Stanzas Poem by William Billington

THE withered leaves are from the branches falling,
The sky looks leaden, winds are chill, and, hark!
Through flowerless vales the voiceful brooks are brawling,
The hills grow bleaker, age begins to mark
The aspect of the year, the vital spark
Of Summer burns no more-his locks are hoary!
But where Joy walks Spring blooms! the 'People's Park'
Lives in the people's hearts, a thing of glory,
Like Blackburn's proud To-day in Freedom's future story!

Our honoured Mayor and ruling Corporation
(And may the heavens rain blessings on their heads)
Choose this day for the Grand Inauguration
Of grounds whereon the poorest peasant treads,
And knows they're his, where Health with Freedom weds,
Hope broods, Toil drinks the cooling draught of Leisure,
While Sport and Ease on Flora's bright-green beds
Hold dalliance with the dainty goddess Pleasure,
Boon Love leads lusty Life through Bliss's blithest measure!

The palpitating air with music rings!
Hark! the loud thunder of the Russian guns,
As each to Heaven its salutation flings,
Is echoed by the voice of Labour's sons,
Through whose rude hearts Life's ruddy current runs
Bounding beneath Joy's arch of triumph, bended
Above its burning course, nor danger shuns
Nor death, but through Fate's wilderness hath wended
Its Godward way, and will, till Time's rough tour be ended!

The Saxon's soul is made of martial fire,
Its time-proof temper ever is the same,
Though caged in mills or trampled in the mire,
Or tombed in mines, at War or Freedom's name,
Its valour-flash, like the volcano's flame,
Streams red and radiant from its darkest deeps;
Though War and Glory branded be with shame,
Still to the cannon's roar his spirit leaps,
His prowess never dies, though Prudence seldom sleeps!

Here lies the secret of this grandest gathering
E'er known within the precincts of our town,
'Tis Liberty and Victory unsmothering
The God within the Briton's breast; no clown,
By labour bent or tyranny bowed down,
But feels the hero quicken in his blood;
He hears the guns, his cares and fears have flown,
His breast is brimmed with Valour's springtide flood,
Though why or wherefore be nor sought nor understood.

Thank God, my home is England, queen of nations!
The land of soul and song! the world's warm heart
Of worth and wisdom! On such grand occasions
As this, how the old Proteus doth start
From his disguise! the drapery of Art
No longer hides the lineaments of Nature!
The Veil of Mystery is rent apart!
The serf regains his soul and social stature,
While Joy's rich accents ring through Freedom's nomenclature!