Ebenezer Elliot (The Corn Law Rhymer & Poet of the Poor)

Ebenezer Elliot.
(Sonnets I. & II., first published Dec. 15th 1849, were written on

hearing of the Death of my esteemed Literary Correspondent, who I
was to have visited in his “Den,” as he humorously called his retired
abode at Hargitt Hill. Born at Masborough, March 17th, 1781; resided
for the greater part of his long and useful Life at Sheffield; and Died
at Hargitt Hill, near Great Houghton, Dec. 1st, 1849.)



I
And he is dead!—the Bard who sweetly sung,
In stirring strains, the wrongs of bread-tax’d men;
And for the rights of Labour used his pen
Unceasingly. Few lyres have louder rung
For equal rights, and equal laws for all: 5
A million hearts obey’d his patriot-call,
A million tongues have echoed all its strains;
And whilst one wrong remains to be redress’d,
Whilst man by fellow-man is still oppress’d,
Yea, whilst one word of SHAKSPEAR’s tongue remains, 10
Will ELLIOT be adored. Much was he bless’d
With that calm spirit which on hills and plains,
By brooks, in woods, field-paths, or rustic lanes,
From Mammon’s gyves the Poet’s soul unchains.

II
But he is dead—all of him that can die! 15
For the true poet liveth on for aye:
Of ELLIOT but the body can decay;
His well-tried soul has now soar’d up on high.
To swell the choir of angel-harmony,
And yet his spirit will on earth remain, 20
And down the stream of Time his songs be borne,
To cheer the weak, to solace those in pain,
To teach the patriot he ne’er toils in vain,
Though tyrants for a time may bind the world!
For Freedom will her long-lost rights regain, 25
And Tyranny to ruin swift be furl’d.
Class-legislator, partial magistrate,
Ye were the objects of his sternest hate.

III
Thy who are truest heroes in the strife
For Liberty, are the most meek of men 30
When peace prevails: and ELLIOT’s powerful pen
Loves to depict all gentle scenes of life,
And soothe the soul as much as rouse its ire.
Dearly he doted on wildflowers and birds;
Deftly his well-skill’d hand swept the sweet chords, 35
Bringing true music from his noble lyre,
E’en when the hand of Death had gripp’d him hard,
And his brave life was near upon its close
On earth for ever, at his window rose
The robin’s much-loved song; ’t was then the Bard 40
Trill’d his last lay, by loving hand writ down,
And in a little time his soul to heaven had flown.

George Markham Tweddell

The excellent Ebenezer Elliott site well worth a visit with biography and his poems http://www.judandk.force9.co.uk/elly.htm

They say of Tweddell's tribute
"Tweddell sums up the Corn Law Rhymer very well in the first two sonnets which make an excellent tribute to the Rabble's Poet. The third sonnet refers to the touching poem about a robin which Elliott composed on his death bed: "Last Lines" was dictated to his daughter, Fanny Ann."

And also a page about the links between Ebenezer Elliott ( The Corn Law Rhymer & Poet of the Poor) and George Markham Tweddell. http://www.judandk.force9.co.uk/Tweddell.html

"A further verse was written by George Tweddell about Elliott or more accurately about one of his poems. One of Elliott's most successful poems is "To The Bramble Flower," a simple nature poem, well observed but free from political ideas. Tweddell knew Elliott's poem & clearly admired it since he wrote a poem about the bramble inspired by the Corn Law Rhymer's verses. Both are shown below to aid comparison."

To The Bramble Flower" by Ebenezer Elliott

Thy fruit full-well the schoolboy knows, 

     Wild bramble of the brake! 

  So, put thou forth thy small white rose; 

     I love it for his sake. 

  Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 

      O'er all the fragrant bowers, 

  Thou needst not be ashamed to show 

      Thy satin-threaded flowers; 

   For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 

      That cannot feel how fair, 

   Amid all beauty beautiful, 

       Thy tender blossoms are!

   How delicate thy gauzy frill! 

       How rich thy branchy stem! 

   How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 

       And thou sing'st hymns to them; 

   While silent showers are falling slow 

      And, 'mid the general hush, 

   A sweet air lifts the little bough, 

      Lone whispering through the bush! 

