Sunnyside Gill - A Blank Verse Poem

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 145


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)



Not a Cleveland poem as such - more County Durham.

No. X To my Father’s Sister (Frederica Markham)

Cleveland Sonnet

No. X [To my Father’s Sister]

Rectory Manor, Walthamstow 1860
From Paul Tweddell's book on the Tweddell's

Addressed to my Father’s sister Frederica,
daughter of the late Dean Markham
Lady! thy name is doubly dear to me,
And shall be, whilst this o’ercharged heart can feel;
For, like an angel, in my poverty
Thou hast appear’d, my rankling wounds to heal.
Then can I less than bow before my God, 5
And in lowly reverence I kneel,
Beseech each blessing promised in His Word—
Peace here on earth, and then eternal weal
In Heaven on high, where golden harps e’er peal
Th’ Almighty’s praise from every holy chord,— 10
“Glory to God, the holy God, our Lord,
The God through all the universe adored!”
Oh! can I less than offer up for thee
A fervent prayer that such thy lot may be?

George Markham Tweddell

From North of England Tractates No. 7
Cleveland Sonnets (1870)

Sonnet 10 was addressed to my Father's sister, Frederica, daughter of the late Dean Markham. She was born at Stokesley Rectory, and ever cherished a strong love for Cleveland. An angel on her sojourn here, she is now one in heaven.George Markham Tweddell Stokesley April 23rd 1870

Frederica Markham  baptised 23rd Feb 1774
Died: 29th Apr 1860 (1863 according to Paul Tweddell's book)
"She was the sister of George Markham Tweddell's father - Royal Navy Lieutenant, George Markham, who had been born in 1797 in the Rectory, Stokesley. His father, another George Markham (1763-1822), was the Rector of Stokesley, whilst also holding the post of Dean of York, and his grandfather was Archbishop Markham (1719-1807), famed for saving the walls of York from demolition in the first decade of the nineteenth century with the help of the author Walter Scott. Lt Markham had lived an adventurous life in the Royal Navy, had been mentioned in dispatches during the late Napoleonic campaign on the Mediterranean coast of France and was wounded in the Siege of Algiers in 1816. Obviously, one must imagine that his dalliance with Elizabeth Tweddell (1800-1841) while on leave in Stokesley during summer 1822 resulted in George Tweddell's birth the next year and must have been a typical event in the pre-Victorian period. So too was the way the child was welcomed by this mother's yeoman family without social problems; George would be perceived as an extra worker in the family's various enterprises and brought the added advantages of 'noble blood' to add it to the Tweddell line."
From Paul Tweddell's - Tweddell History website http://www.tweddellhistory.co.uk/chapter2.html

Frederica married Captain Heaviside and was known as Frederica Heaviside.

George made contact with Frederica, by then a widow at Rectory Manor, Walthamstow, Essex when it was still a village. In 1863 she left him an annuity of £100 per annum in her will to alleviate his poverty.

No. IX Scroll of Fame

No. IX [Scroll of Fame]

Cleveland, I look’d upon the scroll of Fame
To see if son of mine was enter’d there;
And to the goddess as I made a prayer
For information, lo! this answer came:—
Her sons have risen at the trumpet’s call, 5
And buckled on their armour for the fight;
Vow’d for their country they would stand or fall—
Their watchword “England, Victory, and Right!”
Full well the foeman knew their martial might:
For when the brave unsheathe the battle-blade 10
For home and its soul-endearing ties,
They feel that they for noble deeds were made,
And learn the recreant, Fear, to despise.

George Markham Tweddell

[This is a thirteen-line sonnet]
From North of England Tractates No. 7
Cleveland Sonnets (1870)

No. VIII [Villain, Forbear]

No. VIII [Villain, Forbear]

Written impromptu, on seeing a poor discharged soldier, in faded
regimentals, and of poor intellect, rudely beaten with his own stick
when asking alms, in the public street at Stokesley, April 21st 1849, by
the peevish policeman named in the sonnet.

