in the morning till dark; from which the obstinacy of the conflict may be conceived.
Victorious mid the combat glare
The ragged staff and shaggy bear.
The Bear and Ragged Staff was the device of the great and victorious Warwick, upon his return from Calais; his followers were distinguished by wearing on the sleeves of their garments those emblems in silver.
Then flowing Wharf thy beauteous flood
Distilled for England tears of blood,
A thousand warriors swell thy wave,
The hero's tomb, the soldier's grave.
Edward had, before the battle, made proclamation in his army that no quarter should be given, well knowing, the taking of prisoners would but weaken his army. The flying troops shaped their course towards Tadcaster bridge, but, despairing to reach it, because they were so hotly pursued by their enemies, they turned aside in order to pass the Cock, which runs into the Dherf or Wharf. This was done in such confusion and hurry that the river was immediately filled with those who were drowned, and who in their misfortune, served for a bridge to their companions. The slaughter is said to have been so great in this place, that the waters of the Wharf were all dyed with the blood.
Yet e'en in death to pride resigned,
Their prompt assistance she declined;
Her tottering frame she feebly raised,
Alternate on them both she gazed;
Triumph one moment fired her eye,
She cried, your power I now defy!
The bandage from her temples tore,
Then breathless fell, to rise no more.
At a time when beauty and accomplishments, are chiefly spoken of, and virtue and useful acquirements are seldom taken into the scale of female adornment, every opportunity ought to be embraced of shewing the deformity of vice, and it has been the aim of the author to evince, in the character of JANE DE CLIFFORD, that the arrows of beauty are powerless when aimed at the worthy and the sensible, unless tipped by virtue and guided by discretion. Let modesty be once cast aside and woman becomes a monster of depravity! Rome had her Messalina, Greece her Helen; but, however the taste
Each strange reverse had CICELY known.
Great indeed were the reverses in the life of this Princess; descended from royalty, brought up in princely
Then CAXTON formed the noble plan,
Which now from ignorance rescues man,
Then Printing, art divine! began.
WILLIAM CAXTON, the first who introduced the art of printing with fusile types into England, was born about the latter end of the reign of Henry the Fourth. Being about fifteen, he was put apprentice to Mr. Robert
CAXTON printed several other pieces, either of his own composition, or translated by him. His last work was a translation from the French of "The Holy Lives of the Fathers, Hermits living in the Deserts;" and we are told by Wynken de Worde, that he finished his life and translation together, on the same day in 1491.—Jones's Bio. Dist.
CAXTON first practised the art of printing in Westminster Abbey. But though to CAXTON this country is indebted for an art of the first utility, the original inventor was John de Guttemburgh, a citizen of Strasbourgh, who, in conjunction with Fust or Faustus, and Peter Schæffer or Schuffer, the servant, and afterwards
Religion, tell thy sacred band
'Twas this to honor raised the land.
In vain had Luther's zealous ire
Inflamed his line with holy fire;
In vain his high superior mind,
No more by fetters base, confined,
Had sought, a blinded world, to free,
Had not his works diffused by thee,
Oh, heavenly art! been widely spread;
They to this nation's glory led.—
MARTIN LUTHER an illustrious German divine and reformer of the Church, born at Toleben in Saxony, 1483. He studied at Erfurth, being designed for a Civilian, but an awful catastrophe made such an impression on his mind that he resolved to retire from the world; as he was walking in the fields with a fellow-
As it would be irrelevant to the original subject of the Poem, to give more than a brief sketch of the life of this great Reformist, the Author forbears to give an account of the persecutions which he met with on account of his opinions.
The name of LUTHER must ever be held in veneration by the true members of the Established Church, and not only by Churchmen but by every Englishman, by every individual who is a true subject in the British dominions; as, whoever reads the history of this country will perceive,
Of Popery broke th' enthralling chain
Which never may we owe again.
Perhaps some of those who are friendly to the Roman Catholic cause, on perusing the above lines may believe the Author a narrow-minded-bigot, she is not so. A Roman Catholic individual in distress would be to her an equal object of pity and benevolence with a Protestant; but as a collective body, she by no means wishes them to succeed in their present views. For what can they wish but absolute power? are they restrained in their religion or their personal liberty? No—power then is their aim—it has been said what can we have to fear from Roman Catholic influence, for the head of their Church is a feeble old man who is now under the dominion of Bonaparte?—true, but these very arguments tend rather to subvert than support the cause they would uphold. That feeble old man will not live for ever, most probably but a few years, and should Bonaparte still retain any power, upon the demise of this Pope, he will elevate
The Author is conscious that some apology is due to her Readers for the number of historical notes which she has inserted, but as she thought it probable that her work might be perused by some young people who are not well acquainted with the history of their own country, she thought it right to give her authorities for the historical part of the Poem, and to enable them to distinguish between the true and fictious part of this story.
The Author also trusts that she shall be excused for
The annexed autographs from those engraved in the original letters are copied: the Author thought them valuable specimens of the writing of that age.
1. R. YORK.—2. R. WARWICK.—3. SUFFOLK.—4. SALISBURY.
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