   The primrose to the grave is gone; 

      The hawthorn flower is dead; 

   The violet by the moss'd grey stone 

      Hath laid her weary head; 

   But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, 

      In all their beauteous power, 

   The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 

      And boyhood's blossomy hour. 

   Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more 

      Thou bid'st me be a boy, 

   To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 

      In freedom and in joy.

...............................

The Bramble -  by  George Markham Tweddell

Brave Elliott loved "thy satin-threaded flowers,"
Dear Bramble! All who appreciate those things
Of beauty which Nature as largess flings
So freely over valleys, plains, and moors,
Must share the Corn Law Rhymer's healthy love.
And who in Autumn does not like to taste
Thy pleasant Dewberries? There is no waste
Throughout the universe; for all things move
In strict obedience to the unchanging laws
Wisely laid down by Him who cannot err;
And He alone is His true worshipper
Who studies to obey them. The Great First Cause
Adorns our very brakes with fruit and flowers, -
As if to teach us all that happiness may be ours.

More on Tweddell and Ebenezer Elliott here http://georgemarkhamtweddell.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/ebenezer-elliott-and-george-markham.html

* During my various visits to the Land of Shakspere, I fully satisfied
myself, by frequent inquiries among the people, that the “Dewberries”
mentioned by our great Bard, were not Gooseberries, as erroneously
stated by some of the Commentators, but really the fruit of the Bramble.
I got Warwickshire agricultural labourers, about Stratford-on-Avon, to
gather for me sprays of what they call “Dewberries”. Without telling
them what I believed them to be, and the briars, leaves, flowers, and
fruit, which they collected for me, were always those of the Bramble.
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, pp. 14-15.] Also published in Texas
Masonic Journal, Sept., 1886. Voice of Masonry, Chicago, Illinois,
U.S., Feb., 1888 (without Note)

Mark Akenside

Mark Akenside.
(Born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, November 9th, 1721;

Died in London, June 23rd, 1770.)

Imagination need not stretch her wings
To flee away from Reason’s stern control,
To feel how AKENSIDE can lead the soul
To highest tastes: for he o’er all things flings
No wicked glamour; but he nobly sings 5
In classic strains of purest poësy,
All that can cherish truest liberty.
Seems it as though some Greek had struck the strings
Of AKENSIDE’s sweet lyre. We feel to rove
With Pericles or Plato hand in hand. 10
Would every poet took as true a stand,
And show’d as wise and energetic love
Of all that’s pure and fit for bard to sing,—
Then Earth would cease her constant sorrowing.

George Markham Tweddell

Mark Akenside (9 November 1721 – 23 June 1770) was an English poet and physician. Akenside was born at Newcastle upon Tyne, England, the son of a butcher. He was slightly lame all his life from a wound he received as a child from his father's cleaver. All his relations were Dissenters, and, after attending the Royal Free Grammar School of Newcastle, and a dissenting academy in the town, he was sent in 1739 to Edinburgh to study theology with a view to becoming a minister, his expenses being paid from a special fund set aside by the dissenting community for the education of their pastors. He had already contributed The Virtuoso, in imitation of Spenser's style and stanza (1737) to the Gentleman's Magazine, and in 1738 A British Philippic, occasioned by the Insults of the Spaniards, and the present Preparations for War (also published separately). His politics, said Dr. Samuel Johnson, were characterized by an "impetuous eagerness to subvert and confound, with very little care what shall be established," and he is caricatured in the republican doctor of Tobias Smollett's The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle. He was elected a member of the Medical Society of Edinburgh in 1740. His ambitions already lay outside his profession, and his gifts as a speaker made him hope one day to enter Parliament. In 1740, he printed his Ode on the Winter Solstice in a small volume of poems. In 1741, he left Edinburgh for Newcastle and began to call himself surgeon, though it is doubtful whether he practised, and from the next year dates his lifelong friendship with Jeremiah Dyson (1722–1776). During a visit to Morpeth in 1738, Akenside had the idea for his didactic poem, The Pleasures of the Imagination, which was well received and later desecribed as 'of great beauty in its richness of description and language', and was also subsequently translated into more than one foreign language. He had already acquired a considerable literary reputation when he came to London about the end of 1743 and offered the work to Robert Dodsley for £120. Dodsley thought the price exorbitant, and only accepted the terms after submitting the manuscript to Alexander Pope, who assured him that this was "no everyday writer". The three books of this poem appeared in January 1744. His aim, Akenside tells us in the preface, was "not so much to give formal precepts, or enter into the way of direct argumentation, as, by exhibiting the most engaging prospects of nature, to enlarge and harmonize the imagination, and by that means insensibly dispose the minds of men to a similar taste and habit of thinking in religion, morals and civil life". His powers fell short of this ambition; his imagination was not brilliant enough to surmount the difficulties inherent in a poem dealing so largely with abstractions; but the work was well received. Thomas Gray wrote to Thomas Warton that it was "above the middling", but "often obscure and unintelligible and too much infected with the Hutchinson jargon". Read more here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Akenside

