The poem below, describing the valley of Matlock Bath, is from a book of verse that he wrote in 1848^[2]:

"Mountains lower

Abrupt ; and rocks - rent, rugged, frowning - throw
Their morning shadows o'er the stream below,
Stern giants ! from the sloping glade ascending,
They guard the dale - strength, age, and beauty blending,
In winding course the river frets their base,
Adventurous trees their giddy summits grace ;
Up their grey forms - pale Ruin's wreath and Time's
Old crown of wine and worth - the ivy climbs,
And richest foliage, like a living soul,
Clings to their sides and feeds on breasts of stone."

The "Matlock Waters."^[3] *New*

A Recitation by a Member of the Matlock Band of Hope.

'Tis of the "MATLOCK WATERS" I am to speak today–
The "River" and the healing "Springs" that flow along the way;
Not of the "fire water", that the public-houses sell–
For no good thing of that has man or boy to tell.
That liquid of the "vaults" is kept in glass and wood,
And has done this place much mischief, but never any good.
Give me the sparkling waters that from the mountain flow,
Glittering in the sunbeams, and pure as crystal snow.

Our MATLOCK has a river, which everyone must know
Has not its match in England, however far you go:
A river nursed by mountains, and fed by verdant showers–
With banks of moss and ferns, and a paradise of flowers.

In former days, the "springs," when used, were often found
To cure the sick, weak people and make them strong and sound.
You may try the waters now, And prove that this is true,
And, if you are a drinking slave, the waters will cure YOU.

Drink only of the water that springs in MATLOCK VALE,
And you may then be happy, and never need bewail;
The water is refreshing and good for food and health;
And ought to be the means of increasing MATLOCK's wealth.

The waters of the river first turned the MASSON MILL
With its gainful revolutions, that never need stand still;
And if the Matlock people would only "water" drink",
It would be a source of profit more than many people think.

Stick then unto the "water," and from all else abstain-
That would destroy your happiness, or poison blood or brain.
If all will drink the "water"– so pure, and good, and bright–
It would banish many a sorrow, and set our "MATLOCK" right.

If this you all will do, you will very soon appear
With faces bright and happy, and minds quite strong and clear;
Dash poisons from your lips, and live on wholesome fare,
And praise the MATLOCK waters, and its unrivalled air.

Why do I love the "water", and speak its ardent praise?
Because I am a temperance boy in these my early days,–
For I find the water drinkers do best for children care,
And for the school and church have always cash to spare.

And I know in God's great heaven, they have only water there,
And that only for the water the happy angels care;
And standing by Heaven's river, I shall forever think
That "water," in this world, is THE BEST AND SAFEST DRINK".

Matlock Bath^[6]

From Matlock Bath's half-timbered station
I see the black dissenting spire-,
Thin witness of a congregation,
Stone emblem of a Handel choir;
In blest Bethesda's limpid pool,
Comes treacling out of Sunday School.

By cool Siloam's shady rill--
The sounds are sweet as strawberry jam:
I raise mine eyes unto the hill,
The beetling Heights of Abraham;
The branchy trees are white with rime
In Matlock Bath this winter-time.

And from the whiteness, grey uprearing,
Huge cliffs hang sunless ere they fall,
A tossed and stoney ocean nearing
The moment to o'erwhelm us all:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
How long wilt thou suspend the wave?

How long before the pleasant acres,
Of intersecting Lovers' Walks
Are rolled across by limestone breakers,
Whole woodlands snapp'd like cabbage stalks?
O God, our help in ages past,
How long will Speedwell Cavern last?

In this dark dale I hear the thunder
Of houses folding with the shocks,
The Grand Pavilion buckling under
The weight of the Romantic Rocks,
The hardest Blue John ash-trays seem
To melt away in thermal steam.

Deep in their Nonconformist setting
The shivering children wait their doom--
The father's whip, the mother's petting
In many a coffee-coloured room;
And attic bedrooms shriek with fright,
For dread of Pilgrims of the Night.

