Classic Poem

One day to Helbeck I had stroll'd,
Among the Crossfell Hills,
And resting in its rocky grove,
Sat listening to the rills,—

The while to their sweet undersong
The birds sang blithe around,
And the soft west wind awoke the wood
To an intermitting sound.

Louder or fainter, as it rose
Or died away, was borne
The harmony of merry bells,
From Brough, that pleasant morn.

“Why are the merry bells of Brough,
My friend, so few?” said I;
They disappoint the expectant ear,
Which they should gratify.

“One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four;
'Tis still one, two, three, four;
Mellow and silvery are the tones;
But I wish the bells were more!”

“What! art thou critical?” quoth he;
“Eschew that heart's disease
That seeketh for displeasure where
The intent hath been to please.

“By those four bells there hangs a tale,
Which being told, I guess,
Will make thee hear their scanty peal
With proper thankfulness.

“Not by the Cliffords were they given,
Nor by the Tuftons' line;
Thou hearest in that peal the crune
Of old John Brunskill's kine.

“On Stanemore's side, one summer eve,
John Brunskill sat to see
His herds in yonder Borrodale
Come winding up the lea.

“Behind them, on the lowland's verge,
In the evening light serene,
Brough's silent tower, then newly built
By Blenkinsop, was seen.

“Slowly they came in long array,
With loitering pace at will;
At times a low from them was heard,
Far off, for all was still.

“The hills return'd that lonely sound
Upon the tranquil air;
The only sound it was, which then
Awoke the echoes there.

“Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine,
Neighbor,’ quoth Brunskill then;
How loudly to the hills he crunes,
That crune to him again!

“‘Thinkest thou if you whole herd at once
Their voices should combine,
Were they at Brough, that we might not
Hear plainly from this upland spot
That cruning of the kine?’

“‘That were a crune, indeed,’ replied
His comrade, ‘which, I ween,
Might at the Spital well be heard,
And in all dales between.

“‘Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs,
The eastern wind upon its wings
The mighty voice would bear;
And Appleby would hear the sound,
Methinks, when skies are fair.’

“‘Then shall the herd,’ John Brunskill cried,
‘From yon dumb steeple crune,
And thou and I, on this hill-side,
Will listen to their tune.

“‘So, while the merry Bells of Brough,
For many an age ring on,
John Brunskill will remember'd be,
When he is dead and gone,—

“‘As one who, in his latter years,
Contented with enough,
Gave freely what he well could spare
To buy the Bells of Brough.’

“Thus it hath proved: three hundred years
Since then have past away,
And Brunskill's is a living name
Among us to this day.”

“More pleasure,” I replied, “shall I
From this time forth partake,
When I remember Helbeck woods,
For old John Brunskill's sake.

“He knew how wholesome it would be,
Among these wild, wide fells,
And upland vales, to catch, at times,
The sound of Christian bells;—

“What feelings and what impulses
Their cadence might convey
To herdsman or to shepherd boy,
Whiling in indolent employ
The solitary day;—

“That, when his brethren were convened
To meet for social prayer,
He too, admonish'd by the call,
In spirit might be there;—

“Or, when a glad thanksgiving sound,
Upon the winds of Heaven,
Was sent to speak a Nation's joy,
For some great blessing given.—

“For victory by sea or land,
And happy peace at length;
Peace by his country's valor won,
And 'stablish'd by her strength;—

“When such exultant peals were borne
Upon the mountain air,
The sound should stir his blood, and give
An English impulse there.”

Such thoughts were in the old man's mind,
When he that eve look'd down
From Stanemore's side on Borrodale,
And on the distant town.

And had I store of wealth, methinks,
Another herd of kine,
John Brunskill, I would freely give,
That they might crune with thine.