Part 2

The leveret—but I spare the rest, I see compassion touch thy breast— Come then, and whilst the murderous crew In harmless blood their hands imbrue, Rous’d to revenge by ravag’d flocks, Haste we to find the kennell’d fox. Hark! those preluding cries he hears; Thick beats his heart with conscious fears. Some tyrant thus, in luckless hour Whom fraud or force has rais’d to pow’r, With throbbing heart and pale eye stands, And spreads to heaven his harpy hands, When Freedom’s voice alarms the morn, And Vengeance winds her echoing horn. See, with the wind he scours away Sleek, and in crimes grown old and gray! Oft has he foil’d our angry pack, I know his customary track. Talk not of pity to such foes! Stern justice claims the life he owes. No storms arise to screen his flight; ’Tis long till interrupting night; The breathing South his sentence gives, And not an hour the caitiff lives! Through woods, and hills, and vales, and brakes, NEEDWOOD with general transport shakes. Mark how the pack diffusely spread, And shew me, if you can, their head! ’Tis here—’tis there—now onward far Streams down the vales irregular. As through the furzy brakes they drive The trembling coverts seem alive. Thus by the winds o’er bending corn Loose waves of light and shade are born. Now winding up yon steep they strain; Now wheel in silence on the plain: Again they catch the tainted wind; No hound disgraceful lurks behind: All striving with confederate aim, Their size, their power, their speed the same, With eager eye and clamorous tongue In broad career they press along, Fierce on their victim gathering round— —He suffers by no single wound! Thus o’er the azure fields of night Shoot the quick rays of northern light, To one bright point converg’d they flow, And round the silver zenith glow. So, when a lake surcharg’d by rain Bursts, and o’erwhelms the sloping plain, The wond’ring rustic flies, nor knows Which of its currents fastest flows; Now here the rattling eddies lead, Now there they foam along the mead, Till in a silent pool they stand, Collected on the hollow land.

Go languid fops, go pedants, waste Your sneers on joys you cannot taste; And cloak with many a vain pretence Cold-blooded fear and indolence!

Warm to each elegant delight, Ingenious, sensible, polite, Known to the world you know so well, Lov’d e’en by those whom you excel, MEYNELL, my leader and my friend, Stand forth! the manly chase defend! O raise your animating voice, And cheer the Dian of your choice! Not her, whose foul Circean draft ’Squires of preceding ages quaff’d, Unletter’d reveller, whose joys Were rudeness, turbulence, and noise, But her, no less of British kind, Well-bred, intelligent, refin’d, Of younger years and purer mold, Chaste as the Huntress Queen of old.

Yes, I am thine, enchanting maid! Come, in thy decent robes array’d! O bring thy blithe companion, Health, Who smiles, and mocks the sluggard Wealth; And Hope, who spleen and care destroys; And Rapture scorning tamer joys; Young Eagerness with kindling eyes; And Triumph mingling jocund cries!

Come, as thy cheerful train is seen, Where FOREMARKE waves his woodlands green; When hears his vale thy matin song, And TRENT exulting shouts along: While wait, thy gay return to greet, Convivial Mirth and Welcome sweet.— On me, thy humbler votary, shower The balmy dews of every flower, Which oft thy curious hand has twin’d Thy BURDETT’S favour’d brows to bind!

PART, V.

Whence, NEEDWOOD, that tremendous sound!— —Low dying murmurs run around, A deeper gloom the wood receives, And horror shivers on the leaves, Loud shriekes the hern, the raven croaks— Destruction’s arm arrests thy oaks![33] Onward with giant strides he towers, Dooms with dread voice thy withering bowers, High o’er his head the broad axe wields, Stamps with his iron foot, and shakes the fields!

