Now! Then! 2024! - Yorkshire On This Day

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EMILIA MONTEIRO;
A Ballad
of
THE OLD HALL, HEATH.

I.
Nigh “merry Wakefield” eastward stands
A fine, old, English Hall;
The vale around, the eye commands
Its turrets stout and tall:
‘Tis built upon a wooded scar
On Calder’s southern bank;
In front, the green turf stretches far,
Behind, the trees grow rank,
As downward slopes the crumbling cliff,
Close to the water’s edge,
Where slowly glides the laden skiff
‘Mid willow, reed, and sedge;
And fathomless the river’s “reach,”
Beneath that steep ascent,
So thick o’erhung with elm and beech,
At noon the day seems spent!
There is a wild and darkling way,
With tangled briar wove,
That leads the wanderer into day
From out that twilight grove—
When lo! a goodly sight is seen—
“The fine, old, English Hall!”
Its western windows robed in green,
And turrets crown the wall—
The moss-grown steps—a cumbrous flight—
The proud arms o’er the door—
The jealous casements mock the sight,
‘Twixt mullions stout and hoar—
Where many a swallow builds her nest,
Amidst the fretted stone,
She plumes the Baron’s carvèd crest
With feathers of her own—
Whilst high above, the busy rooks
Wheel round the aged grove—
The stockdoves sit in leafy nooks,
And breathe sweet songs of love.
Or right, or left, the terrace spreads
Its broad and level way,
Where laurel clumps and myrtle beds
An avenue display;
And, greener than the shining bay,
The tulip tree is seen—
Oh! when she wears her blossoms gay,
In sooth she looks a Queen!
Above—below—the charmèd eye
Finds beauty everywhere;
Yon agèd elms that tower on high,
A solemn splendour wear;
Yon gnarlèd oak, which stands alone,
With centuries grown hoar,
Each tenant of the Hall hath known,
And haply may know more;
His trunk, hy lightning rudely riven,
Is girt with iron zone,
When Winter’s howling blast is driven,
His smitten branches groan.
But, mark ye! through the gateway’s bound,
The village smiling in!
How green the turf – how gay the sound
Of urchins’ playful din!
The blue smoke wreathes from many a cot,
Where rose and wallflower grow—
Oh! happy is the peasant’s lot—
Where pride may work no woe!
Lo! there, how still the river flows
The fertile mead adown;
How bright the agèd church-spire glows
Above the close-built town!
Here, westward, opes the distant view
O’er hill, and vale, and wood;
Upon yon mount — those relics few
Mark where old Sandal stood;
In yonder plain — so richly green,
The brave old York was slain;
On Calder’s bridge the fane is seen
Where Rutland sued in vain—
Those days of strife were bloody days
To all this fair country!
Sure he who hears their record, prays
The like he ne’er may see!
God grant us peace, and plenty too,
And thankful hearts beside!
And there’s no wrong our foes can do,
While Heaven is on our side!

II.
Of all the tenants of that Hall,
(Now tenants of the grave,)
There’s one fair girl I would recall
From out oblivion’s wave;—
Oft by her simple tomb I stand,
Which tells but age and name,
And birth-place in a foreign land,
(For this is all her claim,)
And yet her scanty record here
Hath spoken to my heart,
And I have mused upon her bier
Until we could not part!
Yes! I have sought that grassy mound
For tidings of the dead,
Until, methought, a solemn sound
My longings answerèd—
And these rude lines to me were given,
When all was mute beside,
Of one whose beauty blooms in heaven,
Though here to grief allied.

III.
“Ah – stranger! wouldst thou know my tale,
Prepare thy heart for woe–
And yet what may thy tears avail,
My grief is ended now!
Emilia was a rich man’s child,
His wealth was on the sea;
But once when Biscay’s waves rolled wild,
He came not back to me.
They told me ship and all were lost;
Of grief my mother died;
And I, an orphan girl, was tossed
Upon the world so wide!
But in a convent’s sacred shade
I shelter sometime found,
Till war a dismal havoc made
Of all the country round;
Then in a friendly ship I sailed
From Lisbon’s wave-washed wall,
Until fair England’s cliffs I hailed,
And reached yon gothic Hall,
Where dwelt a holy sisterhood
Of exiled nuns of France,
For still there rolled a tide of blood
O’er Europe’s wide expanse.
And there were some who came with me
From vine-clad Portugàl,
Who sorrowed not to cross the sea,
And leave behind their all.
But though I loved my native land,
I loved Alphonso more,
He stood ainid the mournful band
We left on Tagus’ shore;
And though we had not met for years,
His heart was still the same;
I eye o’erflow with tears,
I heard him breathe my name.
He was my playmate from a child,
In meadow, house, and grove,
And oft our watchful mothers smiled
On our young dream of love.
Alphonso had a cherub’s brow
O’erhung with jetty hair,
And on his cheek, a crimson glow
The damask roses wear!
Then soon he grew a graceful youth,
Of frank and manly mien,
As flashed his dark eye, love and truth
Were never fairer seen!
Oh! when I knew that he was gone,
I sorrowed for his sake,
Amid that Hall I felt so lone,
I thought my heart would break!
And many a long–long night I wept
Before my sobs were heard,
Till some one to my chamber crept
With soft and suasive word,
And told me mine was earthly love,
And was but sin in me,
That all my thoughts should soar above,
And but with angels be.
Oh! this was hard for me to think,
And yet they told me so,
Till time did much to break the link
That chained my heart below.
At length, the world grew dead in me,
Its pleasure and its pain,
And e’en Alphonso seemed to be
A phantom of my brain.
I coveted no other lot,
Than might beseem a nun,
Nor willed to quit the sheltered spot
Where this strange peace begun;
Save only, when this life was o’er,
To reach that heavenly place
Where saints and angels evermore
Shall see God face to face.