Robert Southey.

Robert Southey.

(Born at Bristol, August 1st, 1774; Died at Greta Hall near Keswick, March
21st, 1843, after a residence of Thirty-Nine Years in the Lake District.)

SOUTHEY, ’t is most thy early verse I love,
Full of old lore, and musical to me
As songs of birds, or hum of humble bee;
Written before thou didst a recreant prove
To the grand cause of Human Liberty. 5
Strange that thou ever could’st degrade thy mind—
So well-inform’d, so studious and refined—
As unto Tyranny to bend the knee!
Thy industry was marvellous; thy heart
Kind to thy fellows; imagination too 10
Was fertile with thee; but thou knew not how
The feelings to control—no small part
Of the true poet’s duty: yet must we
Pay homage to thee for thy earliest poetry.

George Markham Tweddell

Robert Southey "12 August 1774 – 21 March 1843) was an English poet of the Romantic school, one of the so-called "Lake Poets", and Poet Laureate for 30 years from 1813 to his death in 1843. Although his fame has been long eclipsed by that of his contemporaries and friends William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Southey's verse still enjoys some popularity. Moreover, Southey was a prolific letter writer, literary scholar, essay writer, historian and biographer. His biographies include the life and works of John Bunyan, John Wesley,William Cowper, Oliver Cromwell and Horatio Nelson.Perhaps his most enduring contribution to literary history is the children's classic The Story of the Three Bears, the original Goldilocks story, which first saw print in Southey's prose collection The Doctor." Read more here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Southey

Early Politics - Pantisocracy. He began as a Jacobin poet.

"Pantisocracy (from the Greek "πάν" and "ισοκρατία" meaning "equal or level government by/for all") was a utopian scheme devised in 1794 by the poets Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey for an egalitarian community. They originally intended to establish such a community on the banks of the Susquehanna River in the United States, but by 1795 Southey had doubts about the viability of this and proposed moving the project to Wales. The two men were unable to agree on the location, causing the project to collapse.

Coleridge and Southey believed that contemporary society and politics were responsible for cultures of servitude and oppression. Having abandoned these corrupting influences along with personal property for a fresh start in the wilderness, the Pantisocrats hoped that men might be governed by the “dictates of rational benevolence. As spelled out by Southey, the utopian community he and Coleridge planned was to be built on two principles: "Pantisocracy" (meaning government by all) and "Aspheterism" (meaning general ownership of property). The scheme called for a small group of educated individuals to give up their possessions and labor together for the common good. Few regulations would be necessary to govern the colony and decisions would be made so as to avoid one man having more power than another. Coleridge envisioned Pantisocracy as a way to minimize the greed among men. Additionally, Coleridge and Southey hoped to enjoy a more relaxing existence than was possible in England, and expected that each member of the community would have to work just two to three hours per day to sustain the colony.

