Awd Isaac, The Steeple Chase, and Other Poems / With a glossary of the Yorkshire Dialect

Withering Flower, upbraid me not!
Why cast on me that look so pale?
Why dost thou my attention court,
To listen to thy mournful tale?
Why bow thy head? Why bend thy neck?
Why look so drooping, wan, and cold?
To give my careless thoughts a check,—
And tell me I am getting old!

Fading Flower, upbraid me not!
Still nodding with the gentle breeze.
Or dost thou think I have forgot,
I too am wasting by degrees?
For scarce can I believe my sight,
Who lately saw thee fresh and gay;
That beauty could so early blight,
Or such fresh colours fade away!

Drooping Flower, upbraid me not!
But turn to Sol’s enlivening ray.
I in some climate cold or hot,
Must also sicken and decay!
Nay, why dost thou shake off thy leaf,
And show thy heart so fair and clean?
But mine to smite with inward grief,—
To feel the many plagues within.

Weeping Flower, upbraid me still!
For half the conquest thou hast gain’d.
Yes! listen to thy tale I will,
Until its meaning be explain’d.
Fair emblem thou of human life;
In thee its changing tints are seen;
Our visit here, so frail and brief,
Is painted in those tints of thine!

When in thy bud so rich and gay,
Thou did’st escape the spoiler’s hand
That would have reft thy charms away,
’Twas pity check’d—and let thee stand!
While cherish’d by the blushing fair,
And waving on thy hardy stem,
Thy fragrance rich, perfum’d the air,—
Thou’rt blasted now to me and them!

Unlike to thee, whose task is done,
When Man shall quit this vale of tears,
After this life’s short glass is run,
Man shall exist in nobler spheres.
All earthly glories fade away,
So transient and so insecure;
With us, alas, how short’s their stay!
Prefigur’d by a dying Flower!

Yet we have cause to bless the day,
If weary of a life mispent,
By this thy exit, any may
Be led to ponder, and repent.
Thou transient teller of the truth,
May he who bids, and thunders roll,
Forgive the follies of my youth,
And stamp thy lesson on My soul!

THE COUNTRY LOVE FEAST.

(Held in an old Barn, Farndale, Yorkshire.)

Sing, O my muse, in praise of Zion sing,
In praise of those who her glad tidings bring,
In praise to Him who left the courts above,
To manifest to us his Father’s love!
Celestial powers, my heart and voice inspire,
If such a worm as I can feel your heav’nly fire;
To such a theme, to such a noble song,
Sublimer strains than I can reach belong.
Glory to God, whose mercy and free grace,
Are not confin’d to either time or place,
To bless, and save the fallen sons of men,
To cleanse believers, and to pardon sin.
O what an humble, yet exalted place,
Where Christians meet, the great I AM to praise.
A Barn!—A Temple! what a place is this!
Emblem of heav’n, and type of future bliss!
An earthen floor serves us on which to tread,
The roof is cover’d with the spider’s web:—
To such is man’s best righteousness compar’d,
By which full many a lofty head’s ensnar’d.
No crimson pews distinguish rich from poor,
No brass inscriptions glitter on the floor,
No marble monuments adorn the wall,
No polish’d altars where men prostrate fall,
No tapestry doth hang the pulpit round,
No costly vaults are in this temple found,
No pealing organ’s note delights the ear,
But what is better far,—our God is here!
Wherever two or three sincerely meet,
Who have towards Zion’s city turn’d their feet,
’Tis there our God himself vouchsafes to be,
To bind the strong, and set the prisoner free.
The world’s applause we cheerfully disdain,
And shelter here from company profane.
For as we differ, ’tis by Jesus’ grace,
And ’tis His presence dignifies the place.
Before us here the bread of life is spread,
Behind are stalls where now the ox is fed.
Like that in Bethlehem where Jesus lay,
This stable now beholds a glorious day!
Here Pilgrims meet their travels to relate,
And when, and where they enter’d mercy’s gate.
They tell us how their eyes with tears did fill,
When unbelief was wilful of its will.
They tell us how their sins did them oppress,
And fill’d their inmost souls with deep distress;
And how the Lord their burden did remove,
Pardon’d their sins, and fill’d their hearts with love.
They all rejoice to see each other’s face,
To hear each prospers in the work of grace.
With one consent their cheerful hearts aspire,
And ecstasies of joy their bosoms fire.
Such times as these we think too soon are gone,
Our happy souls cemented into one!
We pray, and part, each to his distant home,
And still we cry, “Lord, let thy kingdom come!”
Both far and near his Kingdom doth extend,
Temples are rising both by sea and land.
The Bethel flag, high waving in the air,
Calls seamen to engage in praise and prayer,
Whole streets, reform’d, the great assembly join,
Speak with new tongues, and sing in songs divine.
Poor trembling sinners wipe their watery eyes,
And lamentations pierce the bowing skies!
Blasphemers fall beneath the power of God,
And statesmen flock to hear his Holy Word;
While some of them a portion find to spare,
Waste Zion’s walls and bulwarks to repair.
See golden prospects round us rise,
See the dejected raise their downcast eyes,
The liberated captives shout applause
To Zion’s King, and his victorious cause!

