ON VISITING LANERCOST PRIORY, AND NAWORTH

CASTLE.*

My homely harp, though locks are turning grey,
Slower the step, and shrunken is the limb—
Though spirits have forgot their wonted play,

And faded sight tells distant objects dim―

* Lanercost Priory is situated about eleven miles N.E. of Carlisle, in the beautiful vale called St Mary's Holm, on the banks of the river Irthing. It is built in the usual cruciform; the style is what is termed the early English. The nave has been fitted up as a parish church; and in the eastern part of the building, which is in a ruinous state, the tombs of several distinguished persons may be seen. It was founded A. D. 1116, by Robert de Vaux, the second Baron of Gilsland, to atone for the murder of Gilles Fil Bueth, whom he treacherously slew at a conference held for the adjustment of their respective claims to 'the property. Fil Bueth was the rightful Baron of Gilsland, the lands having been alienated at the Norman Conquest. So lax were the laws at that period, especially when the Church had been propitiated, that De Vaux not only escaped public justice, but was afterwards appointed a judge of assize by Henry II. It was noted that he died childless, and the estate passed to another family.

Naworth Castle is situated in the parish of Brampton, about a mile S.W. of Lanercost Priory. It is the baronial residence of the lords of Gilsland, and a seat of the Earl of Carlisle. Naworth was

built by Ralph, Lord Dacre, about the year 1335, and has much to render it an object of interest, particularly its having been the residence of the illustrious Lord William Howard, generally denominated" Belted Will."

LANERCOST PRIORY, AND NAWORTH CASTLE. 191

Though poortith flings o'er all its sadd'ning sway,
And friends are few, while, through the prospect grim,
I'm left alone, lost kindred to bewail,

On confines dark of age's dreary vale.

Awhile forgetful, on this mouldering stone,
Shaped by some hand whose history is lost,
Again I'll wake thy melancholy tone

On Irthing's banks, in dale of Lanercost.
Here Superstition reared her Stygian throne,

And shackled thought, aye, heaven's own purpose crossed

Extinguished Truth's fair light-led man astray-
His life, his soul, and substance made a prey.

And yet thou, Lanercost, demand'st a tear;
Here lie the good, the beautiful, the brave;
Their gorgeous monuments, defaced, appear
Unwise attempts to triumph o'er the grave.
E'en the big rain-drops speak in sadness here,
And moaning winds, that through the long weeds rave,
A something to the pensive mind unfold
That may be felt, but never can be told.

And Naworth, relic of the olden day,

(By fools and fanatics misnamed "the good,") The suns of centuries have passed away,

And left thine ancient strength still unsubdued. How sweet along thy galleries to stray,

And, in their deep and solemn solitude,

192 LANERCOST PRIORY, AND NAWORTH CASTLE.

Behold, with mixture of delight and dread,
The forms and features of th' illustrious dead.

But there is one o'er all the rest we scan,
Nursed in the lap of stern adversity,
Whose lofty presence gives at once the man,
The scholar, hero, and the patriot, he.
Nor less his fame for milder virtues ran-
Domestic love and passing courtesy;

O'er Naworth seems thy spirit lingering still,
First of a noble line, immortal "Belted Will."

November 18, 1850.

ON THE DEATH OF MR GEORGE OSBORNE.

THE storm o'erhangs the barren hill,

And cold winds sweep the moorlands bleak, While Nature stands with tresses torn, And tears congealed upon her cheek; And lifts the wood its lonesome voice, Nor seen is living creature, save The dismal owl, while sad and slow I follow Irvine's winding wave.

Again, again, another tie,

That bound me to the vision vain
Of life, and every phantom joy,
Is all untimely snapt in twain;
A light, that o'er my weary path
Has often shed a cheering ray,
Till brighter prospects rose around,
Is set, alas! and set for aye.

That deep, dark eye, so rich in soul;
Oh, is its magic ever gone?

How in the social hour it glowed,
How o'er the page of genius shone.
And is that heart now still and cold
In the dark kingdom of Decay,
Once open as the breath of

morn,
And generous as the dews of May;

Yes, gone to join the things that were,
Which but at Memory's lofty call,
In holy garbs of vanished days,
Arise in her aërial hall,

Lo, they advance, and numbers there,
That once with me life's pathway trode,
Pass, and, with sad and warning air,
Point to the church-yard's pregnant sod!

The hedgerow bank, and mossy brae,
Remains the same as when we prest
Their verdant sides, and sought the flower,
Or treasure of the wild bee's nest.

The hoary trunk of ancient tree,

Still stands conspicuous in the wood, Where first, with fluttering hearts, we viewed The little songster's tender brood.

Sweet scene of many an hour of bliss,
The tiny brook, the wimpling burn,
Their waters still flow on the same,

Their banks the same at every turn.