IV.
“It happed one eve, beneath the moon,
I wandered forth alone,
And saw her solemn lustre strewn
Upon the carvèd stone;
I heard the gush of distant fall
Far down the winding vale,
And, round the ivy-mantled wall,
The sigh of parting gale.
My heart was melted in that hour–
My childhood all came back–
In vain I strove with utmost power
To stem that torrent’s track.
My father’s smile — my mother’s love
And his — my playmate gay,
Came round me in that moonlit grove,
As fresh as yesterday!
Oh God! till then I little knew
How weak a heart was mine!
I ne’er could steel that heart anew,
It owned an earthly shrine!
But as I wept o’er years gone by,
And gazed on yon old Hall,
Methought a figure glided nigh,
So stately–black, and tall–
Upon the terrace walk it stood,
Betwixt the wall and me–
And, by its sable garb and hood,
A sister nun might be.
As I had tarried long–methought,
To search for me she came;
To meet that nun I straightway sought,
Lest I should be to blame:
But when my feet had reached the spot,
And she stood full in sight,
I gazed, but found I knew her not–
Then sore was my affright!

“With trembling step I hurried by,
But cast one parting look,

Comment

Comment

And here, with so much business unfinished, Google abruptly lurches into some another poem. Can someone get hold of the original and send me a scan of the remaining pages?

Sandal in the Olden Time is another historical poem by Leatham.

Ron Mulroy met the surviving head of the order and wrote an excellent piece, covering their decade (1811-21) at Heath (Mulroy N.d.).

More at Heritage Gateway about Heath Old Hall, which was demolished in 1961. Photos here.

Something to say? Get in touch

Original

EMILIA MONTEIRO;
A Ballad
of
THE OLD HALL, HEATH.

I.
Nigh “merry Wakefield” eastward stands
A fine, old, English Hall;
The vale around, the eye commands
Its turrets stout and tall:
‘Tis built upon a wooded scar
On Calder’s southern bank;
In front, the green turf stretches far,
Behind, the trees grow rank,
As downward slopes the crumbling cliff,
Close to the water’s edge,
Where slowly glides the laden skiff
‘Mid willow, reed, and sedge;
And fathomless the river’s “reach,”
Beneath that steep ascent,
So thick o’erhung with elm and beech,
At noon the day seems spent!
There is a wild and darkling way,
With tangled briar wove,
That leads the wanderer into day
From out that twilight grove—
When lo! a goodly sight is seen—
“The fine, old, English Hall!”
Its western windows robed in green,
And turrets crown the wall—
The moss-grown steps—a cumbrous flight—
The proud arms o’er the door—
The jealous casements mock the sight,
‘Twixt mullions stout and hoar—
Where many a swallow builds her nest,
Amidst the fretted stone,
She plumes the Baron’s carvèd crest
With feathers of her own—
Whilst high above, the busy rooks
Wheel round the aged grove—
The stockdoves sit in leafy nooks,
And breathe sweet songs of love.
Or right, or left, the terrace spreads
Its broad and level way,
Where laurel clumps and myrtle beds
An avenue display;
And, greener than the shining bay,
The tulip tree is seen—
Oh! when she wears her blossoms gay,
In sooth she looks a Queen!
Above—below—the charmèd eye
Finds beauty everywhere;
Yon agèd elms that tower on high,
A solemn splendour wear;
Yon gnarlèd oak, which stands alone,
With centuries grown hoar,
Each tenant of the Hall hath known,
And haply may know more;
His trunk, hy lightning rudely riven,
Is girt with iron zone,
When Winter’s howling blast is driven,
His smitten branches groan.
But, mark ye! through the gateway’s bound,
The village smiling in!
How green the turf – how gay the sound
Of urchins’ playful din!
The blue smoke wreathes from many a cot,
Where rose and wallflower grow—
Oh! happy is the peasant’s lot—
Where pride may work no woe!
Lo! there, how still the river flows
The fertile mead adown;
How bright the agèd church-spire glows
Above the close-built town!
Here, westward, opes the distant view
O’er hill, and vale, and wood;
Upon yon mount — those relics few
Mark where old Sandal stood;
In yonder plain — so richly green,
The brave old York was slain;
On Calder’s bridge the fane is seen
Where Rutland sued in vain—
Those days of strife were bloody days
To all this fair country!
Sure he who hears their record, prays
The like he ne’er may see!
God grant us peace, and plenty too,
And thankful hearts beside!
And there’s no wrong our foes can do,
While Heaven is on our side!