Villain, forbear! Or blighted be thy arm
In retribution for each wrongful blow:
Cursed be he who can a soldier harm,—
His days be full of misery and woe,
Till foul Disease and Death do lay him low. 5
Perchance that soldier in the breach has stood,
The champion of his country in her need;
Has spilt on battle-plains the foeman’s blood,
That thou mightst sleep in peace! His heart doth bleed
To think his manly shoulders now must bear 10
That stroke of wretch like thee. Miles Thompson, hear!
The poet’s curse be on thee: for all time
May thy vile name be loathsome to the ear
Of all who count not poverty a crime.

George Markham Tweddell

From North of England Tractates No. 7
Cleveland Sonnets (1870)

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
G. T.
[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 (2 poems by Tweddell)

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 G. T.
* 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] And the intro to Tweddell's chapter on Ord in Bards and Authors of Cleveland 1872.


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.) Tweddell has a chapter on John Walker Ord in Bards and Authors - the book cna be downloaded from the link in this post here - http://georgemarkhamtweddell.blogspot.com/2012/12/bards-and-authors-of-cleveland-and.html

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

From CLEVELAND SONNETS—Second series
Tractates No. 35 (1888)

Note:
Tweddell met John Walker Ord when he was about 19 and was apprenticed to William Braithwaite, the printer at 30, the High Street, Stokesley (now a newsagents) and where John Walker Ord was having his book - The History and Antiquities of Cleveland - printed. Although of opposite politics, the two became good friends and associates.

Three Sonnets to Captain James Cook

[Three Sonnets to] Captain James Cook

Whilst obelisks are raised to men of wealth,
And pyramids are tow’ring to the sky
To tell mankind where bygone tyrants lie
Men who in life, flush’d with the joy of health,
And render’d vain by crouching helots’ praise, 5
Imagined they, by slave-piled stones, could raise
A Babel high to reach the Heaven of Fame—
And lo! E’en hoary Time’s forgot their name!
Whilst monuments are raised to men who slew
Their fellow-mortals on the field of strife, 10
England! Shall it be said thou never knew
Thy debt of gratitude to one whose life
Devoted was to arts that dignify
Not COOK alone, but all humanity?


Ye men of Cleveland! Now be you the lot 15
To prove that COOK, your COOK, is not forgot!
Upon your hills he bounded young and free,
In all the pride of boyhood’s joyancy;
And when in foreign climes ’t was his to roam,
’Mongst savage hordes where ev’ry face was strange, 20
Oft would his soul across the ocean stray,
When to rest he sought at close of weary day,
And in delight reveries would range
The verdant hills and valleys of his home.
And shall not sculpture homage pay to thee, 25
Immortal offspring of the Cleveland hind?
Shall thy own countrymen now prove to be
More than Owhyeen savages unkind?



Perish the thought! Ye gods! ’t were impious now
To think that one so useful to his kind— 30
Endow’d by Nature with so strong a mind,
And Resolution written on his brow—
Oh, it was impious to think that he
Who with his hardy seamen did explore
Those ocean-tracks unknown to us before, 35
Could be forgot. For all eternity,
The wise of every clime will love his name,
And call him hero, benefactor brave!
And Cleveland’s future children strive to save
Themselves from the dishonour and the blame 40
Which ye, vile, money-grubbing Cleveland slaves!
Will carry with ye to dishonoured graves.

George Markham Tweddell
Stokesley G. T.
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 343, July 1846.
The poem appears again in Tractates No. 7 as Cleveland
Sonnets, No. IV, No. V and No, VI]

No Warrior’s Name?

[No Warrior’s Name?]

Can Cleveland’s vale produce no warrior’s name?
Have native heroes never trod her plains?
Yes!— she hath records on the scroll of Fame!
Her hills have echoed back the martial strains
That bade the brave avenge their country’s pains; 5
And skilful statesmen from her vale have sprung,
The agêd to protect, and guide the young.
Nor have her sons all crawl’d upon the sod,
Without or love to man or faith to God,
Her bards, inspired, have breathed the tuneful song;— 10
The scenes of beauty that to her belong
Have warm’d her children’s hearts with “nature’s fire,”
Till with a holy deal they’ve grasp’d the lyre,
And chaunted strains that angels might admire.

