John Cunningham


(Born in Dublin in 1729; for many years connected with the North of
England—first as a Comedian at the Theatres of Alnwick, Darlington,
Durham, Harrogate, Liverpool, Newcastle-on-Tyne, North Shields,
Scarborough, Stockton-on-Tees, Sunderland, Whitby, and York, and
afterwards as a fellow-labourer with Mr. Slack on “The Newcastle
Chronicle,” from its commencement, March 24th, 1764, to his Death,
under the hospitable roof of his Employer, Sept. 18th 1773,Æ 44.)
I.
Sweet is the Shepherd’s pastoral Pipe, when blown
By lips like thine: for Nature in repose
Is ever lovely. In fancy, at the close
Of day—again at morn or noon—I own
Thy muse has led me oft to sylvan scenes, 5
That cheered my soul, when I was forced to breathe
A poison’d air, and almost sank beneath
The effluvia all around me. Ways and means
To mingle town and country more, to me
Seems practicable, and I hold the hope 10
That Man with every evil yet will cope,
And learn to look on Nature like to thee.
By many a “Pile of Ruins” I have stood,
And mused with thee in true poetic mood.

II.
Thy “oaten reed” has potent power to charm 15
Thy heart attuned to Nature. Purity and Peace
Live in thy hymnings, and I will never cease
To cherish righteous thoughts, and shield from harm
Thy lovers of thy sweet and gentle Muse.
No mawkish Swains and Shepherdesses gay, 20
Fitter to flit in drawing-rooms, are they
Whom thou depicts in thy Arcadian views,
But sterling Men and Women, such as live
Amidst green fields, tending their flocks and herds;
Loving the trees and flowers, and songs of birds, 25
And all the simple joys that such can give;
And when thou sings of dear Freemasonry,
Thou proves thy theme one of true poësy.

George Markham Tweddell


NOTE ON JOHN CUNNINGHAM TOMB.
In The Freemasons’ Magazine and Masonic Mirror, London,
December 3rd 1859, I wrote as follows:—“Can any Brother inform
me, When and Where John Cunningham, the Pastoral Poet, was
Initiated into Freemasonry, and what progress he made in the science?
The date of his Initiation can not be earlier than 1750, in which he
became ‘of the full age of twenty-one’; and it will be some years
previous to 1773, as on the 18th of September, in that year, he died.—I
should also be glad to know that the Mr. Slack, in conjunction with
whom the Poet laboured to establish The Newcastle Chronicle, in
1764, was a brother Mason. It was to the humanity and benevolence of
Mr. Slack that poor Bro. Cunningham owed all his subsistence in his
latter days; it was under Mr. Slack’s hospitable roof-tree that the Bard
was nursed in his last illness, and it was there that he died; and it was
Mr. Slack who erected that now dilapidated Monument over the
Poet’s Grave, in the unpoetical-looking Churchyard of St. John, at
Newcastle-upon-Tyne,—the future care and restoration of which
Tomb I beg most fraternally to recommend to our Brethren of the
Province of Northumberland”. I was in hope that so wealthy a body
would have generously responded to my appeal; but I might just have
whistled to the wind. Perhaps they never read the only Masonic
Periodical then published in England. In honouring the Poet, (even if
he had not been a Brother of the Craft) they would have helped to
spread the pure principles of Freemasonry; and, if necessary, every
good Brother would have freely given his mite, on the proposal having
been properly put before him. I am very sorry to see that an appeal has
been made to “the outer world who are not Freemasons,” to do a
trifling act of courtesy to the Tomb of one of the purest of Masonic
Poets after Twenty-Eight Years have elapsed since I humbly
attempted to have regarded as a sacred Masonic Duty, as well as a

Privilege.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Cunningham_(poet_and_dramatist)

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.

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)

Halcyon: Or, Rod-fishing with Fly, Minnow, and Worm
By Henry Wade
http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=mXkoAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

[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
[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. [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
* 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]

CLEVELAND SONNETS—Second series
Tractates No. 35 (1888)
[Published with the approval of
Middlesbrough Library,
Listed Tweddell Collection MPLib]
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.)
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

Izaak Walton


Thou meek old angler, knight of hook and line!
What glorious reveries methinks were thine,
As ’neath the spreading sycamore you sat,
To find a shelter from the vernal showers;
Or wander’d in green lanes, with cheerful chat 5
Making dull days seem Pleasure’s fleeting hours!
Oh, how I love in ‘fancy free’ to roam
By purling streams, in company with thee;
O, in some ‘honest alehouse,’ see the foam
Of nut-brown ale a-mantling merrily 10
Above the goblet’s brim;—whilst thou doest sing
A quaint old song, and all the rafters ring
With merry laughter at each harmless jest,—
For of all wit with innocent is best.

‘Peter Proletarius’ aka George Markham Tweddell
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 369, October 1846, heading
an article on Izaak Walton by January Searle]

More a writer on angling and author of biographies but also wrote an Elergy to Donne’s poems.

Issac Walton’s House

From Wiki
Izaak Walton (9 August 1593 – 15 December 1683) was an English writer. Best known as the author of The Compleat Angler, he also wrote a number of short biographies that have been collected under the title of Walton’s Lives. Walton was born at Stafford; the register of his baptism gives his father’s name asGervase. His father, who was an innkeeper as well as a landlord of a tavern, died before Izaak was three. His mother then married another innkeeper by the name of Bourne, who would later run the Swan in Stafford.

