06 



Notice of James Service, the Ghatton Poet. By Jas. Hardy. 



The rustic poet has too often the fate of one of his own wild 

 flowers ; if it is not seized and prized in the blush of vernal 

 loveliness, it is soon outrivalled and outshone by an outburst 

 of other aspirants, and perishes neglected. The verses of 

 James Service when read, as was my experience, among a 

 host of other productions of Northumbrian village bards, 

 are superior in execution, elevation, and power ; but his 

 fame has faded, even from his native village, where he is 

 but faintly remembered as having once been the school- 

 master. He had early gone to sea, perhaps induced by the 

 example of Lieutenant Samuel Cook, son of the vicar, whom 

 he fervently eulogises in his verses. Young Cook, in an 

 encounter in the "Swallow" frigate with a vessel of superior 

 force, gallantly took a French colour, which hung suspended 

 for many years in the chancel of Chatton Curch ; where in 

 the poet's imagination, it — 



" Waved on high its dusky folds, 

 Whispering Cook's undying name." 

 But Service had no fervent admiration of a sea-life — 



He had been reared, 



Among the mountains, and he in his heart 

 Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas." 

 Fondly from ship-board he looks back upon the scenes of his 

 boyhood, in the " grey land of old renown, Northumbria " — 



M No more I mark upon thy winding, Till, 



Morn's blush of joy, or evening's parting gleam. 

 No more 'tis mine, by that remember'd stream, 



To press the green my steps in boyhood pressed, 

 And cherish many a wild romantic dream 

 Of future raptures ne'er to be possessed, 

 And many a growing hope, since bitterly repressed. 



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No more I gaze upon my native Cheviot's peaks, 

 Breaking the soft blue of the summer sky, 



Whose every tint their heathy summit streaks. 



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There is one spot beloved o'er all the rest, 



Through many a weary year of absence gone — 



Ere I became of other realms a guest, 



That oft in lonelier hours I mused upon — 



The village of my birth — that loved romantic one ! 