The Pantisocrats viewed their attempt as not only a search for personal domestic peace, but also as an attempt to change the status quo in England. One influence on the plan was disillusionment with the French Revolution and with the current politics of England, from which Coleridge may have sought solace through an utopian escape. Coleridge viewed the utopian scheme as an experiment that, if successful, might be gradually extended to a larger citizenship. Coleridge also hoped that through a more active, natural lifestyle he would live a healthier and more wholesome existence with his family" Read More here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantisocracy

Later Politics Read more here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Southey"Although originally a radical supporter of the French Revolution, Southey followed the trajectory of fellow Romantic poets, Wordsworth and Coleridge, towards conservatism. Embraced by the Tory Establishment as Poet Laureate, and from 1807 in receipt of a yearly stipend from them, he vigorously supported the Liverpool government. He argued against parliamentary reform ("the railroad to ruin with the Devil for driver"), blamed the Peterloo Massacre on the allegedly revolutionary "rabble" killed and injured by government troops, and opposed Catholic emancipation. In 1817 he privately proposed penal transportation for those guilty of "libel" or "sedition". He had in mind figures like Thomas Jonathan Wooler and William Hone, whose prosecution he urged. Such writers were guilty, he wrote in the Quarterly Review, of "inflaming the turbulent temper of the manufacturer and disturbing the quiet attachment of the peasant to those institutions under which he and his fathers have dwelt in peace." Wooler and Hone were acquitted, but the threats caused another target,William Cobbett, to emigrate temporarily to the United States."

http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showpdf.php?id=13156

John Cunningham

John Cunningham

(Born in Dublin in 1729; for many years connected with the North of
England—first as a Comedian at the Theatres of Alnwick, Darlington,
Durham, Harrogate, Liverpool, Newcastle-on-Tyne, North Shields,
Scarborough, Stockton-on-Tees, Sunderland, Whitby, and York, and
afterwards as a fellow-labourer with Mr. Slack on “The Newcastle
Chronicle,” from its commencement, March 24th, 1764, to his Death,
under the hospitable roof of his Employer, Sept. 18th 1773,Æ 44.)
I.
Sweet is the Shepherd’s pastoral Pipe, when blown
By lips like thine: for Nature in repose
Is ever lovely. In fancy, at the close
Of day—again at morn or noon—I own
Thy muse has led me oft to sylvan scenes, 5
That cheered my soul, when I was forced to breathe
A poison’d air, and almost sank beneath
The effluvia all around me. Ways and means
To mingle town and country more, to me
Seems practicable, and I hold the hope 10
That Man with every evil yet will cope,
And learn to look on Nature like to thee.
By many a “Pile of Ruins” I have stood,
And mused with thee in true poetic mood.

II.
Thy “oaten reed” has potent power to charm 15
Thy heart attuned to Nature. Purity and Peace
Live in thy hymnings, and I will never cease
To cherish righteous thoughts, and shield from harm
Thy lovers of thy sweet and gentle Muse.
No mawkish Swains and Shepherdesses gay, 20
Fitter to flit in drawing-rooms, are they
Whom thou depicts in thy Arcadian views,
But sterling Men and Women, such as live
Amidst green fields, tending their flocks and herds;
Loving the trees and flowers, and songs of birds, 25
And all the simple joys that such can give;
And when thou sings of dear Freemasonry,
Thou proves thy theme one of true poësy.

George Markham Tweddell

NOTE ON JOHN CUNNINGHAM TOMB.
In The Freemasons’ Magazine and Masonic Mirror, London,
December 3rd 1859, I wrote as follows:—“Can any Brother inform
me, When and Where John Cunningham, the Pastoral Poet, was
Initiated into Freemasonry, and what progress he made in the science?
The date of his Initiation can not be earlier than 1750, in which he
became ‘of the full age of twenty-one’; and it will be some years
previous to 1773, as on the 18th of September, in that year, he died.—I
should also be glad to know that the Mr. Slack, in conjunction with
whom the Poet laboured to establish The Newcastle Chronicle, in
1764, was a brother Mason. It was to the humanity and benevolence of
Mr. Slack that poor Bro. Cunningham owed all his subsistence in his
latter days; it was under Mr. Slack’s hospitable roof-tree that the Bard
was nursed in his last illness, and it was there that he died; and it was
Mr. Slack who erected that now dilapidated Monument over the
Poet’s Grave, in the unpoetical-looking Churchyard of St. John, at
Newcastle-upon-Tyne,—the future care and restoration of which
Tomb I beg most fraternally to recommend to our Brethren of the
Province of Northumberland”. I was in hope that so wealthy a body
would have generously responded to my appeal; but I might just have
whistled to the wind. Perhaps they never read the only Masonic
Periodical then published in England. In honouring the Poet, (even if
he had not been a Brother of the Craft) they would have helped to
spread the pure principles of Freemasonry; and, if necessary, every
good Brother would have freely given his mite, on the proposal having
been properly put before him. I am very sorry to see that an appeal has
been made to “the outer world who are not Freemasons,” to do a
trifling act of courtesy to the Tomb of one of the purest of Masonic
Poets after Twenty-Eight Years have elapsed since I humbly
attempted to have regarded as a sacred Masonic Duty, as well as a

