Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country With Copious Notes — Context and Discussion

Who was so blest to-day, And thinks on many a lone to-morrow In those old towers of grey.

From many a piping throat so mellow The joyful song bursts forth: On many a field the corn so yellow Makes golden bright the earth.

And mountains o'er the green woods frowning Close round the banner'd walls; While mid-day sunshine, all things crowning, In summer splendour falls.

But ours is not the age they walk in; It is the years of yore: And ours is not the tongue they talk in; 'Tis language used no more.

Yet many an eye in silence bending O'er this unmurmur'd lay, Beholds that knight the vale descending, And feels that summer's day.

Lives it then not? Yes; and when hoary Beneath our years we stand, That scene of summer, love, and glory, Shall still be on the land.

Truth from the earth itself shall perish Ere that shall be no more; The heart in song will ever cherish What has been life of yore.

THE BANNER OF BROUGHTON TOWER.

The knight looked out from Broughton Tower; The stars hung high o'er Broughton Town; "There should be tidings by this hour, From Fouldrey Pile or Urswick Down!"

Far out the Duddon roll'd its tide Beneath; and on the verge afar, The Warder through the night descried The beacon, like a rising star.

It told that Fouldrey by the sea Was signall'd from the ships that bore, With Swart's Burgundian chivalry, The false King from the Irish shore.

And Lincoln's Earl, and Broughton's Knight, And brave Lord Lovel, wait the sign To march their hosts to Urswick's height, To hail him King, of Edward's line.

Brave men as ever swerv'd aside! But faithful to their ancient fame, The white Rose wooed them in her pride Once more; and foremost forth they came.

The Knight looked out beneath his hand; The Warder pointed to the glow; "Now droop my banner, that my band May each embrace it! then we'll go.

"And if we fall, as fall we may, Thus resolute the wronged to raise, The banner that we bear to-day, Shall be our monument and praise!"

One look into his lady's bower; One step into his ancient hall; And then adieu to Broughton Tower, Till blooms the white Rose over all!

High o'er the surge of many a fight, That banner, for the Rose, had led The liegemen of the Broughton knight To victory's smiles, or glory's bed.

And 'twas a glorious sight to see That break of day, from tower and town, Pour forth his martial tenantry, To swell the array on Urswick Down:

To see the glancing pennons wave Above them, and the banner borne All joyously by warriors, brave As ever hailed a battle morn.

And 'twas a stirring sound to hear, Uprolling from the camp,--the drum, The music, and the martial cheer, That told the chiefs, "We come, we come!"

Then in that sunny time of June, When green leaves burdened every spray, With all the merry birds in tune, They marched upon their southward way.

And, as through channel'd sands afar The tides with steady onward force Push inland, roll'd their wave of war To Trent, its unresisted course.

And spreading wide its crest where Stoke O'erlook'd the Royal lines below, Spent its long gathering strength, and broke, And plung'd in fury on the foe.

For three long hours that summer morn King Henry by his standard rode, Through onset and repulse upborne, A tower of strength where'er it glowed.

For three long hours the fated band Of chiefs, that summer morning waged A desperate battle, hand to hand, Where'er the thickest carnage raged,

Till midst four thousand liegemen slain, The flower of that misguided host, Borne down upon the fatal plain, Fame, honour, life, and cause were lost.

Turn ye, who high in hall and tower Sit waiting for your lords, and burn To wrest the tidings of that hour From lips that never may return:

Turn inwards from the news that flies Through England's summer groves, and close The circlets of your asking eyes Against the coming cloud of woes!

Wild rumour, like the wind that wings, None knows or how or whence, its way, Storm-like on Broughton's turret rings The dire disaster of that day.

Storm-like through his dislorded halls And farmsteads lone, the rumour breaks; And far by Witherslack's grey walls, And hamlet cots, despair awakes.

And all old things meet shock and change, Since Broughton, down-borne in his pride On that red field, no more shall range By Duddon's rocks, or Winster's side.

And while the hills around rejoiced, And in the triumph of their King Old strains of peace sang trumpet-voiced, And bade the landscapes smile and sing;