❧ The thirtieth Song.
✼ THE ARGUMENT.
Of Westmerland the Muse now sings,
et cheerely on my Muse, no whit at all dismay’d,
But look aloft tow’rds heaven, to him whose powerfull ayd;
Hath led thee on thus long, & through so sundry soiles,
Steep Mountains, Forrests rough, deepe Rivers, that thy toyles
Most sweet refreshings seeme, and still thee comfort sent,
Against the Bestiall Rout, and Boorish rabblement
Of those rude vulgar sots, whose braines are onely Slime,
Borne to the doting world, in this last yron Time,
So stony, and so dull, that Orpheus which (men say)
By the inticing Straines of his melodious Lay,
Drew Rocks and aged Trees, to whether he would please;
He might as well have moov’d the Universe as these;
But leave this Frie of Hell in their owne filth defilde,
And seriously pursue the sterne Westmerian Wilde,
First ceazing in our Song, the South part of the Shire,
Where Westmerland to West, by wide Wynander Mere,
The Eboracean fields her to the Rising bound,
Where Can first creeping forth, her feet hath scarcely found,
But gives that Dale her name, where Kendale towne doth stand,
For making of our Cloth scarce match’d in all the land.
Then keeping on her course, though having in her traine,
But Sput, a little Brooke, then Winster doth retaine,
Tow’rds the Vergivian Sea, by her two mighty Falls,
(Which the brave Roman tongue, her Catadupæ calls)
This eager River seemes outragiously to rore,
And counterfetting Nyle, to deafe the neighboring shore,
See to the latter end of
The 27. Song.
To which she by the sound apparantly doth show,
The season foule or faire, as then the wind doth blow:
For when they to the North, the noyse doe easliest heare,
They constantly affirme the weather will be cleere;
And when they to the South, againe they boldly say,
It will be clouds or raine the next approaching day.
To the Hibernick Gulfe, when soone the River hasts,
And to those queachy Sands, from whence her selfe she casts,
She likewise leaves her name as every place where she,
In her cleare course doth come, by her should honored be.
But backe into the North from hence our course doth lye,
As from this fall of Can, still keeping in our eye,
The source of long liv’d Lun, I long-liv’d doe her call;
For of the British Floods, scarce one amongst them all,
Such state as to her selfe, the Destinies assigne,
By christning in her Course a Countie Palatine,
For Luncaster so nam’d, the Fort upon the Lun,
And Lancashire the name from Lancaster begun:
Yet though shee be a Flood, such glory that doth gaine,
In that the British Crowne doth to her state pertaine,
Yet Westmerland alone, not onely boasts her birth,
But for her greater good the kind Westmerian earth,
Cleere Burbeck her bequeaths, and Barrow to attend
Her grace, till shee her name to Lancaster doe lend.
With all the speed we can, to Cumberland we hye,
(Still longing to salute the utmost Albany)
By Eden, issuing out of Husseat-Morvill Hill,
And pointing to the North, as then a little Rill,
There simply takes her leave of her sweet sister Swale,
Borne to the selfe same Sire, but with a stronger gale,
|See to the 27. Song.
Tow’rds Humber hyes her course, but Eden making on,
Through Malerstrang hard by, a Forrest woe begone
In love with Edens eyes, of the cleere Naiades kind,
Whom thus the Wood-Nymph greets: What passage shalt thou find,
My most beloved Brook, in making to thy Bay,
That wandring art to wend through many a crooked way,
Farre under hanging Hills, through many a cragged strait,
And few the watry kind, upon thee to await,
Opposed in thy course with many a rugged Cliffe,
Besides the Northern winds against thy streame so stiffe,
As by maine strength they meant to stop thee in thy course,
And send thee easly back to Morvill to thy source.
O my bright lovely Brooke, whose name doth beare the sound
Of Gods first Garden-plot, th’imparadized ground,
Wherein he placed Man, from whence by sinne he fell.
O little blessed Brooke, how doth my bosome swell,
The first place of note
which shee runnes
|The thirtieth Song.
With love I beare to thee, the day cannot suffice
For Malerstang to gaze upon thy beautious eyes.
This sayd, the Forrest rubd her rugged front the while,
Cleere Eden looking back, regreets her with a smile,
And simply takes her leave, to get into the Maine;
When Below a bright Nymph, from Stanmore downe doth straine
To Eden, as along to Appleby shee makes,
Which passing, to her traine, next Troutbeck in shee takes,
And Levenant, then these, a somewhat lesser Rill,
When Glenkwin greets her well, and happily to fill,
Her more abundant Banks, from Ulls, a mightie Mere
On Cumberlands confines, comes Eymot neat and cleere,
And Loder doth allure, with whom she haps to meet,
Which at her comming in, doth thus her Mistris greet.