George Markham Tweddell
Stokesley G. T.
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 313, April 1846.
The poem appears again in Tractates No. 7 as Cleveland
Sonnet, No. III.]

Cleveland

[Cleveland]

Cleveland! I know no nook of earth like thee!
No mountain scenes o’er charm me like mine own,—
The altars of benignant Liberty!
The palace where the muses have their throne!
Upon thy cliffs I love to take my stand, 5
And view the ocean as it rolls below,
Roaring like lions on some distant strand—
Contending like an hero when the blow
Of fierce invader’s levell’d at his head,
Whilst all around the gory trunks are laid 10
Of comrades from which life’s for ever fled:
And the valleys, ’neath some old oak’s shade,
I love to linger at the close of day,
In dreams of future good to pass my life away.

George Markham Tweddell
Stokesley G. T.
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 248, January 1846.
The poem appears again in Tractates No. 7 as Cleveland
Sonnets, No. II.]

Rosebury Topping

Rosebury Topping


Not among smoke of busy, crowded town,
Where manufactures for the world are made,
And man’s best nature seems all trodden down,
To suit the vile necessities of trade,
Has my life’s Spring been past: but I have learnt 5
To gaze upon each mountain, brook, and plain,
With poet’s rapture; and my soul would fain
Attempt a task for which it long has burnt
With the unquenchêd fire of holy zeal,—
To chaunt the beauties of my native vale, 10
Preserve each legend, and record each tale,
That aged grey-beards, e’en from sire to son,
Have told, of love despised, or battle won,
And add my mite unto the public weal.

George Markham Tweddell
Stokesley G. T. [Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 212, October 1845. The poem
appears again in Tractates No. 7 as Cleveland Sonnet No. I, and also
published in J.Horsfall Turner’s 1890 Yorkshire Genealogist, Volume
II, p. 13]

A second poem on Rosebury Topping -


Rosebury Topping.

Who has not heard of famous Rosebury?—
The favourite hill of ev’ry Cleveland bard,
Standing as sentinel the vale to guard,—
A thing of strength and beauty. May it be
Unto our children’s children dear as now 5
It is to us. Sacred it was, I ween,
To the Brigantes, whose war-pits are seen
As yet we climb the mountain: on whose brow
Bold warriors watched, prepar’d to meet the foe,—
Proud of their woad-stains, and rude weapons they 10
Were so well skill’d to use. When will the day
Dawn on us when mankind need only know
The arts of peace?—for men will some day see
That love, not hate, alone can yield felicity.
I’ve sat on Rosebury with many a bard 15
Whose heart-strings, once so musical, are mute
On earth for ever: we full well did suit
Each other, in congenial regard
For the loved landscape here unfurl’d to view.
Yonder towers Gisbro’s fine old ruin’d arch 20
Memento of the past—our onward march
Mark’d by yon blast-furnaces: churches not a few,
Towns, farmsteads, rivers, fields of every hue—
As grass, and corn, and fallow—and o’er all
The watchet ocean; prospects that ne’er pall 25
Upon one’s tastes: the picture’s ever new.
We may roam far and wide before we see
A finer sight than here from Rosebury.

The grand historic Cheviots meet the eye
At times from here. You ocean with its ships 30
Laden with commerce, till the welkin dips
Into the main: Tees, too, whose steamers ply,
Despite of wind or tide, both too and fro,
In quick succession; whilst close at our feet
The wildflowers bloom, where fields and woodlands meet 35
The wide-spread moors, now with their golden glow
Of whins in Flower, anon in purple clad
Of ling which bloom’d there long ere the Britons trod
Where now we find their urns beneath the sod,
With charcoal from the wood with which they had 40
So long since been cremated. To us here
The Bygone and the Present both are near.

George Markham Tweddell