Perhaps it's this that makes me shiver
As I ascend the slippery path
High, high above the sliding river
And terraces of Matlock Bath;
A sense of doom, a drear to see
The Rock of Ages cleft for me.

Our "petrifying wells" are of world-wide renown.
And a source of great wonder to folk who come down
From all parts of the globe to view the attraction
Of water converting to stone by its action.

Such things as old hats, birds' nests, and old shoes,
Will resist not the water's deposit of ooze,
But to petrify "hearts" of poor oxen, I vow
It is not to be done, or if 'tis, tell me how

For if you subject to the action of water
The "heart of an ox," you know - or you ough 'ter
That instead of acquiring a petrified state
Putrefaction would be that poor heart's luckless fate.

But this local savant has a "card up his sleeve,"
(So, at least, by his note we are led to believe)
How to petrify "Hearts", and a "fortune" thus make,
If this is not so, well, that note "takes the cake."

W. B.
Matlock Bath, June 16th, 1902.

NEW METHODIST CHAPEL, MATLOCK.^[8] *New*
February 15th 1882.

LINES ON LAYING FOUNDATION STONES.

Enchanting ground ! magnificent and rare !
For God's own temple, and your house of prayer :
Where, on the mountain. RIBER CASTLE smiles,
And in the valley stands the old "ST. GILES,"
From MASSON'S heights, across to CUCKOO-STONE,
Beauty Supreme holds all the vale its own ;
And what a vale is this that spreads below,
Where DERWENT'S rapid silvery waters flow,
And the romantic railroad winds its way
Midst stately rocks and lofty mountains grey!

Enchantment binds my feet as round I gaze,-
Where rocks all worship and where mountains praise ;
Where crowds of pilgrim feet have often trod,
And souls joined nature in adoring GOD ;
Where birds and bees their sweetest anthems bring
And flowers breathe incense as the trees all sing :
Lo ! this is "holy Ground" for "GOD IS HERE,"
And makes His presence in His works appear,
And as our souls in rapture rise on high
They meet the angels coming from the sky.

For at this "BETHEL" angels pause to tell
GOD'S praying people they have wrestled well ;
They bring this message from the worlds above -
"MERCY" is GOD'S sweet work - His nature love.
Bring then MEMORIAL STONES, and rear them high,
And let your temple fane point to the sky ;
Your zeal, your love, your treasures all bestow,
That GOD'S great work at MATLOCK now may grow,
Let your BUILDING to the world proclaim
Your zeal for God - your honour for HIS NAME.

Bolehill.         A. C.

1.^[1]
" Where as proud Masson rises rude and bleak,
And with misshapen turrets crests the Peak,
Old Matlock gapes with marble jaws, beneath,
And o'er scared Derwent bends his flinty teeth;
Deep in wide caves below the dangerous soil
Blue sulphurs flame, imprisoned waters boil;
Impetuous streams in spiral columns rise
Through rifled rocks, impatient for the skies."

Loves of the Plants (Canto IV. v. 175 seq.)
More lines from this poem can be found on the title page of Henry Moore's 1818 guide.
And read his Botanic Garden on pp.25-26 of the same guide book (bottom of the page).

2.^[2]
"So Arkwright taught from Cotton-pods to cull
And stretch in lines the vegetable wool ;
With teeth of steel its fibre-knots unfurl'd,
And with the silver tissue clothed the world."

The Temple of Nature; or, the Origin of Society (Canto IV. Of Good and Evil, lines 261-4).

3. [About Masson Mill]^[9]
"So now where Derwent guides his dusky flood
Through Vaulted Mountains and a night of wood
The nymph, Gossypia,§ treads the velvet sod
And warms with rosy smiles the wat'ry god
His pondrous oars to slender spindles turns,
And pours o'er mossy wheels his foaming urns
With playful charms her hoary lover wins
And wheels his trident - while the monarch spins.
First with nice eye emerging Naiads cull
From leathery pods† the vegetable wool ;
With wiry teeth the revolving cards release
The tangled knots and smooth the ravell'd fleece ;
Next moves the iron hand with fingers fine,
Combs the wide card, and FORMS THE ETERNAL LINE;
Slow with soft lips, the whirling can* acquires
The tender skeins, and wraps in rising spires ;
With quickening pace successive rollers move,
And these retain, and those extend the rove,
Then fly the spoles the rapid axles glow
While slowly circumvalves the labouring wheel below".