When from her lawless rocks and sands Arabia pours her ruffian bands, The village hinds in wild distress Around some holy hermit press Orb within orb, their wrongs declare, And ask his counsel and his prayer; All white with age, inspir’d he stands, And lifts to heaven his wrinkled hands! So seems the affrighted forest, drawn In crowds around this lonely lawn: High in the midst with many a frown Huge SWILCAR shakes his tresses brown,[34] Out-spreads his bare arms to the skies, The ruins of six centuries, Deep groans pervade his rifted rind— —He speaks his bitterness of mind. “Your impious hands, barbarians, hold! “Ye pause! but fir’d with lust of gold, “Your leader lifts his axe, and like “Accursed JULIUS, bids you strike.[35] “Deaf are the ruthless ears of gain, “And youth and beauty plead in vain. “—Loud groans the wood with thick’ning strokes! “Yes, ye must perish, filial oaks! “In heaps your wither’d trunks be laid, “And wound the lawns, ye used to shade; “Whilst Avarice on the naked pile “Exulting casts a hideous smile. “Strike here! on me exhaust your rage, “Nor let false pity spare my age! “No pity dwells with sordid slaves; “’Tis want of worth alone that saves. “Yes, ye will leave me with disdain “A mouldring land-mark on the plain, “Where many a reign my trunk hath stood “Proud father of the circling wood. “In freedom’s dearest days I grew,[36] “And HENRY’S jealous nobles knew; “I saw them pierce the bounding game, “And heard their horn announce the claim. “No more, beneath my favorite shade, “The forest youth and village maid “Shall meet to plight their troth, and mark “Their loves memorial on my bark.

“Yet, yet, fond Hope, thy distant light[37] “Beams unexpected on my sight; “Lo VERNON hastes, the common friend! “The affrighted forest to defend; “Bids the keen axe the saplings spare, “And makes posterity his care. “Yes, Joy shall see these scenes renew’d, “Shall wake his sister Gratitude, “Shall call on lawns and hills and dells “The silent echoes from their cells, “Long trains of golden years proclaim, “And NEEDWOOD ring with VERNON’S name.”

He ceas’d, and shook his hoary brow: Glad murmurs fill the vale below, The deer in gambols bound along, The plighted birds resume their song.

Thrice-venerable Druid, hail! O may thy sacred words prevail, May NEEDWOOD’S oaks successive stand The lasting wonder of the land!— And may some powerful bard arise, Tho’ heaven to me that power denies, The POPE or DENHAM of his days, Whose lofty verse shall match their praise.

_FINIS._

ADDRESS TO SWILCAR OAK, DESCRIBED IN MR. MUNDY’S POEM ON NEEDWOOD FOREST,

Hail, stately oak, whose wrinkled trunk hath stood Age after age, the sov’reign of this wood; You, who have seen a thousand springs unfold Their ravell’d buds, and dip their flowers in gold; Ten thousand times yon moon relight her horn, And that bright eye of evening gild the morn.

Say, when of old the snow-hair’d druids pray’d With mad-ey’d rapture in your hallow’d shade, While to their altars bards and heroes throng, And crouding nations join the ecstatick song; Did e’er such dulcet notes arrest your gales, As MUNDY pours along the list’ning vales?

Yes, stately oak, thy leaf-wrapp’d head sublime Erelong must perish in the wrecks of time; Shou’d o’er thy brow the thunders harmless break, And thy firm roots in vain the whirlwinds shake, Yet must thou fall,—thy withering glories sunk, Arm after arm shall leave the mould’ring trunk!

But MUNDY’S verse shall consecrate thy name, And rising forests envy SWILCAR’S fame: Green shall thy gems expand, thy branches play, And bloom for ever in the immortal lay.

E. D.

A RURAL CORONATION, Inscribed to Mr. MUNDY, On reading his POEM ON NEEDWOOD FOREST.

Haste from your dells, your woods, and lawns, Nymphs, Naiads, Satyrs, Fays, and Fauns, Haste! hither bring your flowers and boughs, And weave a wreath for MUNDY’S brows!