Privilege.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Cunningham_(poet_and_dramatist)

Sunnyside Gill A Blank Verse Poem (to Mr Henry Wade)

Sunnyside Gill
A Blank Verse Poem
Addressed to Mr Henry Wade, Master of the Grammar School of
Wolsingham; author of “Halcyon, or Rod Fishing in Clear Waters,”
“Country Lyrics, and other poems,” &c.

Thanks, angler-poet-artist, thanks to thee

For the neat sketch which thou to me hast sent
Of one of Nature’s lovely hidden nooks.
Oh, it is well for those who have such scenes
Within the usual limits of their walks, 5
And eyes to gaze on them with fervent love:
For he who loveth Nature in his soul,
Will ne’er repent it through the longest life,
Or when kind Death strikes off his mortal gyves.
Those ancient rocks, (o’er which the Lichen stole, 10
With silent footsteps and in beauty robed,
Myriads of ages ere a loving eye,
Like thine or mine, beheld them,) have not they
A history to unfold, compared to which
Those sad sensations of mad novelists 15
Are tame and unromantic? Yon waterfall,
Gushing in liquid melodies sublime

In its unceasing hymnings, is to me
A celestial organ, ever tuned
To angels’ songs; and I can hear it swell 20
With harmony unutterably sweet,
Though all the darkest chambers of my soul:
For dear to me is ev’ry watery sound;
From gently trickling of the newborn streams
Through mountain mosses; or the gleesome march 25

Of gathering rivulets through primrosed meads;
To rushing roar of mighty cataracts;
Or billows dashing madly ‘gainst the cliffs
Of my dear Cleveland coast;—all these to me
Are full of music and of beauty too. 30
The stunted Oak, that strives to grow above
Thy rocky waterfall, oh Sunnyside!
But’s dwarf’d for want of genial soil in which
To spread its roots, reminds me of my race—
Those more than “hearts of oak”—who might have been 35
Expanded like the goodliest forest tree
In beauty and in joy; yea, might have been
The strength and power for good in this our realm,
Had education of the truest kind
Taught them to use their faculties aright: 40
Had fostered care developed the rich minds
Or more than gold or diamonds which lie hid
In human souls: but who are stunted now—
Dwarf’d to deformity—for lack of soil
In which the roots of true nobility 45
In man or woman may find nutriment.
’T is to cultivate each yard of soil
For corn, and fruits, and flowers: it is well
To probe the earth for minerals that may
Be fused to human use; but it is vain 50
To prate of “wealth of nations” in our pride—
Yea, bloated ignorance—if we despise,
Neglect, or scorn, the meanest child that’s born
Of meanest parents; for there is a wealth
To be developed by all nations yet 55
In those bright rays all other wealth will pale.
As the sun’s beams upon the Alders shine
That this Gill adorn, causing healthy sap,
The life’s-blood of the trees, to circulate
Through all their woody veins; their leaves to breathe 60
The breath of heaven, unpolluted here:

Until they sport that livery of green
The poet loves to look on:—so in time
The sun of knowledge (hidden by the clouds)
Of densest ignorance from the mighty mass 65
Of moiling millions, who know not yet
The godlike power within them) will forth
Brighter than in the days of ancient Greece,
Even to here favour’d few.
Ye Alders,
Growing by this peaceful stream, which, as yet, 70
Is unpolluted by the poison drain’d
From neighb’ring leadmines, may your ashes* ne’er
Aid in the murd’rous warfare which vile nab
Wages with brother man. Accursed War!
Back to the native hell! Each scene like this
Protest against thee. He Who form’d such nooks 75
Of peaceful loveliness, ne’er meant that we
Should e’er indulge in fratricidal strife.
Ye, Alders, flourish by the purest streams,
But perish in the stagnant pool: so we
Should learn from you only to imbibe 80
The unpolluted waters which the soul
Can drink and be refresh’d with; leaving all
The stagnant sinks that wither up the roots
Of all true greatest in the mind of man.
So God has writ, for all who choose to learn, 85
Lessons of wisdom in each thing we see;
Alas! we heed them not, but buzz along,
Like simple insects, down the maze of life,
Scarcely wiser at its close than we began.
Hail, stately Foxgloves! in your purple pride, 90
How you all pamper’d princes far outshine!
They may don “imperial purple”; they may
Have flunkey fools to feed them, and to wait
Obsequious at their call: while slaves around
To do their bidding, though that bidding’s vile,— 95
As princes’ biddings have been through all time,
With some so few exceptions that we stare
With wonder when an Albert Good appears.
They may deck their impious foreheads with fine
Golden crowns; priests, false to Christ, persuade them 100
That they are fashion’d by superior clay

* With the exception of charcoal made from burning the wood of the
Black Dogwood (Rhamus frangula), that of the common Alder (Alnus
glutinosa) is the most esteemed for the manufacture of gunpowder.

To those who batten on; and strive also
To gain them worship which belongs alone
To Him Who form’d us for much nobler ends
Than to bow down to either priest or king; 105
Though all the dev’lish instruments of War
Surround their blood-built thrones; ye, Foxgloves tall!
Will wear the purple with imperial pride,
In strict succession, on your peaceful thrones,
When theirs have passed away.
Ye Daisies dear! 110
How shall I do you justice? Chaucer’s self
Could but admire you and express his love;
And I love him more for loving you.
Oh, may my life, in action, word, and thought,
Be pure as your fair petals!—ev’ry one 115
A perfect flower. Gallant knights of old,
As emblems of fidelity, have worn
Daisies with their love-tokens, in the tilts
And tournaments of those days when Chivalry
Was soft’ning down the barb’rism of the times; 120
And their fair ladies worn them in their hair.
What other flowers have such fidelity?
In winter we have seen the Daisy bloom,
When other flowers had left the mountain side
And the green lanes and pastures desolate, 125
Ere Wordworth’s flower, “the little Celandine,”
Has shown its golden petals; and when those
Of the bright Buttercup have paled in death,
“Thy snawie bosom sunward spread” is seen
Unflinching in fidelity: and Burns, 130
The truest bard of Scotland’s tuneful band,
Loved the “wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,”
With holy fervour; and in Montgomery’s verse
“The Daisy never dies.” And if a poet
With less gift of song; if a bard who soars
Much nearer earth, but still looks up in heaven; 135
May, at an humble distance, follow them,—
I love the Daisy with that fervent love
I kiss’d it when a child; and on my grave,
Though other flowers be none, I’d have it there,
And the sweet lark to carol overhead. 140
Flow on, sweet streamlet, through this pleasant Gill,
Of Sunnyside well known. Methinks I see
The beauteous spotted trout rise in yon pool
At HALCYON’s well-thrown fly. In such a spot,
With hum of insects and with songs of birds.

Mingling with music of the purling brook,
Who would not be an angler? Byron’s self
Here would grasp Izaak Walton by the hand,
And bid him angle on and contemplate.
On, little stream, to join the wooded Wear, 150
Gurgling along its pebbled bed in pride,
Past many pleasant and historic sites,
Gathering rill by rill, and brook by brook,
Until its lordly bosom well can bear
The largest argosies, to help to bind 155
All nations in the peaceful bonds of trade
And commerce; and the ocean shall become
The common highway of all nations,—not
Their naval battle-scene: for man with man
Must learn to war no more, and humankind 160
Prove by their acts the brotherhood of man.
Such are the vagrant thoughts, my HALCYON dear,
Thy bonny sketch calls up within my brain.
I’ll look upon this picture when I am
Debarr’d from rambling in such rustic spots, 165
And fancy I am there. Some day I hope
To seat me for a daydream on yon stone,
Whilst thou shalt angle near; and we will talk
Of Nature and of Poësy divine,
And fancy Walton and his Cotton there. 170
Meanwhile accept my thanks for having sent
Thy watercolour drawing, which has made
Me know another lovely nook o’ the North
Unknown to me before. Let those who will
Wander around the world in search of that 175
They have so near, if they would look for it;
Be it mine to explore, and patriotic love,
The many glorious scenes we have at home.

