Читать книгу Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country - John Pagen White - Страница 6

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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;

Far stretching o'er the land, his sign

The King from Broughton's charters tore;

And the old honours of his line

In his old tower were known no more.

His halls, his manors, his fair lands,

Pass'd from his name; round all he'd loved,

And all that loved him, power's dread hands

In shadow through the noontide moved:

E'en to those cottage homes apart,

His poor men's huts by lonely ways—

To crush from out the humblest heart

Each pulse that dared to throb his praise!

But when old feuds had all been healed,

And England's long lost smiling years

Returned, and tales of Stoke's red field

Fair eyes had ceased to flood with tears;

'Twas whispered 'mid the fields and farms,

That once were Broughton's free domain—

His banner, saved from strife of arms, Was somewhere 'mid those homes again. That o'er the hills afar, where lies Lone Witherslack by moorland roads, His own old liegemen true the prize Held fast within their safe abodes. Thrice honour'd in that matchless zeal To brave proscription, death and shame; Thus rescued by their hearths to feel The symbol of his ancient fame! So for old faithfulness renowned, The tenants of that knightly race Their age-long acts of service crowned With that last deed of loyal grace. Last? Nay! for on one Sabbath morn, An old man, blanch'd by years and cares, Gave up his spirit, tired and worn, Amidst those humble liegemen's prayers. Gave up a long secreted life 'Mid hinds and herds, by peasant maids Nurtured and soothed, while shadows rife With death's stern edicts, stalked the glades. He pass'd while Cartmel's monks sang dole, As for a brave man gone to rest; And men sighed, "Glory to his soul!" And wrapt the banner round his breast: And placed the tassell'd bridle reins And spurs that, by his lattice, led His thoughts so oft to far off plains, Beside him in his narrow bed: And borne on high their arms above, As hinds are borne to churchyard cells, With kindly speech of truth and love, Mix'd with the sound of mournful bells, They laid him in a tomb, engraved With no memorial, date, or name; But one dear relic round him, saved To whisper in the earth his fame. And when that age had all gone down To mingle with its native dust, And time his deeds had overgrown, His banner yielded up its trust; And told from one low chancel's shade Where good men sang on holy days— "Here Broughton's Knight in earth was laid. Peace! To his tenants, endless praise!"