First twigs of oak from SWILCAR rend, And round his auburn temples bend; Then tye the ends, that twisting meet, With tendrils from the wood-bine sweet: With laurel-blossoms next be spread Pale ivy crosswise o’er his head; These holly sprigs insert between, —The berries blush amid the green— While hare-bells blue, and lilies fair, Mix’d with the wild-rose, deck his hair.

Now with fantastick step advance, And hand in hand around him dance; To oaten pipe attune his lays, And hail the bard, who sings your praise. “While the gay choirings of the grove “Give breath to harmony and love, “And golden furze and purple ling “Around their mix’d embroidery fling, “And, all irregularly join’d, “Th’ according outline waves behind.”

A. S.

SONNET.

Mundy, whose song hath taught the forest swain To view fair NEEDWOOD thro’ the radiance clear Of bright imagination, taught the tear To glisten in his eye for other’s pain, And own that taste and virtue are not vain, How was thy pipe melodious wont to cheer The wintry groves, when every leaf was sear, And brighten summer with its artful strain!— Say, by what meed shall NEEDWOOD court thy stay? She unsuspecting twines in amorous care Her favorite holly and her flower-bells gay, To deck with modest hand her lover’s hair,— Ah, do not thou her gentle hope betray, And doom her tender bosom to despair!

B. B.

_On_ Mr. MUNDY’s _Needwood Forest_.

Where NEEDWOOD’S banks embroidered smile On bright-hair’d Dove, the british Nile, Pleas’d MUNDY fix’d his easel strong, And stretch’d his canvass wide and long; Broad o’er his hand the pallet lies With pencils for a thousand dyes. He look’d, and drew, and look’d again,— —Enamour’d Fancy snatch’d the pen, Nymphs, Graces, Loves around him throng, With all the sisterhood of song: Bright tints by fairy hands were mix’d. And Witchcraft etch’d the shades betwixt.

Delighted Flora smil’d and drew The primrose pale, and violet blue. A Naiad spreads the flake of snow,—[38] White foams the glittering stream below. “Give me the pallet,” Love demands, And stretching forth his baby hands Dip’d with nice touch his keenest shaft In all the blushing lakes, and laugh’d;[39] With sweetest grace the pencil flow’d, With softest tints the canvass glow’d; “I’ll draw Mamma,” the Wanton cries, And TALBOT’S features charm our eyes! With airy ease the white neck bends, Lock after lock the hair descends: O’er the fair form the Graces spread Their vest, and Hymen wreaths the head.

And then Thalia, muse of woe, Moves o’er the woof her crayon slow. Here, cold, bewilder’d, tir’d, forlorn, The Traveller sighs in vain for morn; Stretch’d on the imprinted snow he lies, And bends on heaven his stiffening eyes. There Friendship sits the shade beneath, And twines for CLARKE a fadeless wreath; Fresh cypress with the flowers she weaves, And many a tear-drop gems the leaves. Next o’er the lawn a virgin throng In sad procession moves along, Lorn Loves inverted torches bear, And Pity weeps o’er VERNON’S bier.

To shade the distant ground, and lay The rising group in bolder day, A Dryad chalks some dusky strokes,— Behind umbrageous frown her oaks! And SWILCAR, rent by many a storm, Rears high in air his leafless form.

Pleas’d MUNDY stood with eager eyes, And watch’d the living figures rise; Smil’d as the varying colours flow’d, And sigh’d by turns, and chill’d, and glow’d: And to the admiring world has shewn The immortal tablet for his own.

E. D. Jun.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

THE FALL OF NEEDWOOD.

=Derby:=

PRINTED AT THE OFFICE OF J. DREWRY.

[Illustration]

1808.

THE FALL OF NEEDWOOD.