ODE TO BRITAIN.

Shine, Britain! Shine! Thy virtues we commend;
Thy light to distant nations shall extend.
A city on a hill cannot be hid,
Nor can’st thou be, while Heav’n lifts up thy head.
Shine, Britain! Shine! O send the bible forth,
To each benighted corner of the earth;
Till all with joy its richest blessings taste,
And share with us the glorious Gospel Feast.
O happy people! Highly favour’d Isle!
Which shares the sunshine of Jehovah’s smile.
The scenes thy sons and daughters have enjoy’d,
Kings have desir’d to see, but were denied.
We hope the sound of discord soon will cease,
And angels sing a universal peace!
When barren lands with plenty shall abound,
And Christ be worshipp’d the wide world around.
At thoughts of this the lonely desert sings,
To see his altars throng’d with prostrate Kings;
To see great men of honour and renown,
Cast off the coronet to wear a crown!
Hasten, O Lord, the long—long wish’d for day,
When favour’d with thy truth’s enlightening ray,
Poor Hottentots shall raise the song divine,
And savage Turks, the heav’nly concert join.
When Blacks and Whites, a vast redeemed throng,
Shall all unite to swell the mighty song;
Worship one God, and hail Him Lord and King,
Through the whole world the Saviour’s praises sing.

A VOICE FROM THE DEAD!

Written on being uncivilly treated, when erecting some Tombstones in —— Church Yard, where the Author was denied the use of any part of the Church, Porch, or Stable; was forbidden to Letter the Stone in the Church Yard, though it was more than a mile from the Church to the nearest convenient place for such a work; and was also denied the Keys of the Gate:—yet at that very time, the parson’s horse and cow, were feeding on the grass, tearing up the graves, and breaking down the stones, while none dared to complain! On seeing the horse’s leg sink into a grave up to the lisk, the following thoughts suggested themselves.

What foot is that disturbs my rest,
Which through my coffin lid hath press’d,
And caus’d my bones the air to feel?—
It is the parson’s horse’s heel!

’Tis hard so much as there’s to pay,
That corpses cannot quiet lay,
But are by cow or horse plough’d up,
For priests to reap a three-fold crop!

Through such a process they must pass,
The grave, the tombstone, and the grass,
And Easter Offering beside:—
These claims must never be denied!

What though they do the grass devour,
And leave their dung against the door!
Pay up,—say nought,—’What’s that to thou?’
It is the parson’s horse or cow!

I know the living dare not grumble,
Nor at the parson’s conduct stumble!
And when the simple truth is told,
Of dead men they can get no hold.

We thought no hammer was to sound,
Upon this consecrated ground,—
Yet cow or horse may grind our bones
And rub their sides against the stones!

Some think things so are constituted,
That masons’ tools are all polluted,
But that the parson’s horse or cow,
Like th’ Church, is consecrated too!

Thus they may gallop o’er our graves,
And split our coffins into halves;
In spite of widows tears and groans,
May pastime make of dead folks’ bones!

This is too hard for flesh and blood!
A thing which cannot be withstood;
A thing which inward grief imparts
To pious minds and tender hearts.

But men enthrall’d must never speak,
Nor for redress attempt to seek,
But with such creatures be content,
As Bishops have ordain’d and sent.