Quoth shee, thus for my selfe I say, that where I swell
Up from my Fountaine first, there is a Tyding-well,
That daily ebbs and flowes, (as Writers doe report)
The old Euripus doth, or in the selfe same sort,
The * Venedocian Fount, or the * Demetian Spring,
Or that which the cold Peake doth with her wonders bring,
Why should not Loder then, her Mistris Eden please,
With this, as other Floods delighted are with these.
When Eden, though shee seem’d to make unusuall haste,
About cleere Loders neck, yet lovingly doth cast
Her oft infolding Armes, as Westmerland shee leaves,
Where Cumberland againe as kindly her receives.
Yet up her watry hands, to Winfield Forrest holds
In her rough wooddy armes, which amorously infolds
Cleere Eden comming by, with all her watry store,
In her darke shades, and seemes her parting to deplore.
But Southward sallying hence, to those Sea-bordring sands,
Where Dudden driving downe to the Lancastrian lands,
This Cumberland cuts out, and strongly doth confine,
This meeting there with that, both meerly Maratine,
Where many a daintie Rill out of her native Dale,
To the Virgivian makes, with many a pleasant gale;
As Eske her farth’st, so first, a coy bred Cumbrian Lasse,
Who commeth to her Road, renowned Ravenglasse,
By Devock driven along, (which from a large-brim’d Lake,
To hye her to the Sea, with greater haste doth make)
Meets Nyte, a nimble Brooke, their Rendevous that keepe
In Ravenglasse, when soone into the blewish Deepe
Comes Irt, of all the rest, though small, the richest Girle,
Her costly bosome strew’d with precious Orient Pearle,
Bred in her shining Shels, which to the deaw doth yawne,
Which deaw they sucking in, conceave that lusty Spawne,
Two fountains the one
in the South, th’other in
Northwales. See to the
5. 10. and 27. Song.
Of which when they grow great, and to their fulnesse swell,
They cast, which those at hand there gathering, dearly sell.
This cleare pearle-paved Irt, Bleng to her harbor brings,
From Copland comming downe, a Forrest-Nymph, which sings
Her owne praise, and those Floods, their Fountains that derive
From her, which to extoll, the Forrest thus doth strive.
Yee Northerne * Dryades all adorn’d with Mountaines steepe,
Upon whose hoary heads cold Winter long doth keepe,
Where often rising Hils, deepe Dales and many make,
Where many a pleasant Spring, and many a large-spread Lake,
Their cleere beginnings keepe, and doe their names bestow
Upon those humble Vales, through which they eas’ly flow;
Whereas the Mountaine Nymphs, and those that doe frequent
The Fountaines, Fields, and Groves, with wondrous meriment,
By Moone-shine many a night, doe give each other chase,
At Hood-winke, Barley-breake, at Tick, or Prison-base,
With tricks, and antique toyes, that one another mocke,
That skip from Crag to Crag, and leape from Rocke to Rocke.
Then Copland, of this Tract a corner, I would know,
What place can there be found in Britan, that doth show
A Surface more austere, more sterne from every way,
That who doth it behold, he cannot chuse but say,
Th’aspect of these grim Hills, these darke and mistie Dales,
From clouds scarce ever cleer’d, with the strongst Northern gales,
Tell in their mighty Roots, some Minerall there doth lye,
The Islands generall want, whose plenty might supply:
Wherefore as some suppose of Copper Mynes in me,
I Copper-land was cald, but some will have’t to be
From the old Britans brought, for Cop they use to call
The tops of many Hils, which I am stor’d withall.
Then Eskdale mine Ally, and Niterdale so nam’d,
Of Floods from you that flow, as Borowdale most fam’d,
With Wasdale walled in, with Hills on every side,
Hows’ever ye extend within your wasts so wide,
For th’surface of a soyle, a Copland, Copland cry,
Till to your shouts the Hills with Ecchoes all reply.
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every hill,
Upon her Verge that stands, the neigbouring Vallies fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the Mountaines threw,
From whom as soone againe, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophied head, it on to Wendrosse went,
Which tow’rds the Sea againe, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her Banks astound,
In sayling to the Sea, told it in Egremound,
Whose Buildings, walks, and streets, with Ecchoes loud and long,
Did mightily commend old Copland for her Song.
Nymphes of the
|The thirtieth Song.
