??? The “Fox's Prophecy” Poem (1874)
STATUS / NOTE: This is only a POEM. It was NOT written by a mystic or saint.
While the main purpose of this site is to share authentic prophecy from Catholic saints and approved or credible mystics, I stumbled upon this poem regarding a 'prophetic outlook' on the future of England, and, people cannot help but note that for something written by a poet in the 1870s, it has proven eerily accurate regarding what is happening in England in our current times.
In the ancient days, poets and bards used to be considered next to priests and mystics. In Ireland for instance, the bard harpists used to sit at right hand of the kings as it was believed those who understood music and poetry were given a special gift regarding unveiling the 'unseen' - they could 'see' hidden truths and perceive things in the earth and cosmos the average mortal could not.
Interesting, isn't it? So, I'm placing this poem here as a curiosity to consider, hence the triple (???)
Again, this is NOT from a saint or mystic, but it certainly is interesting.
The text below is believed to be the full original version that was was in the possession of William Gordon Canning in the late 1880s or 1890s when he was master of the Ledbury Hounds, (I.e. a hunting club), and later found in the archives of Lord Weatherhill D. L., (1920- 2007), member of Parliament and Speaker of the House.
While many internet sites say the poem was written in 1871 by a poet named D.W. Nash, another source I found says the text had no author ascribed to it. The text was found among some old church papers by the Rev. Whatley, Vicar of the Aston -Ingham parish in the county of Gloucestershire. The text was given to him by Canning about 1889. The end of the manuscript bore the words “Cheltenham, 1871”.
In 1914 Mr. Canning published The Fox’s Prophesy in an edition of 250 copies, The proceeds derived from the sale being given to various War Charities. In 1930 another edition of several hundred copies was published by members of the family to which the duke of Beaufort contributed a foreword. The proceeds from this later edition were devoted to the Gloucester Royal Infirmary in memory of William Gordon Cunning, who died in 1929.
The people mentioned in the poem existed in real life and were living at the time the poem was written, being connected with either the Berkeley or Cotswold Hunt, sic Mr. Cregoe Colmore was Master of the Cotswold, 1858-1871; Harry Airis was huntsman to the Berkeley, F.W. Fitzhardinge, Bart being the M.F.H. and the “wrathful Earl”.
The source that gives this information concludes with: “We are indebted to the late Mr. Canning’s brother, Walter Gordon Canning, Esq of Hartpury, Gloucestershire for the information contained in this Publisher’s note. As the Duke of Beaufort states in his Foreword in the 1930 edition “many of the views offered by the old Berkeley fox have become curiously and prophetically true.” (The Sporting Gallery & Bookshop, Inc. ©1939, New York).
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“The Fox's Prophecy” (1871)
Tom Hill was in the
saddle
One bright November morn,
The echoing glades of Guiting
Wood
Were ringing with his horn.
The varies tints of
autumn,
Still lingered in the wood,
And on the leaves the
morning sun
Poured out a golden flood.
Soft, fleecy clouds
were sailing
Across the vault of
blue;
A fairer hunting morning
No huntsman ever knew.
All
nature seemed rejoicing
That glorious morn to see;
All seemed
to breathe a fresher life-
Beast, insect, bird and tree.
But
sound and sight of beauty
Fell dull on eye and ear;
The
huntsman's heart was heavy,
His brow oppressed with care.
High
in the stirrups raised he stood,
And long he gazed around;
And
breathlessly and anxiously
He listened for a sound.
No
voice of hound, no sound of horn;
The woods around were mute;
As
though the earth had swallowed up
His comrades-man and brute.
He
thought, I must essay to find
My hounds at any cost;
A huntsman
who has lost his hounds
Is but a huntsman lost.
Then round he turned
his horse's head,
And shook his bridle free,
When he was struck
by an aged fox
That sat beneath a tree.
He raised his eyes
in glad surprise,
That huntsman keen and bold;
But there was in
that fox's look
That made his blood run cold.
He raised his
hand to touch his horn,
And shout a "Tally-ho!"
But,
mastered by that fox's eye,
His lips refused to blow.
For
he was grim and gaunt of limb,
With age all silvered o'er;
He
might have been an Arctic Fox
Escaped from Greenland's shore.
But
age his vigour had not tamed,
Nor dimm'd his sparkling eye,
Which
shone with an unearthly fire-
A fire could never die.
And
thus the huntsman he addressed,
In tones distinct and clear,
Who
heard as they who in a dream
The fairies' music hear.