Like him who dwells upon the coast,
Who of the priesthood makes his boast,
Regardless what the flock endure,
“If he can but the fleece secure!”

His present residence and living,
Are of his earthly father’s giving;
So none his title dare dispute,
For Bishops cannot turn him out!

Though life and conduct be profane,
He knows that men dare not complain;
Or soon he’d show them his degrees,
And take revenge in tythes and fees!

Such workmen’s labour is in vain
To keep their hands from bloody stain;
In vain they strive to show the road,
That leads to glory and to God!

No wonder if such Church decay,
If members leave it day by day,
Where tyrannising is the law,—
And till a change, it must be so.

The remedy will be unknown,
Till Priests are of the Spirit born;
Till they get hearts refin’d and pure,
Dissenters must their scorn endure!

TO THE MOOR BIRDS IN A STORM.

Ye birds of the Moor, I doubt you’ll be poor,
The storm is quite likely to last;
The owl and the crow, are shelter’d below,
But you are expos’d to the blast!

The snow lies so deep, the hill is so steep,
My footsteps are feeble and slow,
O lend me your wings, ye dear little things,
To carry me over the snow!

Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run,
Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails;
No danger is near, you’ve nothing to fear,
The poacher is down in the dales.

The wind whistle’s woe, through the valley below,
To the birds that are down in the wood;
You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat,
To scatter their feathers and blood.

If you’ll be content, till the storm shall be spent,
And suffer no envy or strife;
No doubt but you may, on some future day,
Get fat, and escape with your life!

But if you encroach, or chance to approach,
The web-footed classes domain;
If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way,
A thousand to one but you’re slain!

LINES ON RETURNING A BORROWED STICK OF SLENDERISH SIZE,

Which had been lent with a strict charge to take particular care of it, and to return it as soon as done with.

To Mr. William Horner, of Ripon.

Dear Billy, with thanks, I return thee thy switch,
Which has many times kept me out of the ditch.
I have found oft when stumbling o’er hillock or stone,
A slender supporter is better than none!

When the stars were beclouded and darkness prevail’d,
And the rain was descending, its aid never fail’d;
For it grop’d out my way, and assisted my sight,—
When my foot would have slipp’d, it kept me upright.

It never forsook me, or broke my command,
Unless it was when it slipt out of my hand;
Then myself it might blame, for not taking more care,
For when duty demanded it always was there.

It is rare upon earth to find such a friend,
On which one can always so safely depend;—
When help was most needed it paid most regard,
And never reprov’d me for using it hard!

THE THUNDER STORM.

The praise be thine, Almighty, matchless King,
Whose care and power, my muse presumes to sing;
Whose tender care protects, while thousands sleep,
The wakeful sea-boy on the mighty deep.
Thou dost from perils screen his naked head,
Which in a moment fill the world with dread;
Thou, while thy lightnings flash, and thunders roll,
Dost whisper secret peace into his soul!

The praise be thine, whose interposing power,
Protected us across yon lonely moor,
And through that night of terror and alarm,
Mysteriously preserv’d us all from harm!
That night of awful peril we record,
Ascribing all the glory to the Lord;
When from yon distant Meeting we return’d,
And pious friends at home our absence mourn’d!

The moon and stars at once withdrew their light,
And thus increas’d the horrors of the night,
Loud claps of thunder shook the sons of pride,
And female courage was severely tried!
The time pass’d on in conversation sweet,
While flaming lightning flash’d around our feet,—
Yet by the flash, in each believer’s face
We read the sign of confidence and peace.

Some to our God did then devoutly pray,
While others sung that awful hour away;
A voice was heard, “Ye need not be afraid,
Whose hope is on the Rock of Ages stay’d!”
Our virgins trimm’d their lamps, and sweetly sung,
And tenderly around each other clung,
While, as through fire and flood they took their way,
Salvation was the burden of their lay.

’Midst dismal darkness the black clouds were driven,
With all the fearful majesty of heaven;
And then as if an angel cleft the cloud,
And show’d to man the glowing wrath of God,
More quick than either thought, or sight of man,
From north to south the flaming fluid ran;
The east and west burst into a blaze,
And guilty man beheld it with amaze!

