Or

WESLEYANISM AT EASBY,

IN THE STOKESLEY CIRCUIT:

Written when the Methodists were deprived of the place of worship in which they had been accustomed to meet.

They're wakken'd at Easby, the Lord is amang 'em, Thof turn'd oot o' t' temple 'at used te belang 'em, Anoother we whooap afoore lang 'll be beelt, Whoor sinners thruff Christ may hev pardon for guilt. T' Lord seems te oppen a way out afoore 'em, Thof neybourin lions hev aim'd te devoor 'em. When t'awd maister mariner fail'd at the helm, They thowght it wad all the consarn owerwhelm; An' when they appear'd ov all succour bereft, They endeeavour'd te freeghten t' few 'at wur left. Bud the Lord wur detarmin'd te be ther protection, Te send 'em suppoort, an' gie 'em direction; If nobbut, like monny, they wadden't betray him, Bud stick te that text, beeath te luv an' obey him. They can't be content wi' ther steeple opinions, Bud they mun mack inrooads on others' dominions; Thof theers be in gen'ral the fat an' the wealthy, For t'want of gud physic, they seldom are healthy. Hoo strange 'at they sud sike fair temples erect, Te murder the sowls in--they're swoorn te protect! Bud stranger they'll finnd it o' yon side the fleead, Wi' ther hands an' ther garments all stain'd i' ther bleead! We needn't te wonder they mack sike a fuss, Ther craft is i' danger fra' rebels like us:-- For God can mack preeachers--hoo feearful the thowght-- Fra' cobblers, or meeasons, or blacksmiths, or owght! O yes! Dr. Pusey may whet his awd grinders, An' put on his captives ther fetters an' blinders; Ther's poor men iv Easby 'at ken his awd sang, An' see the defect ov beeath him an' his gang. He may scare 'em wi' taxes, wi' rates, an' oppression, All thooase whea are oot o' the line o' succession, Thof te prove 'at he's in't, he's a varry poor chance, Unless he unite wi' the Romans at yance. Then t' Romans wad help him, an' think it all reeght, Te murder Dissenters, an' put oot ther leeght; Te cut 'em i' pieces, te butcher an' bon 'em, Bud till that's the keease they cannut owerton 'em! Nur Stowsley, nur Yatton, ther frinds will invite, Nur Skelton, nur Brotton, ther efforts unite; They'll finnd te ther mortification an' pain, They hev fowght wi' t' wind, an' hev labour'd i' vain!

LEALHOLM BRIDGE.

A SOLILOQUY DURING A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS' ABSENCE.

Ah, lovely Lealholm! Where shall I begin, To say what thou art now, and once hast been? Once the dear seat of all my earthly joys, That now, in recollection only, rise! Methinks, where'er I look no life appears, But all the place a cheerless aspect wears; Thy groves are desolate, thy swains are fled, And many of them number'd with the dead; Religion 's cold, the poor are sore oppress'd, Thy orphans weep, and widows are distress'd. O let us pray their griefs may shortly end, And God, their Father, still may prove their friend. This ancient Bridge some faint idea brings, Where still the swallow comes and dips her wings; The murmuring river, and the rumbling mill, Bear some resemblance to poor Lealholm still; Yon silent whirlpool beautifies the scene, Where shades of trees are in its deepness seen, Where leaping fishes on the surface play, And gladly seems to close, the summer's day; The broken waters from yon glen resound, Their constant rippling 's heard the village round; Yon burden'd iron pinion loudly shrieks, While tears of oil hang on his rusty cheeks; The greedy race, the water still supplies, The lofty wheel's broad shelves successive rise; The thund'ring engine doth her hands employ, And Hunter's place is fill'd by William Joy; The floating bubble swims upon the wave, While Ord[B] lies mould'ring in the silent grave; Behind yon hill the sun escapes from sight, And yields his empire to the shades of night. Alas! Poor Lealholm once in glory shone, But now, she like a widow, sits alone! Once from yon town the people flock'd like bees, To taste the sweetness of the country breeze; Pedestrians joyful, here and there were seen, While shays and whiskeys deck'd her level green; The banks of Esk, were crowded all along, Either with Anglers, or with lookers on. The full "Moon,"[C] then did through her valleys shine, So bright, some thought she never would decline; Year after year she in her sphere did move, And all seem'd animation, life, and love: But now, in mists and gloom she disappears, Eclips'd--her light no longer Lealholm cheers! Pluck'd from her orb, her borrow'd lustre's fled, And in the silent tomb, she rests her head. In distant lands my father's lot was cast, And we were left to feel the bitter blast. Death's fatal hand its victim did arrest, And tore him from the darlings of his breast. I, by a mother's care, when young was led, Down by the river to yon primrose bed, Where birds so sweetly sung the trees among, I thought those days were happy, bright, and long. Oft I, a boy, with others of my age, Did eager here in youthful sports engage. Oft in yon wood we rov'd when life was new, The rocks, and trees and rugged caves to view; Where woodbines wild, with sweets perfum'd the air, And all seem'd joyous, beautiful, and fair. Alas! where's now the grove? The trees are gone! And many the wide ocean are upon: A few remaining springers yet survive, And keep their owner's name and place alive! Just so it is with us, could we but see, Our fathers who are in eternity! Their offspring live, but they're for ever gone, Their portion's fixed, no more will they return! May we be wise, and lessons learn afresh, To trust no longer in an arm of flesh!-- Begin to seek, and rest not till we find The peace of God, which satisfies the mind. Then seeing all my earthly joys are fled, Where, O my soul! art thou for succour led? 'Tis Jesus, that can all thy wants supply, A fountain 's there which never will run dry: Arabia's grove, nor Sharon's flowery field, Such rich perfume, such holy incense yield: 'Tis Jesus' merit, and his dying love, 'Tis these perfume the glorious courts above!