Subject: Lyr Add: HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE (John Walker Ord)
From:
Jim Dixon
Date: 30 Apr 09 - 01:20 PM
From Rural Sketches and Poems by John Walker Ord (London: Simpkin and Marshall, 1845):
THE HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE.
(After the manner of the "Battle of Otterbourne,"—see Percy's Ballads, and Scott's Minstrelsy.)
"Then Whitby's nuns exulting told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do;
While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry "Fie upon your name."
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game,
St. Hilda's priest ye slew."
Marmion, CANTO II.
It fell about the may-day time,
When the wild-flowers sweetly lie,
When the primrose decks the green-shaw copse,
When the lark salutes the sky.—
That Piercie, Bruce, and Allatson,
And the Herberts light and gay,
From their proud mountain-homes went forth
To spend a hunting day.
And they have left fair Kildale's halls,
And Skelton's Castle fair,
And the stately towers of Ghestborough*
To seek the wild-boar's lair.
* Ancient name of Gisborough—"Ghestborough, vel spiritualis burgus."
And up spake proud Lord Piercie then,
And o, but he spake hie—
"This day among the Eskdale woods
Our prowess we will try.
"O, Eskdale is a bonnie wood,
And Esk a bonnie stream,
The Eskdale hills are high and bright,
And lovely as a dream!
"The deer runs wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree,
The silver trouts glide numberless,
The wild-flowers blossom free."
They lighted high on Eskdale side,
Upon the bent so brown,
They lighted where that wild-boar lay,
The dread of Whitby town!
They luncheon'd by the mossy hill,
They drank the blood-red wine,
They swore an oath the boar must die,
Ere they would sit to dine.
Then from their slips the hounds were loosed,
The hounds so fierce and fell,
And far the chorus echoed loud
O'er rock and woody dell.
Loud cheer'd those noble hunters,
Loud neigh'd those joyous steeds,—
This day shall Esk,—shall Cleveland ring
With those brave gallant's deeds.
But O! what stirs the branches?
Why start the hounds aback?
Why snort the trembling horses,
Nor dare that rugged track?
"The boar! the boar! the brindled boar"
Young Piercie loudly cried!
A silver dirk for him who spears
The boar of Eskdaleside!"
And fast as wolves that hunger,
And strong as Whitby tide,
The huntsmen chac'd o'er hill and wood,
The boar of Eskdaleside.
O'er moss and moor, o'er rock and cliff,
O'er heath and cavern'd glen
They drove the grim old wild-boar,
The wild-boar from his den!
But in that ancient forest,
Beside the gnarled oak,
The Hermit meek of Eskdaleside
His lone communings took.
He was a silent dreamer,
A Prophet of the skies,
A Teacher and a Minister
Of Nature's mysteries.
No star illum'd the heavens,
No shadow touch'd the Earth,
But Eskdale's holy hermit
Could track their earliest birth.
The wild-flowers of the forest
The wealth of hill and dale,
All treasures and all loveliness
That hermit knew full well.
But most in prayer and penitence,
But most in God's pure Word,
He spent his lonely vigils,
He wept before the Lord.
'Twas here the boar, all red with gore,
Rush'd through the open stead,—
Wounded and torn it stagger'd on,
Then fell before him dead.
He sore was griev'd, that holy man
To see the piteous sight—
"O man is far more fierce," he said
"Than wild-beasts in their might.
"Methought this drear and desert spot
To God and I were given,—
I little deem'd that earthly rage,
Had power o'er things of heaven.
"Back to your homes!—Proud Piercie back!
Far hence your footsteps trace:
Herbert, De Bruce, how dare ye thus,
Pollute this sacred place!"
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud,
So loud I hear ye lie—*
Ope wide the gates"—young Piercie roared
"Or, surely thou shalt die!"
* These two lines occur both in "the grand old Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens"—as Coleridge terms it,—and, also in the celebrated Ballad of the Battle of Otterbourne.
Balk'd of their prey and mad with rage
They charg'd with pointed spear—
The rustic door in pieces fell
Where he was praying near.
"Thou shaven Priest, how dar'd thou stop
The heir of Piercie's hall?
How dar'd thou balk my fleet stag-hounds,
And keep our prey in thrall?
"Belike, thou thought'st 'twas dainty fare,
A banquet easy got—
And, by my troth, fit doom were thine,
To match that wild-boar's lot."
"Stop, Piercie stop, that jeering tongue,
Thy braggart falsehoods hence—
Behold this Crucifix my shield,
The Church my sure defence."
Then Piercie with his good broad sword
That could so sharply wound,
Has smote the hermit on the brow
Into a deathly swound.*
* See "Otterbourne."
Wild terror like a storm of hail,
Now struck each hunter's soul,—
Away—away—o'er heath and crag
Each seeks his stately hall!
To Sedman, lord of Streoneshalh,
The horrid outrage spread,
That the holy monk of Eskdaleside
Of his wound was well-nigh dead.
Swiftly the Abbot did command
Those youths to Eskdaleside,—
"Now, by our holy mother Church
What may this deed betide?
"Whate'er this pious hermit asks,
Your punishment shall be,—
Yea, by my soul, though he should fix
Your doom the gallows tree."
"Alas my lord," the hermit said
"Revenge be none of mine,
To extend our Holy Church's bound
Were nobler aim of thine!"
"I charge you on Ascension Eve,
In penance, for this crime,
Of twigs within this forest ta'en,
At earliest morning-time—
"To rear on Whitby's yellow shore
A hedge that still must stand
Three tides,—nor ocean's giant waves
Shall wash it from the sand.
"The bugle-horn which rung this day
Your deed of shame shall sound,
And all your heirs this tribute give
To Time's remotest bound."
His eyes grew dim,—his voice grew faint—
"Farewell thou smiling shore—
Sweet Esk, bright Esk, I lov'd thee well—"
One gasp—and all is o'er!*
* The whole of this narrative appears, nearly similar, in the First Volume of Young's History of Whitby, and also in Charlton.
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