Whence soone the Muse proceeds, to find out fresher Springs,
Where Darwent her cleere Fount from Borowdale that brings,
Doth quickly cast her selfe into an ample Lake,
And with Thurls mighty Mere, betweene them two doe make
An * Island, which the name from Darwent doth derive,
Within whose secret breast nice Nature doth contrive,
That mighty Copper Myne, which not without its Vaines,
Of Gold and Silver found, it happily obtaines
Of Royaltie the name, the richest of them all
|The Isle of Darwent.
That Britan bringeth forth, which Royall she doth call.
Of Borowdale her Dam, of her owne named Isle,
As of her Royall Mynes, this River proud the while,
Keepes on her Course to Sea, and in her way doth win
Cleere Coker her compeere, which at her comming in,
Gives Coker-mouth the name, by standing at her fall,
Into faire Darwents Banks, when Darwent therewithall,
Runnes on her watry Race, and for her greater fame,
Of Neptune doth obtaine a Haven of her name,
When of the Cambrian Hills, proud Skiddo that doth show
The high’st, respecting whom, the other be but low,
Perceiving with the Floods, and Forrests, how it far’d,
And all their severall tales substantially had heard,
And of the Mountaine kind, as of all other he,
Most like Pernassus selfe that is suppos’d to be,
Having a double head, as hath that sacred Mount,
Which those nine sacred Nymphs held in so hie account,
Bethinketh of himselfe what he might justly say,
When to them all he thus his beauties doth display.
The rough Hibernian sea, I proudly overlooke,
Amongst the scattered Rocks, and there is not a nooke,
But from my glorious height into its depth I pry,
Great Hills farre under me, but as my Pages lye;
And when my Helme of Clouds upon my head I take,
At very sight thereof, immediatly I make
Th’Inhabitants about, tempestuous stormes to feare,
And for faire weather looke, when as my top is cleere;
Great Fournesse mighty Fells, I on my South survay:
So likewise on the North, Albania makes me way,
|The Mynes Royall.
Her Countries to behold, when * Scurfell from the skie,
That Anadale doth crowne, with a most amorous eye,
Salutes me every day, or at my pride lookes grim,
Oft threatning me with Clouds, as I oft threatning him:
So likewise to the East, that rew of Mountaines tall,
Which we our English Alpes may very aptly call,
That Scotland here with us, and England doe divide,
As those, whence we them name upon the other side,
|A Hill in Scotland.
Doe Italy, and France, these Mountaines heere of ours,
That looke farre off like clouds, shap’t with embattelled towers,
Much envy my estate, and somewhat higher be,
By lifting up their heads, to stare and gaze at me.
Cleere Darwent dancing on, I looke at from above,
As some enamoured Youth, being deeply struck in love,
His Mistris doth behold, and every beauty notes;
Who as shee to her fall, through Fells and Vallies flotes,
Oft lifts her limber selfe above her Banks to view,
How my brave by-clift top, doth still her Course pursue.
O all yee Topick Gods, that doe inhabite here,
To whom the Romans did, those ancient Altars reare,
Oft found upon those Hills, now sunke into the Soyles,
Which they for Trophies left of their victorious spoyles,
Ye Genii of these Floods, these Mountaines, and these Dales,
That with poore Shepheards Pipes, & harmlesse Heardsmans tales
Have often pleased been, still guard me day and night,
And hold me Skidow still, the place of your delight.
This Speech by Skidow spoke, the Muse makes forth againe,
Tow’rds where the in-borne Floods, cleere Eden intertaine,
To Cumberland com’n in, from the Westmerian wasts,
Where as the readyest way to Carlill, as shee casts,
Shee with two Wood-Nymphs meets, the first is great and wilde,
And Westward Forrest hight; the other but a childe,
Compared with her Phere, and Inglewood is cald,
Both in their pleasant Scites, most happily instald.
What Sylvan is there seene, and be she nere so coy,
Whose pleasures to the full, these Nymphs doe not enjoy,
And like Dianas selfe, so truly living chast?
For seldome any Tract, doth crosse their waylesse waste,
With many a lustie leape, the shagged Satyrs show
Them pastime every day, both from the Meres below,
And Hils on every side, that neatly hemme them in;
The blushing morne to breake, but hardly doth begin,
But that the ramping Goats, swift Deere, and harmelesse Sheepe,
Which there their owners know, but no man hath to keepe,
The Dales doe over-spread, by them like Motley made;
But Westward of the two, by her more widened Slade,
Of more abundance boasts, as of those mighty Mynes,
Which in her Verge she hath: but that whereby she shines,
Is her two daintie Floods, which from two Hils doe flow,
Which in her selfe she hath, whose Banks doe bound her so
Upon the North and South, as that she seemes to be
Much pleased with their course, and takes delight to see
How Elne upon the South, in sallying to the Sea
Confines her: on the North how Wampull on her way,
|The thirtieth Song.