Ah, Needwood! I, whose early voice Taught thy shrill echoes to rejoice; I, who first pour’d the sylvan song Thy glades, thy banks, thy lawns along; I, who with artless pencil drew Thy Forest charms of varied hue, Approach thee now with different strain, That mourns thy wrongs, yet mourns in vain: I come, but not with former haste, To view the dim unshelter’d Waste, That once was Needwood: on thy brow No green-rob’d Wood-nymph beckons now: Yet be thy Spirit sooth’d to bear My Requiem through the void of air!

O Draycot Cliff! again thy height, Known beacon of my young delight, With sad’ning thoughts, that much portend Of change and tumult, I ascend; Nor flatter’d by thy levell’d way, That smiles, like worldlings, to betray. How swells my aged heart, now near Scenes to my happiest youth so dear! How sinks that heart, as these arise Distorted, to my anguish’d eyes! Where are those ample plains, display’d ’Mong woods with many an opening glade? Where is the wild doe bounding by, Once emblem of their liberty? No stragglers from the warren fleet Scud cross my path with flirting feet. No jealous blood-hound, brave and proud, Throws from the lodge his challenge loud.

O hear me on thy summits tall, Time-honour’d Needwood! hear my call! For thou my filial voice hast known.— No answer follows—hark! a groan! His ancient seats I seek in vain; He, nor his ancient seats remain; But in strange horror staring round, A Spectre, pointing to his wound, Of hideous shape, with bald head, stalks Before me o’er the ravag’d walks; Where Desolation grim affrights[40] Sham’d Ceres in unhallow’d rites; Where the check’d Plunderer shrinks aside, As by his own deed terrified, Or fears, from many a faithful root, Vengeance in ambush at his foot.

Wavering alike in mind and pace, I roam, familiar haunts to trace; The winds, that bow me as I go, Rush unrestrain’d, as wild with woe, Or querulously vex’d to miss The blooming groves they lov’d to kiss. Each spot discover’d has its tale; Seems a friend’s voice in every gale; Wak’d Recollection starts aghast, And thoughtful sighs o’er pleasures past.

When Nature, with exulting smile, Form’d from her stores this happy Isle, Curious, and bounteously intent To raise a central ornament, She cull’d the brightest and the best; And heap’d them on her darling’s breast: Sprung joyful to her warm embrace Th’ appointed Genius of the Place; His features fair young Beauty drew; On her soft lap the fondling grew. The Seasons came his birth to greet, And pour’d their choicest at his feet; The Dryads quaintly curl’d his locks; Nymphs, Fauns, and Satyrs rush’d in flocks, Pleas’d in such Fairy-land to dwell, And peopled every bower and dell. Kings mark’d the consecrated ground; And Power protective watch’d around. Long Mercia sat beside enthron’d;[41] And prouder crowns its honours own’d.[42] Delighted Ages list’ning heard The wild hoof beat the tainted swerd, The glad’ning hound and echoing horn, And hunters’ shouts far onward born. How did his dignity excel! Blush, blush ye Times when Needwood fell!

’Twas Avarice with his harpy claws, Great Victim! rent thy guardian laws; Loos’d Uproar with his ruffian bands;[43] Bade Havoc show his crimson’d hands; Grinn’d a coarse smile, as thy last deer Dropp’d in thy lap a dying tear; Exulted in his schemes accurst, When thy pierc’d heart, abandon’d, burst; And, glozing on the public good, Insidious demon! suck’d thy blood. Detested ever be that day, Which left thee a defenceless prey! May never sun its presence cheer! O be it blotted from the year!

Where now the Forest-freeman’s boast? His joys, his hopes, his name are lost. Repentant claimants of the soil![44] } Your’s keen remorse and thankless toil; } Strangers and hirelings snatch the spoil. } Too late ye mourn your glory gone; Too late the deed yourselves have done. Thus, fell Owhyhee’s senseless crew, Him, their best friend, their idol, slew; Shar’d his torn limbs with savage pride; Then griev’d, infatuate! that he died. Ah, who but knows and loves the lay, Which Seward hung on Cook’s Morai? O had I such melodious tear, Lamented Needwood, for thy bier!