It seem’d to warn the world against that day,
When earth and sky shall melt, and pass away!
The distant mountains seem’d to own his nod,
And cried to man, “Prepare to meet thy God!”
All glory be to our eternal King,
Who brought us all safe home His praise to sing.
May we both hear and keep his Holy Word,
And so fulfil the royal law of God!

THE MISER’S AWAY!

The miser’s away, and he’ll never come back,
Any more his rusty old guineas to crack,
By his niggardly fare, of potatoes and fish,
His successor enjoys a more plentiful dish.
I once had occasion to pass by his door,
Whose threshold so seldom was cross’d by the poor,
A kitten came out in its innocent play,
And pleasantly three-thrumm’d—“The Miser’s away!”

The way weary traveller, to shorten the mile,
Sometimes has occasion to go by the style;
The gain that he gets, his spirit revives,
He cuts off an elbow, and sooner arrives.
Through one of his fields the pathway doth lie,
And very few ’scap’d the dint of his eye.
The gate as it opens and creaks, seems to say,
’Pass stranger, and welcome’—“The Miser’s away!”

In his ancient old Intake, long kept without fence,
And without cultivation, for fear of expence,
By the plough, or the spade, the rough is made plain,
And the hopeful young husbandman scatters the grain.
Where the bones of the gimmer decay’d on the ground,
And nettles and briars were every where found,
Fine corn is now growing, all smiling and gay;
It had not been so, but—“The Miser’s away!”

The birds haste away to the green holly bush,
The blackbird now tries to outrival the thrush;
They tip the tall branches on fluttering wing,
Make nearer approaches, and merrily sing.
The flowers in the garden around the bee-hive,
With unwonted freshness begin to revive,
To each new beholder their beauties display,
And whisper in perfume—“The Miser’s away!”

Here among his old books his Sabbaths he spent,
On logic and physic sat making comment;—
He thought it would be the best method to use,
To save both his carcase, his money, and shoes;—
He’d be his own doctor, and preacher likewise,
And his old yellow heap, like a mountain would rise!
The riches he heap’d up, by night and by day,
Another has found, for—“The Miser’s away!”

THE MISTAKE:

Containing a Moral for high looks, and forward folks.

Ye sportsmen bright of skill, and sight,
Who range o’er hill and dale;
Awhile give ear, and you shall hear,
A true and homely tale.
Ye friends at home, who seldom roam,
Much farther than the mill,
Be sure you’re wise, and mind your eyes,
Or let your guns lie still.
It happen’d where, as you shall hear,
A building was erected,
That to complete its breadth and height,
Some workmen were collected.

One morning chill, before yon hill
Was gilded with the sun,
Or adze, or axe, or mallet had,
Their battering begun;
Two favourite ducks, had ’scaped the fox,
Well fed, and feather’d too;
In sportive play, aspiring they
Took wing, and off they flew.
With airy wheel, they quick did scale,
The lofty wall unscar’d,
The trees they topt, and down they dropt
A gun-shot from the yard.

A joiner ran, to fetch a gun
The wild ducks to secure,—
The gun he brought, with which he thought,
To make at least one fewer.
Through mist and dew, the contents flew,
A duck began to cry,
And one took flight, and left our sight,
Nor could we it espy.
This done, the man full swiftly ran,
To gather up his game,—
Both fore and aft, the people laugh’d,
To see his wild duck tame!

He set her down, she gaz’d around,
Wond’ring at such abuse,—
But for her weight, or else she might
Have pass’d for a wild goose.
In friendship sweet, the ducks soon meet,
And talk their frolic o’er,
And in their play, they seem to say,
They’ll fly so high no more.
Our thoughts oft may, our skill betray,
But actions they speak louder;
If he’d been still, he’d saved his skill,
Likewise his shot and powder!

THE BROKEN SEAL.

To sing of Southcotes clouded fame,
My muse presumes and tries to soar;
Though some may say, “Blot out her name,
Let it be seen or heard no more,”
I have a secret to reveal,
Effected by a broken Seal!

This poor Joanna had her day;—
While fair and bright the morning shone,
She led too many far astray,
Whose souls much better things had known;
She soon their ancient tribe could tell,
And signed their title with a Seal.

A poor, illiterate, labouring man,
Who went Joanna’s voice to hear,
A stranger to salvation’s plan,
Had linger’d on from year to year;
He thought she preach’d the gospel real,
And he of course must have a Seal!