§ From the name of the cotton plants, Gossypium.
† Quantities of the pods or pericarps of the raw Cotton, very like leather, of a brown colour and shrivelled, occur in the bales.
* "Can"- Tin Cylinders which receive the Cotton from the card and rollers, and which by their circular motion gives it a slight twist as the Cotton falls and coils into them.

IN MEMORY OF THE LATE
JOHN SMEDLEY, ESQ., OF RIBER CASTLE.^[12] *New*

Calmly the sun uprose, another day,
Filled with its amber light the silent room.
As with the dawn, a spirit passed away -
Passed to the "shining shore" beyond the tomb.

Yearning we stand beside the hallowed earth,
With stricken hearts, and sorrow that is pain ;
For well we know, as we record his worth.
"We ne'er shall gaze upon his like again."

Silent the voice, and stilled the true warm heart,
That lived for others, and who counted dross
All things that spoke not of the "better part," -
A Saviour's love, and a Cavalry's blood stained cross.

He passed away, as fades the setting sun,
In western skies ; His harvest field was white,
His sheaves were gathered and his work was done ;
The Master called him for the crown of light.

His works shall live, though midst the holy dead,
Live in our hearts, and homes, shrined above;
And future ages when long years have sped,
Shall speak of him with reverence and with love.

Matlock.

This is just one example of a number of poems written about John Smedley after his death

" Nor from thy haunts
O Matlock, shall this heart be long withdrawn,
Nor e'er repine to meditate afresh
On scenes which ever please! Unlike the world
Whose friendship snares the bosom, yet with whom
Repeated converse serves but to expose
Delusive joys, thou dost endear thyself
Most closely when familiar; and to hold
Communion with thy river, rocks, and shade
In each revolving season, soothes the mind
And lulls the passions to Divine repose."^[1]

Gisborne also wrote about the Derwent:

" Down the vale
Comes Derwent, sovereign river of the Peak.
But when he passes Megdale's tufted rocks
Feeling the pressure of the narrowed vale,
He foams, he frets, he wheels: and rushing thence
Through arches half engulfed, where yonder bridge
Presumes to check his congregated pace,
Sweeps onward, careless of the opening scene
Of beauty and magnificence combined.
Yet, as if conscious of his mighty powers,
As if to swell the triumph of his route,
Just where the traveller stops oft to view
The wondrous scene, to all the caverned hills
He speaks in thunder; calls on Matlock's Tor
To wake the mountain echoes from repose
And bids his billows with redoubled roar
Toss high their tawny crests."^[1]

VIA GELLIA^[13]

Via Gellia! Via Gellia!
Thou much beloved spot;
Home of the Scented Lily,
And the blue Forgetmenot.

A though of thee will bear me back
To youths' glad days, and there
In fancy's dream, I wander free
From anxious fear and care.

I've seen thee dressed in Springs' young life,
And plucked thy early flowers,
The Lady-Smock and Violet,
Which come with April Showers.

In Summertime thou'rt all alive
With busy ants and bees,
With rabbits Sporting on the ground,
And Squirrels in the trees.

The Wren, the thrush, the linnet,
Blackbird and Cushat dove,
Unite to make the happy vale
A home of Song and love.

I've Seen thee when the Autumn casts
Her jewels to the ground,
The blackberries and nuts are in
Such rich profusion found.

When Winter wraps thee in his cloak
Thy beauty is not less,
Each tree a plume, each rock a Crown
Of glittering loveliness.

In fact there is no time of year
When memory may not see
Thy beauty, and in peace reflect
Oh what it knows of thee.

Sometimes in dreams I seem to see
Thy woods, and streams and flowers
Thy cottages which, here and there
Make honey suckle bowers.