Forests of England! ye might claim A proud share in her ancient fame. Tell your forgetful country, tell, When dangers dread her state befell, How rush’d your sons in hardy bands, Their long bows in their skilful hands; How far the foremost and the best,[45] On fierce invading foes they press’d; With what sure aim their arrows flew, Whistling the death song ere they slew. You, in your secret labyrinths, spread[46] Your dark shields o’er great Alfred’s head, True to your charge. The ruthless Dane Brandish’d his reeking blade in vain. ’Twas your’s to nurse that mighty mind, Where every Virtue sat enshrin’d. Your hush’d leaves parted, as the beams[47] Of glory shot, and fir’d his dreams. You fann’d his patriot bosom’s glow; You tun’d his harp; you trimm’d his bow.[48] He imag’d in your wolves his foes; And practis’d Vengeance keener rose. Your proud oaks lean’d[49] to court the hand, Which England’s conquering navy plann’d. Your song-birds[50] taught him to convey Mild manners in attractive lay; While Liberty, the nymph you love,[51] Braided the silken bands he wove. On circled lawns, in secret glade, You marshall’d thousands to his aid, Then gave him from your woods to shine A Cæsar and an Antonine. There the bright wreaths of Victory grew; And Themis pluck’d her wand from you. Rouz’d vigorous by the morning air, So quits the monarch stag his lair;[52] With fresh fray’d beams his rival seeks;[53] His meditated vengeance wreaks; And, stamping on the mountain’s brow, Claims homage from the vale below.

On yonder castled cliff of old,[54] Needwood, how throng’d thy archers bold, When there, for deeds of arms array’d, His banner princely Gaunt display’d! And fill’d they not his chosen ranks[55] On distant Ebro’s oliv’d banks? Spain’s boasted slingers! soon ye fled[56] From English bowmen, Forest-bred. Fame stak’d her dearest honours there: And won not Needwood’s sons their share?

Illustrious History, bear me back Up golden Time’s recorded track, And bring from thy illumin’d page The heroes of that martial age, When knightly valour’s own right hand Sought fame, and spoil, and high command! Say, as they pass in bright review, What favourite takes precedence due! They come—the pride and pomp of war Mark their disastrous course afar. Ah, while the mad’ning trumpet brays, Fields reek with blood and cities blaze; Fell cries for glory or a crown The skrieks of wives and orphans drown. See English Richard’s crest advance!— Back from the lightning of his lance! Hark! nations hail in loud accord[57] His lion heart and victor sword. Cease, cease thy boasting, clarion vain! Truth gives my lyre a purer strain. Blush, as thy people, haughty king, Shout for the man thy Minstrels bring,[58] And offer, with less guilty claim, A Forest Yeoman’s humble name! How sweetly pours that bugle shrill It’s mellow tones o’er dale and hill, As Sherwood’s Hero, down the glade,[59] Steps with his bow and bright brown blade,[60] His feather’d arrows, broad and keen, Hung lightly o’er his gown of green! A robber! say’st thou? Thy harsh laws, Oppressor, and the poor man’s cause Led him, indignant, to the wood, With bold pretence of rights withstood. Churls, with no feeling but for self, Yield to his better hands your pelf! Such trespass Fear disdains to hide; And hoodwink’d Justice peeps aside. The liberal air his freeborn soul Lifts high, in scorn of base controul. In fellowship and fealty bound, Firm as the knights of Table Round, Him and his hundred, tall and fleet, Not twice two hundred care to meet. Minions, oppose not his career! He seeks no slaughter, but of deer. Yet will he pass unquestion’d by: Raise but your weapons and ye die! Start not fair maids! your path pursue Unharm’d; he guards its peace for you; And cheers, on each occasion kind, In age or want, the hamlet hind. Here, warriors, to the Forest turn, True courage and its use to learn! Here, nobles, to the wood resort, For courtesy unknown at court!— Needwood, this brave man was thy guest;[61] Love crown’d the day, and Mirth the feast.