Her purlews wondrous large, yet limitteth againe,
Both falling from her earth into the Irish Maine.
No lesse is Westward proud of Waver, nor doth win
Lesse praise by her cleere Spring, which in her course doth twin
With Wiz, a neater Nymph scarce of the watry kind;
And though shee be but small, so pleasing Wavers mind,
That they entirely mix’d, the Irish Seas imbrace,
But earnestly proceed in our intended Race.
At Eden now arriv’d, whom we have left too long,
Which being com’n at length, the Cumbrian hils among,
As shee for Carlill coasts, the Floods from every where,
Prepare each in their course, to entertaine her there,
From Skidow her tall Sire, first Cauda cleerely brings
In Eden all her wealth; so Petterell from her Springs,
(Not farre from Skidows foot, whence dainty Cauda creeps)
Along to overtake her Soveraigne Eden sweeps,
To meet that great concourse, which seriously attend
That dainty Cumbrian Queene; when Gilsland downe doth send
Her Riverets to receive Queene Eden in her course;
As Irthing comming in from her most plenteous source,
Through many a cruell Crag, though she be forc’d to crawle,
Yet working forth her way to grace her selfe with all,
First Pultrosse is her Page, then Gelt shee gets her guide,
Which springeth on her South, on her Septentrion side,
Shee crooked Cambeck calls, to wait on her along,
And Eden overtakes amongst the watry throng.
To Carlill being come, cleere Bruscath beareth in,
To greet her with the rest, when Eden as to win
Her grace in Carlils sight, the Court of all her state,
And Cumberlands chiefe towne, loe thus shee doth dilate.
What giveth more delight, (brave Citie) to thy Seat,
Then my sweet lovely selfe? a River so compleat,
With all that Nature can a dainty Flood endow,
That all the Northerne Nymphs me worthily allow,
Of all their Nyades kind the neatest, and so farre
Transcending, that oft times they in their amorous warre,
Have offered by my course, and Beauties to decide
The mastery, with her most vaunting in her pride,
That mighty Roman Fort, which of the Picts we call,
But by them neere those times was stil’d Severus wall,
Of that great Emperour nam’d, which first that worke began,
Betwixt the Irish Sea, and German Ocean,
|See to the 29. Song.
Doth cut me in his course neere Carlill, and doth end
At Boulnesse, where my selfe I on the Ocean spend.
And for my Country here, (of which I am the chiefe
Of all her watry kind) know that shee lent reliefe,
The West end of the
To those old Britains once, when from the Saxons they,
For succour hither fled, as farre out of their way,
Amongst her mighty Wylds, and Mountains freed from feare,
And from the British race, residing long time here,
Which in their Genuine tongue, themselves did Kimbri name,
Of Kimbri-land, the name of Cumberland first came;
And in her praise bee’t spoke, this soyle whose best is mine,
That Fountaine bringeth forth, from which the Southern Tyne.
(So nam’d for that of North, another hath that stile)
This to the Easterne Sea, that makes forth many a mile,
Her first beginning takes, and Vent, and Alne doth lend,
To wait upon her foorth; but further to transcend
To these great things of note, which many Countries call
Their wonders, there is not a Tract amongst them all,
Can shew the like to mine, at the lesse Sakeld, neere
To Edens Bank, the like is scarcely any where,
Stones seventie seven stand, in manner of a Ring,
Each full ten foot in height, but yet the strangest thing,
Their equall distance is, the circle that compose,
Within which other stones lye flat, which doe inclose
The bones of men long dead, (as there the people say;)
So neere to Loders Spring, from thence not farre away,
Be others nine foot high, a myle in length that runne,
The victories for which these Trophies were begun,
From darke oblivion thou, O Time shouldst have protected;
For mighty were their minds, them thus that first erected:
And neere to this againe, there is a piece of ground,
A little rising Bank, which of the Table round,
Men in remembrance keepe, and Arthurs Table name.
But whilst these more and more, with glory her inflame,
Supposing of her selfe in these her wonders great,
All her attending Floods, faire Eden doe entreat,
To lead them downe to Sea, when Leuen comes along,
And by her double Spring, being mightie them among,
There overtaketh Eske, from Scotland that doth hye,
Faire Eden to behold, who meeting by and by,
Downe from these Westerne Sands into the Sea doe fall,
Where I this Canto end, as also therewithall
My England doe conclude, for which I undertooke,
This strange Herculean toyle, to this my thirtieth Booke.
Why Cumberland so