Oh! Had I Wordsworth's gifted pen,
Or even that of Shelley! A
Greater need praise Should be
Given to thee - Dear Via Gellia.

A selection of on site images of Via Gellia Rider Point, Via Gellia In Via Gellia, near Matlock Bath, 1906 In Via Gellia, Matlock Bath, 1903 Tufa Cottage, the most well known of the Via Gellia cottages

Three more poems by William Gregory, this time about Bonsall, are on:
Bonsall: Poems about the village.

It was Longfellow who coined the term "Lady with the Lamp." Saint Philomena is a patron of the sick.^[15] *New*

Santa Filomena.

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
  Our hearts, in glad surprise,
  To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
  And lifts us unawares
  Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
  And by their overflow
  Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
  The trenches cold and damp,
  The starved and frozen camp;

The wounded from the battle plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
  The cheerless corridors,
  The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
  Pass through the glimmering gloom,
  And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
  Her shadow, as it falls
  Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
  The vision came and went —
  The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
  That light its rays shall cast
  From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
  A noble type of good,
  Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear —
  The symbols that of yore
  Saint Filomena bore. — Atlantic Monthly.

An interesting event, politically anticipated.^[17]

MATLOCK! thy worthy praise has oft been sung
By many a bard, in many a land and tongue ;
And still thy beauties are the lofty theme,
Thy inspiration and the poets dream,
To paint thy charms the ardent youth aspires,
And of in age this stirs the "wonted fires."
In these fair scenes I drew at my first breath,
And here I hope at last to sleep in death.

My humble muse unworthy is to tread,
Where memory and imagination oft is led ;
Matlock's past history through long years I know,
Since it was written by the great "De Foe,"
And I could chronicle in humble rhymes,
Its rise and progress from the earliest times ;
My task is now to write of present time,
And chronicle the future in my rhyme.

At Matlock Bath on fourteenth of July,
An era new will ope auspiciously,
A work of magnitude will be begun,
The opening ceremony will then be done.
The public garden and pavilion scheme,
Will be reality and not a dream ;
And loud "hurrahs", from a great host will sound,
As a good lady first will "break the ground."

And many friends of Matlock will be there,
Drawn by the occasion and the lady fair,
And one with sliver spade will "turn the sod,"
And all unite in gratitude to God.
That better days are opening to the view,
And zeal and enterprise make all things new
That clouds as after rain will pass away,
And Matlock see the better, brighter day.

And when glad music sounds from the hill-side,
The people of the place will feel much pride,
That Mrs. Peters, in her zeal commends
This enterprise to all her numerous friends ;
And what can not a noble woman do
If she to all is good and kind and true,
Success is certain in a little while
If ladies condescend to help and smile.

And at the banquet guests will then accord
All honour to the chairman of the board ;
To "host" of "Guilderoy" they all will trace
The energy and "zeal" brought to this place -
The place where England's Queen, in girlhood came,
And now become a place of note and fame ;
The good, the help, the hope that now we see,
The "house" of "Guilderoy" we owe to thee.

A Visit to St. Giles' Churchyard, Matlock, Easter Sunday, 1874.^[18] *New*
(By A Wanderer),

No, I will lay me in the village ground
There are the dead respected.
       R. Kirke White.

The Sabbath bells allured me
To the old tower on the hill,
Their kindly tones assured me
That I was welcome still.
Still welcome to the house of God
Where rich and poor may meet,
And all join there in common prayer
And kneel at the Master's feet.

Before I entered the portal
I wandered the graves among,
And thought of spirits immortal,
Now singing their Easter song;
In the home of their risen Saviour,
Where the banner of love ever waves;
No care, no sin, "no temple therein,"
No sorrow, no tear sprinkled graves.

The records of those now sleeping,
Inscribed on many a stone,
All tell of loving and weeping
By hearts where affection had grown;
Earth foldeth her verdant mantle
Over their narrow bed
But the love of old, is growing cold
Since it placed the stone at the head.

The slabs when first erected
Could scarce be read through tears
Now they are falling, neglected
In only a few short years.
Now they lean over the loved ones
Hiding "remembrance" of love!
When life shall close, may my body repose
With only the grass mound above.