Region, where all delights were found, How look’st thou now? a burial ground! With sad memorials, here and there, Of what was noble, free, and fair. King’s-standing, with a tortur’d frown,[62] Marks its own splendour overthrown. Whate’er of wood or lawn could please, Whate’er of hills that rang’d with ease, In grand assemblage broad display’d, This far commanding mount survey’d. How chang’d! those oaks, that tower’d so high, Dismember’d, stript, extended, lie; On the stain’d turf their wrecks are pil’d,[63] Where thousand Summers bask’d and smil’d; In smouldering heaps their limbs consume;[64] The dark smoke marks their casual tomb; From blacken’d brakes,[65] the choak’d winds toss The ashes of the golden goss; While great with power, yon Wretch[66] derides And boasts the mischief, which he guides. Thus, when, in unsuspecting peace, Rush’d Scythia’s hordes on fertile Greece, Mars, their grim god, whom heaven abhors, Urg’d with fell taunts to wasteful wars. Valley! where Marebrook, all unveil’d,[67] Her slender line, far shining, trail’d, With frequent curves thy slopes between, As loth to quit the enticing scene; Or turning with young fawns to play, Wily and volatile as they; Alluring, with her tinkling sweet, From bank to bank their timid feet; Lov’d Valley! now no charm invites My steps to rove these injur’d heights; Thy wavy knolls the fence arrests; The rude spade wounds thy swelling breasts; Rent her fair locks and mantle rich, Forlorn along that hateful ditch Thy violated Naiad steals, And in foul streams her shame conceals.

These broad roots bore a secret grove, Where I was wont at eve to rove; And, while low-thoughted cares retired, Wrapp’d in fond musings, Fancy-fir’d, Saw what alone the mind’s eye sees; Heard other whisperings than the breeze; And knights and dames, and dwarfs portray’d,[68] And bright arms gleaming down the glade; Drew Magic, muttering powerful spell; And Witchcraft with demoniac yell. Hark! the last trunk that axe assails; See! the plough tears the writhing vales; Stop, thoughtless clown! nor dare to bring Destruction on that Fairy-Ring, Imprinted deep with stainless green, And lasting beauty, seldom seen. E’en Winter paus’d that turf to spare; Nor look’d the fiery Dog-star there. And once more may Titania come, With farewell, to her ancient home; But, for the bee bird’s gaudy plume,[69] Wav’d o’er her neck in quivering bloom, Funereal spray of dismal hue, Of cypress, or the baleful yew, Join’d with the nightshade’s deadly flow’r, Shall darkly o’er her forehead low’r. Attendant Fays, in mournful throng, Nor trace the dance, nor raise the song; While, for the shrill reed’s cheerful sound, That led them lightly tripping round, Beetles and drones, with hummings low, Measure their footfalls sad and slow.— Alas, no gentle sprite remains! But foul fiends scour th’ affrighted plains, Rob of their honours hills and lawns, Trace the mean ditch that greedy yawns, And teach the reptile hedge to crawl; Twin pests, confederate, seizing all.

What old man with his gray dog sits, What blind man, by those sandy pits? ’Tis Manuel![70]—and he rests him, where My fox-earth was his nightly care.— Ah, come not now to scenes so drear, Gay hunters! scenes ye cannot cheer. Ah venture not their threats to brave; Nor trample on your Needwood’s grave!— ’Tis Manuel! and he knows my voice: His tears, tho’ not his eyes, rejoice: Reduc’d by age and loss of sight To beggary and the parish mite, That dog his only guide, he picks, Groping in fear, those wretched sticks. But soon will such small gleanings end.— Thou, Needwood, wast the poor man’s friend!