Stokesley George Markham Tweddell
Lines 47 to 56 above are also quoted in Cursory Remarks on
Education and School Board Elections, North of England
Tractates, No. 30 (1887)

Halcyon: Or, Rod-fishing with Fly, Minnow, and Worm
By Henry Wade
http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=mXkoAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

Poësy

[Poësy]

No!—bid me not destroy my rustic lyre,
Though its rude notes may finer ears annoy;
For I have felt one “spark of Nature’s fire,”
And unto me that lyre hath been a joy:
Yea, I have loved the Muses from a boy; 5
And oft when Grief did on my spirit press,
And woman’s eye no smile had got for me,
And there were none to cheer me or caress,
I fled, my dearest Poësy! to thee;
For thou couldst always cheer my drooping heart, 10
And put Despair’s dark, hideous train to flight;
Anon, across my darken’d mind would dart
Inspiring thoughts and visions of delight,
Till my glad soul forgot Misfortune’s blight.

George Markham Tweddell
[The last poem in Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 400 October 1846. Later
used as Cleveland Sonnet No. XI in Tractates No 7. Also published in Turner,
J.Horsfall (undated 1890?) Yorkshire Genealogist, with which is incorporated
Yorkshire Bibliographer, Volume II (Idel, Bradford), p. 13]

John Walker Ord [No. 1]

John Walker Ord. [No. 1]

To my literary friend, the late John Walker Ord
Hail, child of genius!* Cleveland’s honour’d bard!
Who, singing England’s praise, forgot not her
Whose hills, and brooks, and plains, though doest prefer
To all the world: thou art a worshipper
Of Nature fair; and on the daisied sward 5
Of thy dear native vale will ofttimes lay,
(When Phoebus high in azure heaven doth ride,
And sea-nymphs sport upon the ocean tide,)
To hear the linnets’ song, see lambkins play,
And view thy Cleveland clad in garments gay 10
Of lovely green, with Flora’s gems bedight
So rich and profuse, that thy gladden’d soul
Feels inspiration at the very sight,
And wings its way beyond the world’s control.

George Markham Tweddell
Stokesley
* Mr John Walker Ord, Author of “England, a Historical Poem,” “The Bard,
and Minor Poems,” “Rural Sketches and Poems, chiefly relating to Cleveland,”
“The History and Antiquities of Cleveland,” &c., &c.
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 400 October 1846 and also in Tractates
No. 7 as Sonnet No. VII. Published too in Turner, J.Horsfall (undated 1890?)
Yorkshire Genealogist, with which is incorporated Yorkshire Bibliographer,
Volume II (Idel, Bradford), p. 13]

CLEVELAND SONNETS—Second series
Tractates No. 35 (1888)
[Published with the approval of
Middlesbrough Library,
Listed Tweddell Collection MPLib]
John Walker Ord, F.G.S.L. [No. 2]
(For a Memoir of whose Life and Writings see The Bards and Authors
of Cleveland and South Durham.)
I
We were true friends, because we dearly loved
Our native vale. Cleveland to both being dear,
Though all the changing beauty of the year,
With him delighted I have often roved
Our hills and plains, and in our little dells; 5
For each gave gladness, which we well could share;
And we felt thankful earth was all so fair;
Whilst fairies seem’d to come forth from their cells,
In every little flower, to welcome give
Then to our visits: and when last we met 10
’T was on dear Rosebury, and the sun had set
Ere we could bear to part. And yet I live
Those happy days again in memory,
My much-loved friend, whene’er I think of thee

II
And not alone did Cleveland’s hills and dales, 15
Her rivers and her varied coast, give joy,
With garniture of woods that never cloy;
We both delighted in romantic tales,
Which reverend eld had handed down from yore,—
Oft husks of superstition—which within 20
Held kernels of dim truths, for those to win
Who know well how rightly search for lore
Thus only to be found: for myth and truth
Are strangely interwoven on all hands;
And happiest he who clearly understands 25
How best to part them: for so quick the growth
Of Error’s weeds, that they too often choke
E’en up the paths where Wisdom fain would walk.

George Markham Tweddell