And oh may my spirit, victorious
Through Him who will come in the skies,
Rejoice at the Easter so glorious,
The day when his body shall rise
At the bidding of Him who first rose
And overcame death and the grave
May I stand among the glorious throng
Whom death never more shall enslave.
       M.S.

Anna Seward wrote about her" favourite river" in 1775.

" There under pendant rocks, his amber flood,
As Hebrus swift, impetuous Derwent pours;
And now, beneath the broad, incumbent wood,
Silent and smooth and deep, he laves the shores;
Till gaily rushing from his darksome way,
His foamy waters glitter on the day,
Resistless, dashing o'er each rocky mound;
And still on his umbrageous bank he shows
Woodbines and harebells and the musky rose;
The heavy velvet wild bees murmuring sound;
His every grace that decks Pieria's clime,
Green vale and steepy hill and broken rock sublime."^[1]

Extract of part a poem on the visit of the Emperor And Empress of Brazil in 1871, for which he received an autographed letter^[19] *New*.

   Illustrious pair!
Welcome to this enchanted spot
Where nature, varied, fare!
Will never be forgot.
Here may be found the works of God,
The rugged rocks, the flowery lea ;
The golden cloud, the emerald sod,
And music making minstsrelsy.
The rocks around pour down sweet rills,
The heights stretch out in distant grey;
While golden pastures stud the hills,
Charming the landscape every way.
While the pure Derwent in the dale
Wanders from bridge, from crag and fall,
In silvery foliage tells its tale,
How by such course it blesses-all.
Such are the scenes, illustrious pair,
Which in old Matlock ye shall see;
O! by the sweetness of the air
Refreshed and strengthened you may be.

PETER ARKWRIGHT, ESQ., OF WILLERSLEY.
BORN 17TH APRIL 1784 ; DIED 19TH SEPTEMBER, 1866.^[21] *New*

Doff your glad looks, ye mighty rocks and hills ;
Move slow and silent, Derwent, on thy way ;
Refrain, ye birds, from joyous, happy trills ;
All nature, that in robes serene and gay
Is clad, round Willersley and Cromford, put
Away your cheerless dress, and with us mourn
The loss of one we dearly lov'd, who's shut
For ever from our gaze, and for aye borne
From grandest scenes of nature and of art
By death. Yet still his name will be enshrined
In hearts of thousands ; deeds that have form'd
Of his good life (like sweet perfume, by wind),
Will by a thousand tongues recounted be,
Far from the time and place of their pure birth ;
And Peter Arkwright, who at eighty-three,
His fathers sleeps with, and hath passed from earth,
A name doth leave behind, as sweet as flowers
That bloom in Elysian bowers.

1. *New*
Flowers of Poesy
"In an alcove on the Heights of Abraham, at Matlock, about twenty-five years ago [i.e. about 1841], some would-be poet, no doubt after cudgelling his brains severely for a verse, had written:-

"He who climbs these heights sublime,
Will wish to come a second time."

Under this was added, in another handwriting;-
"And when he comes a second time.
I hope he makes a better rhyme."

Unknown poets^[22].

---

2.
Hail, favour'd Matlock ! where the sight
Is courted to enjoy delight :
T'ascend the hill, and tread the plain,
Where lavish Nature's proud to reign.

Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again ;
Not chaos-like, together crushed and bruised,
But, like the world, harmoniously confused^[23].

Unknown poet.

---

3.
With thy Caverns of Crystal by fancy gemm'd o'er,
From Nature's own treasure sparkling bright ;
As though some new religion untrodden before,
Had just woke out of chaos and burst on the sight.

Unknown poet.
Old Bath Arrival Book, 2 Aug 1818^[23].

---

4.
Fair Matlock, adieu ! with thy rocks and thy bowers,
This warm pulse must fail e'er those scenes I forget,
Or cease to remember with rapture those hours,
Which I've spent in thy bosom and leave with regret.