II.
Of all the tenants of that Hall,
(Now tenants of the grave,)
There’s one fair girl I would recall
From out oblivion’s wave;—
Oft by her simple tomb I stand,
Which tells but age and name,
And birth-place in a foreign land,
(For this is all her claim,)
And yet her scanty record here
Hath spoken to my heart,
And I have mused upon her bier
Until we could not part!
Yes! I have sought that grassy mound
For tidings of the dead,
Until, methought, a solemn sound
My longings answerèd—
And these rude lines to me were given,
When all was mute beside,
Of one whose beauty blooms in heaven,
Though here to grief allied.

III.
“Ah – stranger! wouldst thou know my tale,
Prepare thy heart for woe–
And yet what may thy tears avail,
My grief is ended now!
Emilia was a rich man’s child,
His wealth was on the sea;
But once when Biscay’s waves rolled wild,
He came not back to me.
They told me ship and all were lost;
Of grief my mother died;
And I, an orphan girl, was tossed
Upon the world so wide!
But in a convent’s sacred shade
I shelter sometime found,
Till war a dismal havoc made
Of all the country round;
Then in a friendly ship I sailed
From Lisbon’s wave-washed wall,
Until fair England’s cliffs I hailed,
And reached yon gothic Hall,
Where dwelt a holy sisterhood
Of exiled nuns of France,
For still there rolled a tide of blood
O’er Europe’s wide expanse.
And there were some who came with me
From vine-clad Portugàl,
Who sorrowed not to cross the sea,
And leave behind their all.
But though I loved my native land,
I loved Alphonso more,
He stood ainid the mournful band
We left on Tagus’ shore;
And though we had not met for years,
His heart was still the same;
I eye o’erflow with tears,
I heard him breathe my name.
He was my playmate from a child,
In meadow, house, and grove,
And oft our watchful mothers smiled
On our young dream of love.
Alphonso had a cherub’s brow
O’erhung with jetty hair,
And on his cheek, a crimson glow
The damask roses wear!
Then soon he grew a graceful youth,
Of frank and manly mien,
As flashed his dark eye, love and truth
Were never fairer seen!
Oh! when I knew that he was gone,
I sorrowed for his sake,
Amid that Hall I felt so lone,
I thought my heart would break!
And many a long–long night I wept
Before my sobs were heard,
Till some one to my chamber crept
With soft and suasive word,
And told me mine was earthly love,
And was but sin in me,
That all my thoughts should soar above,
And but with angels be.
Oh! this was hard for me to think,
And yet they told me so,
Till time did much to break the link
That chained my heart below.
At length, the world grew dead in me,
Its pleasure and its pain,
And e’en Alphonso seemed to be
A phantom of my brain.
I coveted no other lot,
Than might beseem a nun,
Nor willed to quit the sheltered spot
Where this strange peace begun;
Save only, when this life was o’er,
To reach that heavenly place
Where saints and angels evermore
Shall see God face to face.

IV.
“It happed one eve, beneath the moon,
I wandered forth alone,
And saw her solemn lustre strewn
Upon the carvèd stone;
I heard the gush of distant fall
Far down the winding vale,
And, round the ivy-mantled wall,
The sigh of parting gale.
My heart was melted in that hour–
My childhood all came back–
In vain I strove with utmost power
To stem that torrent’s track.
My father’s smile — my mother’s love
And his — my playmate gay,
Came round me in that moonlit grove,
As fresh as yesterday!
Oh God! till then I little knew
How weak a heart was mine!
I ne’er could steel that heart anew,
It owned an earthly shrine!
But as I wept o’er years gone by,
And gazed on yon old Hall,
Methought a figure glided nigh,
So stately–black, and tall–
Upon the terrace walk it stood,
Betwixt the wall and me–
And, by its sable garb and hood,
A sister nun might be.
As I had tarried long–methought,
To search for me she came;
To meet that nun I straightway sought,
Lest I should be to blame:
But when my feet had reached the spot,
And she stood full in sight,
I gazed, but found I knew her not–
Then sore was my affright!

“With trembling step I hurried by,
But cast one parting look,

1547 words.

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• Anti-clericalism (7) ·
• Ballad (18) ·
• Benedictines (2) ·
• Catholic Church (57) ·
• French Revolution (7) ·
• Liberal Party (UK) (10) ·
• River Calder, West Yorkshire (5) ·
• Romantic literature in English (3) ·
• 📌Wakefield (36), cathedral city on the River Calder in the West Riding/West Yorkshire ·
• Warmfield cum Heath (1) ·
• West Riding of Yorkshire (147) ·
• William Henry Leatham (1) ·
• Winter (11) ·

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