which was borne by the venerable lord of Rylstone, Richard Norton, a brave old man, whose fate and the fate of his eight sons have been preserved from the oblivion of dry annals, by the legends which a true poet[20] has invested with almost historical reality:-- Now was the North in arms; they shine In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, At Percy's voice: and Neville sees His followers gathering in from Tees, From Wear, and all the little rills Concealed among the forked hills. Seven hundred knights, retainers all Of Neville, at their master's call Had sat together in Raby Hall; Such strength that Earldom held of yore; Nor wanted at this time rich store, Of well appointed chivalry, Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, And greet the old paternal shield. They heard the summons; and, furthermore, Came foot and horseman of each degree, Unbound by pledge of fealty; Appeared, with free and open hate Of novelties in church and state; Knight, burgher, yeomen and esquier, And the Romish priest, in priest's attire, And thus, in arms, a zealous band Proceeding under joint command, To Durham first their course they bear, And in St. Cuthbert's ancient seat Sang Mass,--and tore the book of prayer,-- And trod the Bible beneath their feet. The revolt was quickly suppressed, and a terrible vengeance followed. Martial law was carried out and the triumph of 1569 was disgraced by fearful executions; an alderman, a priest, and above sixty others were hanged in Durham alone, and many others suffered in every market town between Newcastle and Wetherby, the "reverend grey beard," Richard Norton, and his eight sons being among the number. Thee, Norton, with thy eight good sons, They doom'd to dye, alas! for ruth! Thy reverend lockes thee could not save, Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.