And far I roam, should e'er beauty invite,
Cause your pilgrim one moment to pause on his way,
Ah ! then will I think of those scenes with delight,
Till Memory's self with the rapture decay.

Unknown poet.
Old Bath Arrival Book (about 1838)^[23].

---

8.
Winter at Matlock.^[27] *New*

M ajestic Tor ! tho' now the winter's
A dorns they hoary head, the sun's warm glow
T hy purity soft tints with rosy light–
L ovely still this, as when the summer bright
O 'er thy stern features wept and smiled;
C hanging anew each season of the year
K aleidoscopic charms to all is charms appear

T o thee we look, then upwards raise our eyes
O 'er mountain peaks, beyond ethereal skies,
R ejoicing in the source where earthy beauty lies.

By an unnamed female who had previously contributed poems to the newspaper.
No date.

---

9.
[The New Bath Hotel and its Lime Tree]^[28]

Would you ask me the charms of the New Bath Hotel?
There's a linden tree grows, in the garden so well,
That its branches o'er shadow a full rood of ground,
As you clearly may prove if you'll only go round;
And its limbs are supported by forty-nine stakes,
Like the banyan that grows by Hindoostan's Lakes.

And the fountain moreover – aye, honour the fountain,
That, clear as a crystal, bursts forth from the mountain!
All sparking and gushing and limpid it flows,
And the Bath receives it as onward it goes ;
'Tis a chosen retreat, sure, the New Bath Inn.
There's beauty without and there's comfort within.

Hydropathy at Matlock House^[29]

With Matlock I'm asked in great raptures to go,
With its hills and its dales and its rivers that flow ;
I'm expected to like the kind "treatment" I get,
Though indoors and out I get nothing but wet.

In the morning at seven I'm awoke by the bell,
Then my wife rubs her eyes and wishes me well
In the bath James prepares for me in his best style,
And he gives me a "rain," just to keep down the bile.

At breakfast I meet with such charming young faces
That I feel I am learning what real and true grace is;
I then make enquiries for the health of my neighbours,
Just to let them all know of what my mind savours.
At noon my big bath is due, and let me tell ye;
For shew ye I cant, 'cause I don't want to sell ye;
But you've heard of young babies when they first appear
Well James makes me like one. Now isn't that queer?

But now for my martyrdom ; how shall I tell it?
The whole heavens seem falling ; I think I can smell it,
There's thunder and lightning and brimstone I'm sure
One constant and heavy and dreadful down-pour

Oh James pray have mercy, I feel I am dying,
A gulf is before me, I'm surely not lying
"You are indeed truly," the bath-man exclaims,
You are having a "spine-douche" to cure your back pains.

Thank my stars it's now o'er, and I'll dress me foe dinner
I bore it all bravely, but feel somewhat thinner,
The bell rings again, and sometimes for feeding,
I hasten to follow, my wife gladly leading.

One rule of the house is "no talking at meals"
Of baths or of symptoms that anyone feels ;
I follow the rule out as well as I'm able
And counsel all near me to "silence" at table;

Now you've heard it remarked I daresay of old
That a man's not thought much of if he's not bold
In ladies' society, at least I am told,
But these are not sentiments that I myself hold.

I like to hear talk, so I listen well pleased
And always feel happy though often I'm teased,
So dinner goes on and I sit very still
And look round at others while taking my fill.

The Matlock-House dinners all visitors say
Would be thought very good if you'd much more to pay,
But like other things to an end they must come
And so must my rhyming and all my poor fun.

The bath-man now wants me, he says for a "pack,"
The beginning of which is to lie on my back ;
Then he takes a wet sheet and wraps me up in it,
And in joke asks me then, would I like to take sup in it.

I'm kept there an hour, unable to move
My patience, I must think, in order to prove ;
When as warm as a pudding and feeling quite nice
I'm plunged in cold water - much colder than ice.

This is Hydropathy, the "treatment" I got
And I'm asked to admire it, if I like it or not
Well, there's one thing I say, and that not in fun,
I went to it Old, and I go away

[And with that the verse finishes! The most obvious word to fill the gap is "numb" and "young" would not quite rhyme.]