Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country. John Pagen White
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,