"Huntsman"
he said-a sudden thrill
Through all the listener ran,
To hear a
creature of the wood
Speak like a Christian man-
"Last
of my race, to me tis given
The future to unfold,
To speak the
words which never yet
Spake fox of mortal mould.
"Then
print my words upon your heart,
And stamp them on your brain,
That
you and others may impart
My prophecy again.
"Strong
life is yours in manhood's prime,
Your cheek with heat is
red;
Time has not laid a finger yet
In earnest on your
head.
"But ere your limbs are bent with age,
And ere
your locks are grey,
The sport that you have loved so well
Shall
long have passed away.
"Yet think not, huntsman, I
rejoice
To see the end so near;
Nor think the sound of horn and
hound
To me a sound of fear.
"In my strong youth,
which numbers now
Full many a winter back,
How scornfully I
shook my brush
Before the Berkley Pack.
"Then think
not that I speak in fear,
Or prophesy in hate;
Too well I know
the doom reserved
For all my tribe by fate.
"Too well
I know by wisdom taught,
The existence of my race
O'er all wide
England's green domain
Is bound up with the chase.
"Better
in early youth and strength
The race for life to run,
Than
poisoned like a noxious rat,
Or slain by fellon gun.
"For
not upon these hills alone
The doom of sport shall fall;
O'er
the broad face of England creeps
The shadow of the wall.
"The
years roll on: old manors change,
Old customs lost their sway;
The
manly blood of England
In weaker veins shall run.
"The
furzy down, the moorland heath,
The Steam plough shall invade;
Nor
park nor manor shall escape-
Common, not forest
glade.
"Degenerate sons of manlier sires
To lower joys
shall fall;
The faithless lore of Germany,
The gilded voice of
Gaul.
"The sports of their forefathers
To baser tastes
shall yield;
The vices of the town displace
The pleasures of
the field.
"For swiftly o'er the level shore
The waves
of progress ride;
The ancient landmarks one by one
Shall sink
beneath the tide.
"Time-honoured creeds and ancient
faith,
The Altar and the Crown,
Lordships hereditary
right,
Before that tide go down.
"Base churls shall
mock the mighty names
Writ on the roll of time;
Religion shall
be held a jest,
And loyalty a crime.
"No word of
prayer, no hymn of praise
Sound in the village school;
The
peoples education
Utilitarians rule.
"The peasants to
their daily tasks
In surly silence fall;
No kindly
hospitalities
In farmhouse or in hall.
"No harvest
feast nor Christmastide
Shall farm or manor hold;
Science alone
can plenty give,
The only God is gold.
"The homes
where love and peace should dwell,
Fierce politics shall vex,
And
unsexed woman strive to prove
Herself the coarser sex.
"Mechanics
in their workshops
Affairs of state decide;
Honour and
truth-old fashioned words-
The noisy mob deride.
"The
statesmen that should rule the realm
Coarse demagogues
displace;
The glory of a thousand years
Shall end in foul
disgrace.
"The honour of old England,
Cotton shall buy
and sell,
And hardware manufacturers
Cry, 'Peace!-lo! All is
well'.
"Trade shall be held the only God
And gain the
sole device;
The statesman's aim shall be peace,
And peace at
any price.
"Her army and her navy
Britain shall cast
aside;
Soldiers and ships are costly things,
Defence an empty
pride.
"The Germans and the Muscovite
Shall rule the
narrow seas;
Old England's flag shall cease to float
In triumph
in the breeze.
"Taught wisdom by disaster
England
shall learn to know
That trade is not the only gain
Heaven
gives to man below.
"The greed for gold departed,
The
golden calf cast down,
Old England's sons again shall raise
The
Altar and the Crown.
"Rejoicing seas shall welcome
Their
mistress once again;
Again the banner of St. George
Shall rule
upon the main.
"Again in hall and homestead
Shall joy
and peace be seen,
And smiling children raise again
The maypole
on the green.
"Again the hospitable board
Shall groan
with Christmas cheer,
And mutual service bond again
The peasant
and the peer.
"Again the smiling hedgerow
Shall field
from field divide;
Again among the woodlands
The scarlet troop
shall ride."
Again it seemed that aged fox
More
prophecies would say
When sudden came upon the wind,
"Hark
forrard! Gone away!"
The listener started from his
trance-
He sat there all alone;
That well known cry had burst
the spell,
The aged fox was gone.
The huntsman turned, he
spurred his steed,
And to the cry he sped;
And, when he thought
upon that fox,
Said naught but shook his head.
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