Sonnet to Milton

All-hallow’d Milton! Though thine earthly eyes
Were dark as in the unillumined night,
Yet thy rapt fancy soar’d beyond the skies,
Undazzled, e’er by Heaven’s all-radiant light:
No earthly objects could impede the flight; 5
For unto thee was given visions fair
Of man, fresh from his Maker, ere the blight
Of sin had fallen on the happy pair
Who dwelt in Eden, God’s especial care.
Thou lived in troubled times, immortal bard!— 10
In times when there was need of such as thee—
And we rejoice to know thou labour’d hard
For thine own “mountain nymph, sweet Liberty,”
And now hast gain’d of Fame “exceeding great reward.”

‘Peter Proletarius’ aka George Markham Tweddell
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 334, July 1846]

Bio
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/john-milton

Sonnet to John Critchley Prince


Author of “Hours with the Muses”
Hail! Prince of modern poets! Thou whose song
So oft hath charm’d me in dull sorrow’s hour:
To grasp thy honest hand I ofttimes long:
For few like thee have gain’d the magic power
Of charming heart and mind: it is a dower 5
Which Nature only on a few bestows,
For fear that she the honour due should lose
Which from her sons she claims. For poets are
Nature’s first fav’rites; and their only care
Is for their mother,—knowing well that she 10
Is no cross step-dame, but a parent kind,
For ever striving to endow mankind
With peace, and love, and health, and liberty,
Whose pioneers are poets such as thee.

George Markham Tweddell
[Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany, p. 309, April 1846, &
The Life of John Critchley Prince, Lithgow (1880). A
second stanza can be found on p. 60]

Addition to first stanza of ‘John Critchley Prince’
II
So sang I years before we ever met;
And it delighted me when I did know
My Sonnet smooth’d one wrinkle on his brow,
Where Poverty and Care too oft were set:
And though at times he prudence did forget, 5
And sought to drown his sorrows in the bowl,
Which gives but for the moment to the soul
Ease of its pains, yet he did never let
One sordid or immoral line defile
The purity of his sweet poësy; 10
His muse being one of perfect chastity.
He loved the freedom of his native isle;
And in all things of nature he could see
Beauty and joy and heavenly purity.

George Markham Tweddell
Born Wigan, June 21st, 1808; resided for
many years at Ashton-under-Lyne; and Died
at Hyde, May 5th, 1866. [1st stanza on p. 30]

John Critchely Prince was another friend and fellow poet who Tweddell published in his publications. In the intro to Tweddell’s poems (look at the top menu bar for the link) there’s a comparison and exchange between them.

You can read on line The Life of John Critchley  with links to his poetry on line – here – 
http://gerald-massey.org.uk/prince/b_biog.htm

Sonnet [Mind] 
To Charles Swain, Esq of Cheetwood Priory,

Charles Swain

Manchester on receiving a presentation of
his “Mind and other poems”

The beauties of thy Mind I much admire,
Friend of the muses, heaven-inspired!
Long may thy heart be warm’d with holy fire,
And such soul-soothing strains burst from thy lyre,
To cheer their drooping spirits who complain 5
Of num’rous ills on this abuséd globe,
Where man delights to mar the beautiful,
To curse his fellows whom he ought to bless,
To laugh and mock at Love and Gentleness,
An e’en the olive branch of Peace to pull, 10
That Hate, and Strife, and Jealousy, and War,
May bow each neck to Misery’s iron car:
But such sweet sounds peal from thy gentle lute,
As bid the discord of the soul be mute.

Stokesley – George Markham Tweddell.
[p. 226 – published in Tweddell’s Yorkshire Miscellany,
October 1845]
28

This may be an updated version of the same poem published in Tweddell’s Tractates 1887 (the first version was 1845) and occasioned by the death of Charles Swain.

Tractates No. 29
North of England Sonnets, Fourth Series (1887)
DEDICATED TO
The ever-treasured Memory of my beloved old Friend,
who lived Poetry as well as he wrote it.
Charles Swain
(Born in Ancoats, Manchester, January 4th, 1803; Died at this pleasant
Residence in Prestwick Park, near that City, September 23rd, 1874.)


The many-beautied Mind all must admire,
Friend of the Muses, Heaven-inspired SWAIN!
Thy heart was truly warm’d with holy fire,
And fine soul-soothing strains burst from thy lyre,
To cheer their drooping spirits who complain 5
Of numerous ills on this abused globe,—
Where man delights to mar the beautiful—
To curse his fellows, whom he ought to bless—
To laugh and mock at Love and Gentleness,
And e’en the olive-branch from Peace to pull; 10
That Hate, and Strife, and Jealousy, and War,
May bow each neck to Misery’s iron car:
But the sweet sounds struck from SWAIN’s gentle lute
All bid the discord of the soul be mute.

Rose Cottage, Stokesley George Markham Tweddell

Tweddell published Charles Swain in his Yorkshire Miscellany and North of English Tractates and i think his early newspaper The Cleveland News and Stokesley Reporter.

From Wiki – Read more here – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Swain_(poet)Charles Swain (4 January 1801 – 22 September 1874) was an English poet, sometimes called “the Manchester poet,” which epithet refers to his birthplace. He worked in a dye house for a time, and then in an engraving and lithography enterprise which he eventually purchased and ran until his death. He became honorary professor of poetry at the Manchester Royal Institution, and in 1856 was granted a civil list pension. His friends included Robert Southey. Swain’s epitaph for John Horsefield is noted by English Heritage as an element of their rationale for listing Horsefield’s tomb as a Grade II monument.