Without a heart transform’d and new,
Joanna Southcote took him in,
And seal’d him her disciple true,
Without repenting of his sin;—
He slyly from his wife did steal,
The price of his mysterious Seal!

Her creed on such conditions hung,
That while her seals continued whole,
Then hope was bright, and faith was strong,
And they could neither fail nor fall;
But none could rescue those from hell,
Who chanc’d to crack or break the Seal!

When, lo, upon a certain day,
Examining his little store,
Joanna’s passport to survey;
His pocket book he rummag’d o’er,
But consternation turn’d him pale,
When he perceiv’d he’d broke his Seal!

His heart was stung with deep dismay,
With anguish, and tormenting fears,
Which like a trumpet night and day,
Did sound this sentence in his ears,
“Thou never canst thy crime conceal,
Remember thou hast broke thy Seal!”

He thought the Almighty from on high,
Would soon his red hot lightnings pour,
And he, a sinner doom’d to die,
Might then expect the hottest shower;—
God would on him his wrath reveal,
For he had broke the fatal Seal!

He more than either once or twice,
With heavy heart and tearful eye,
Went to a preacher for advice,
Who soon his sickness did descry;
By what his conscience seem’d to feel,
His heart was broken with his Seal!

The preacher then without delay,
Did point him to the sinner’s friend,
Exhorting him to watch and pray,
And on the Son of God depend,
Whose efficacious blood could heal
His soul, though he had broke his Seal!

One day in agonizing prayer,
Believing on the Son of God,
On the dark borders of despair,
He found redemption in His blood,
And from the transport he did feel,
He bless’d the day he broke the Seal!

THE STONE:

Composed to gratify a Scottish Rhymer, and brother mason.

A stone!—and what about a stone?
What sense is there in that?
I answer, in itself there’s none:
But hold, I’ll tell you what!
Oft while in craggy woods I’ve been,
All silent, and alone,
A thousand beauties I have seen,
Conceal’d within a stone!

While passing through life’s troubled scenes,
O’erwhelm’d with care and grief,
A stranger in this wilderness,
And needful of relief:
Not wishful then to every one,
To make my troubles known,—
The thing most useful in this world,
I’ve gained it by a stone!

Some boast of riches, and estates,
Of chariots, and of steeds,
Of ships that sail by wind or steam,
And some of mighty deeds:
But all the treasure I desire,
In cities, or alone,
Is peace of conscience, health of mind,
And hewing at a stone!

Our kings, and nobles, dukes and lords,
Whose splendid castles rise,
Whose palaces, and lofty towers,
Reach almost to the skies;
Of Greece and Corinth make their boast,
Yet are oblig’d to own,
Some honour due, from first to last,
To those who hew the stone!

In every town, in modern days,
Some system new prevails,
Men deviate from former ways,
The mason’s art now fails:
Yet masons will be masons still,
And will each other own,
And smile at all attempts of skill
To imitate a stone!

The work will stand, and not disgrace,
The master-builder’s plan,
Defying rain, and tempests fierce,
For twice the age of man!
With all their compositions curl’d,
And round their columns thrown,
The grandest temple in the world,
We read was built of stone!

When this fair earth at first arose,
And man was made upright,
Him, the great God of Heaven chose,
And view’d him with delight.
Had he thus stood, (’tis thought by some,)
And in God’s image shone,
It never would have been our doom,
To hew and polish stone.

But man soon fell, by mortal sin,
And since the deed is done,
And we its captives long have been,
Th’ effect we cannot shun:
Yet though man from perfection fell,
And sin did make him groan,
The Lord in Zion laid for him,
“A sure foundation stone!”

When men began to multiply,
And sin defil’d the heart,
The Lord look’d down with pitying eye,
With man he could not part.
The sun by day, and moon by night,
And twinkling stars that shone,
He made them all rejoice, and sing,
Of “Christ, the corner stone!”

Whoe’er upon this stone shall fall,
Shall surely broken be,
Yet he may still be heal’d again,
And be from sin set free:
But he on whom this stone shall fall,
Shall see the Almighty’s frown;
He shall be crush’d as powder small,
By this stupendous stone!

