God's wrath and vengeance here we see, Was just for his sad cruel pride; He was reduc'd to poverty, Likewise upon a dunghill dy'd. For having then no home nor friend. That would this cruel wretch receive, He made a miserable end, When he, alas! this life did leave. Rich men, relieve the poor, I pray, Who does to you for succour cry, Lest you be brought as low as they, By making God your enemy. FOOTNOTE: [Footnote 205: From a broadside in the Rox. Coll., black letter. Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball in Pye Corner.] THE BEGGAR'S BRIDGE. BY MRS. GEORGE DAWSON. They talk of dales and hills in Wales, As the loveliest in our isle; But the Yorkshire dells and rocky fells, Where the bright sun beams on the sparkling streams, Are all forgot the while. You may roam for hours 'mid sweet spring flowers, With a gurgling "beck" beneath, While the rustling breeze just parts the trees, And reveals the sweep of the wild woods deep, Shut in the darkling heath. You may hear the note of the blackbird float, From the top of each tall ash tree, When he pours his song each evening long; For in "true love" tales such romantic dales, Must needs abundant be. The dalesmen say that their light archway Is due to an Egton[206] man, Whose love was tried by a whelming tide; I heard the tale in its native vale, And thus the legend ran:-- "Why lingers my lov'd one? Oh! why does he roam On the last winter's evening that hails him at home? He promised to see me once more ere he went, But the long rays of gloaming all lonely I've spent: The stones at the fording no longer I see; Ah! the darkness of night has concealed them from me." The maiden of Glaisdale sat lonely at eve, And the cold stormy night saw her hopelessly grieve; But when she looked forth from her casement at morn, The maiden of Glaisdale was truly forlorn! For the stones were engulphed where she looked for them last By the deep swollen Esk, that rolled rapidly past; And vainly she strove with her tear-bedimmed eye, The pathway she gazed on last night to descry. Her lover had come to the brink of the tide, And to stem its swift current repeatedly tried; But the rough whirling eddy still swept him ashore, And relentlessly bade him attempt it no more. Exhausted he climbed the steep side of the brae, And looked up the dale ere he turned him away; Ah! from her far window a light flickered dim, And he knew she was faithfully watching for him. "I go to seek my fortune, love, In a far, far distant land; And without thy parting blessing, love, I am forced to quit the strand. "But over Arncliffe's brow, my love, I see thy twinkling light; And when deeper waters part us, love, 'Twill be my beacon bright.