The
Baron's Yule Feast.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
TO
THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
| Lady, receive a tributary lay From one who cringeth not to titled state Conventional, and lacketh will to prate Of comeliness—though thine, to which did pay The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may No minstrel deem a harp-theme derogate. I reckon thee among the truly great And fair, because with genius thou dost sway The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal Cordial relief and solace to impart. Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal Such yearnings! Plead! let England hear thee plead With eloquent tongue,—that Toil from wrong be freed! |
ADVERTISEMENT.
Several pieces in the following Rhyme were written many years ago, andwill be recognised by my early friends. They were the fruit ofimpressions derived from the local associations of boyhood, (of which,the reader, if inclined, may learn more in the notes,) and of anadmiration created by the exquisite beauty and simplicity of Coleridge's'Christabel,'—which I had by heart, and used to repeat to ThomasMiller, my playmate and companion from infancy, during many a delightful'Day in the Woods,' and pleasing ramble on the hills and in the woodsabove Gainsborough, and along the banks of Trent.
I offer but one apology for the production of a metrical essay, composedchiefly of imperfect and immature pieces:—the ambition to contributetowards the fund of Christmas entertainment, in which agreeable labour Isee many popular names engaged,—and among them, one, the mostdeservedly popular in the literature of the day. The favour with whichan influential portion of the press has received my 'Prison Rhyme'emboldens me to take this step; and if the flagellation of criticism benot too keenly dealt upon me for the imperfections in the few pages thatfollow, I will be content, in this instance, to expect no praise.
134, Blackfriars Road,
Dec. 20. 1845.
THE
BARON'S YULE FEAST.
A
Christmas Rhyme.
Canto I.
Adown by meadowed Trent;
Right beautiful that mouldering wall,
And remnant of a turret tall,
Shorn of its battlement.
For, while the children of the Spring
Blush into life, and die;
And Summer's joy-birds take light wing
When Autumn mists are nigh;
And soon the year—a winterling—
With its fall'n leaves doth lie;
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