Moses, that mighty man of God,
Who Israel’s flock did lead,
Whose feet the path of duty trod,
And oft for them did plead,
In conversation with the Lord,
His face with glory shone,
And from awful Sinai bore,
The “Tables made of stone!”

But lo, revolting Israel’s seed,
In Horeb, as we’re told,
Had during Moses’ absence made,
A calf of molten gold;
Such folly made his griev’d heart ache,
With pangs till then unknown,
And down he threw at once, and brake
The “Tables made of stone!”

Though ours be not such flagrant sins,
But lie perhaps conceal’d,
The day is coming when all things,
Now hid shall be reveal’d:
And some we have great cause to fear,
If they the truth would own,
Have little gods which they revere
Of gold, or precious stone.

When once through Israel’s armies brave,
The boasting challenge ran,
When great Goliath sent to Saul,
To find him out a man,
Who would in single combat fight,
Till one should be o’erthrown,
How little did he think that day
Of falling by a stone!

With steps that made the earth to bend,
And spirit swell’d with pride,
He boasting shook his greaves of brass,
And Israel’s God defied.
From Jesse’s loins a stripling sprung,
Who made the monster groan,
When from the whirling sling he threw,
The feeble,—fatal stone!

Proud armies have been overthrown,
And cities sack’d within,
And towers and temples broken down,
The sad effects of sin:—
And once an Angel did foreshow,
The fall of Babylon,
When in the heaving deep he threw,
A great and mighty stone!

When David’s highly favour’d son,
His temple first began,
They from the mountains brought a stone,
Which seem’d a pest to man:
The masons view’d it o’er and o’er,
But oft with haughty scorn,
Rejected it, and roll’d aside
This strange, unshapely stone!

From first to last it tumbling lay,
An object of disdain,
Till time, upon a certain day,
The mystery did explain.
The last, and loftiest pinnacle,
To finish and adorn
They sought, but none would do so well
As this rejected stone!

A finer building ne’er was seen,
By any mortal eye,
The timbrels rung, and Israel sung,
And old men wept for joy.
And having thus their temple rear’d
Themselves are forc’d to own,
That which the builders once refus’d
Is now the Corner Stone!

’Tis thus Jehovah’s favour’d sons,
With hearts by grace refined,
Are all compar’d to living stones,
For nobler ends design’d.
Thus he the mighty structure rears,
And perfects them in one,
A glorious Church,—and Jesus is
The chief, the corner stone!

A stone by Daniel was perceiv’d,
And still the record stands,
Which from the mountains should proceed,
Cut out as without hands;
Whose dignity should greater grow,
And mighty Kings dethrone,
Till all the earth be fill’d below,
With this amazing stone!

So “in due time God sent his Son,”
According to His word,
Whose sacred mission was begun,
And seal’d with precious blood;
Who, while He dwelt on earth below,
Did make salvation known,
And caus’d His heavenly love to flow
In hearts once hard as stone!

But Pharisees and cruel Jews,
Did seek from day to day,
This holy person to abuse,
To persecute and slay.
But God did give his Angels charge,
O’er his anointed one,
Lest he at any time should dash
His foot against a stone!

At length his faithfulness to prove,
He for the world must die,
And power was given to wicked men,
The Lord to crucify.
The sun was dark at that event,
And with His dying groan,
Earth trembled! and the rocks were rent,—
The rocks of solid stone!

His enemies still follow’d Him,
When He lay in the grave
Hewn in the rock, for Joseph’s tomb,
Who did His body crave:
Lest He their projects should destroy,
And they be overthrown,
They shut him in, and set a guard,
And seal’d the mighty stone!

But Roman bands could not confine
The Saviour to His cell,
He manifests His power divine,
In spite of Earth and Hell:
The Father “owns His suffering Son,”
Nor leaves Him then alone,
For lo! “an Angel comes by night,
And rolls away the stone!”

He rises to men’s wond’ring view,
And triumphs o’er His foes,
And proves the blessed record true,
Though sin and death oppose:
In glorious majesty He reigns,
On his exalted throne,
And still He power on earth retains,
To soften hearts of stone!

To those who overcome through Him,
A stone, and a new name
He gives, which none can read but they,
Nor understand the same.
And they shall share His joys divine,
Seated on glittering thrones,
And walk those streets whose pavements shine
Like gold, or precious stones!