# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1834/Preston

88
* PRESTON.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. LePetit
PRESTON.
In the year 1715, the friends of the Pretender were defeated here by the forces of George the First, under the command of Generals Willis and Carpenter. Having been joined by disaffected people, great numbers of them were made prisoners, brought to trial, and found guilty of high treason. Richard Chorley, Esq., of Chorley, was one of the number. Fisher's Lancashire.
Lo! the banquet is over,—but one, only one, Remains when the mirth of the revel is done;
His forehead is dark as he paces the hall,
He is bound by an oath which he cannot recall.   The youngest, though chief of his house and his line, He has pledged the Stuart’s health in his own Spanish wine; The sword on the wall must start forth from its sheath, For Richard of Chorley is bound to the death.
He is brave as the bravest that ever wore brand, Yet downcast his eye, and reluctant his hand.
He lingers enthralled by that tenderest tie,
For whose sake the bold are unwilling to die.
A step in the silence, a shade on the gloom,
And a lady thrice lovely hath entered the room;
He can see her lip quiver, can hear her heart beat,
She kneels on the floor, and she sinks at his feet.
He dares not look on her, he turns from her now,
For the moonlight falls clear on her beautiful brow:
One word from those lips, one glance from those eyes;
‘Tis for life, or for death—if he leave her, she dies.
‘Tis for love or for honour—a woman for love
Will yield every hope upon earth, or above;
But a soldier has honour—life’s first and best chord;
He may die for his love, but he lives for his word.
He belts on his sword, and he springs on his steed, And the spur is dyed red as he urges its speed;
The road flies before him, he passes the wind, But he leaves not the thoughts that oppress him behind.
Alas for the White Rose! its hour is gone by
Its soil is unfriendly, inclement its sky;
The day of its pride and its beauty is o’er,
The White Rose in England will blossom no more.
Alas for its victims! the green fields are spread,
The green fields of England, with dying and dead;
But deeper the wail where these prison-walls stand,
Where the captives are gathered with gyves on each hand.
The day-break is bright, as with joy over-spread,
The face of the east wears a glorious red;
The dew’s on the hawthorn, the early wild flowers
Smile out a sweet welcome to morning’s glad hours.
But dark looms the gibbet on high in the air,
While the shudd'ring gaze turns from the sight that is there: Dishonoured—degraded—a mock for the crowd,
Can this be the doom of the young and the proud!
’Tis over—the traitors are left on the tree!
One sits ’neath their shadow, her head on her knee;
A cloak o’er the face of the mourner is spread,
They raise it to look—and they look on the dead.
Young Richard of Chorley, she followed thee on
But thy life was her own, and with thine it is gone; Both true to their faith, both so fair and so young,
Woe, woe, for the fate which on this world is flung!
Now for their sake, when summer’s sweet children unclose,
Give a moment's sad thought to the fatal White Rose.