 
The Lekes, or Leakes, of Sutton-in-Scarsdale, Derbyshire, derived their descent from Alan de Leka, of Leak in Nottinghamshire, who was living in 1141. The first of the family who settled at Sutton was William, a younger son of Sir John Leke of Gotham, in the early part of the fifteenth century; and the manor was acquired by a marriage with the heiress of the Hilarys, who took the name of Gray, and who inherited it from Robert de Hareston, Lord of Sutton. Sir Francis Leake, the fourth in descent from William above-named, married a co-heiress of Swift, and was succeeded by his son Francis, who in 1611 was created a baronet. In 1642 he was created Lord Deincourt of Sutton, and in 1645, Earl of Scarsdale. These titles became, however, extinct in 1736, by the death of Nicholas, the fourth Earl, and the last of the family. His lordship took an active part in the Civil Wars; and Lysons, speaking of him, says in 1643, (the beginning of April) "Lord Deincourt began to fortify his house at Sutton. Sir John Gell sent his brother, Colonel Thomas Gell, with five hundred men and three pieces of ordnance to besiege it. Lord Deincourt was summoned, but refused to surrender, and for some time obstinately defended himself. The house was taken, and Lord Deincourt and his men made prisoners. The works were demolished, and Lord Deincourt set at liberty, on giving his word that he would repair to Derby within eight days and submit himself to the Parliament. Sir John Gell observes that the forfeiture of his word on this occasion was revenged by the garrison at Bolsover, who some time afterwards, when that castle was in the hands of the Parliament, plundered Lord Deincourt's house at Sutton. In 1645 Lord Deincourt was created Earl of Scarsdale. Having rendered himself very obnoxious to the Parliament by his exertions in the royal cause during the Civil War, his The following ballad, embodying a tradition concerning Sir Francis Leke, is by Richard Howitt, one of the "worthies" of Derbyshire, of which county I am proud to say he is a native. Part I."O, say not so, Sir Francis, Breathe not such woe to me:— Broad and pleasant are your lands, And your Hall is fair to see. Faithful servants have you many, Fortune fair on you attends; Nor hath Knight in all the Island, Braver followers or friends. With the Court you are a favourite— Yet your King shall righted be: In his hour of deadly peril Can you from your monarch flee? Look upon your blooming children, Flowers of Heaven newly blown! Here renewed behold your Lucy, Shall we in these dread commotions, Neither need your arm nor mind, Where shall I behold defender, Where shall these a Father find? How I thought you loved us! Never Lightly could such love decline; Nor could you to idly voyage, All the wealth of life resign!" ——"Lucy! this is only torture— Here I may no longer pause— Long I for my King have battled— Now we've neither King nor laws. With our shrewd exultant Victor, Bootless now were strife of steel; Looking on my bleeding country Can I for her cease to feel? All the land is grown outrageous: Honour, worth, are hunted down: Demons mock at our religion— Idiots trample on the Crown. Roaming o'er the billowy ocean, Peace may greet me here unknown; And, returning, civil tempests May be fairly overblown. Should aught menacing approach you, To your noble Brothers, look: Danger! did they ever dread it? Guard your precious life, my Lucy! Need I say—not your's alone! Present—absent—living—dying— I am—fear not—all your own!" Starting from her arms, Sir Francis Quick his noble steed bestrode: And, with manly face averted, Forward—seaward—fleetly rode. Soon his vessell, anchor weighing, To the sails the winds were true; And with sad, not weak, delaying, He bade his native land adieu! Part II.Far amidst the western ocean, Lies a small and pleasant isle; Fair with everlasting verdure, Bright with summer's endless smile. There o'er one, all sadly musing Sweets distil from spicy trees; Yet, though all around is blooming, Nothing cheers him that he sees. Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle, Sad amongst the orange bloom; Nothing cheers his drooping spirit, Twice ten years he there has wandered, Nor one human face has seen; Moving like a silent shadow, Rocks have his companions been. Clad in skins of beasts; like serpents Wild, is his unheeded hair; Yet through lines of deep dejection, His once manly face is fair. As from gathered flowers, the odour Never wholly dies away,— Of the warrior, and the scholar, Intimations round him play. Nurtured in the camp, the college, Never can his soul be void; In the busy past his spirit, Heart, and mind, must be employed. Lists he yet the stirring battle, Lists he victory's rending shout? Tranquil is the isle, the ocean, Pain within him, peace without. Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet, Captains' shouting, horses' neigh! Till before the horrid stillness, All the tumult dies away. And is this the courtly warrior, Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke? He, the same!—who shunning discord, Bravely sailed he from Old England, Boldly with adventurous prow; From the horrors of that voyage He alone is living now. To his bravery owes he being— Last to quit the groaning deck— In his fight his comrades perished— Days he floated on the wreck. Till this lone and lovely island, Cheered him with refreshing bloom; Saved him from the ravening ocean, To a sad and lingering doom. In a cave has he his dwelling, High, o'erlooking wide the main, Where he feeds in painful being, Longings infinite and vain. Nightly there he burns a beacon; Often there the day he spends; And towards his native country Wistful gaze o'er ocean sends. There a cross has he erected— Near to which an altar stands, Humble growth of feelings holy Reared by his unaided hands. Truly needs he prove a Christian, Thus cut off from all his kind; Firmest faith he needs in Heaven; Store he needs of endless knowledge, His unvaried hours to cheer; Furnished with sublime resources For this solitude austere. Still the isle is very lovely— Never yet in Poet's mind, Haunt of Peri, realm of faÉry, Was more lavishly divined. Lovely as the Primal Garden, In the light of Sabbath blest; Human love alone is wanting In this Eden of the West. Leap from rocks the living waters: Hang delicious fruits around: And all birds of gorgeous plumage Fill the air with happy sound. Painful is to him its beauty— Sad the splendour of the sun; To the odorous air he utters Sorrow that is never done:— "Blest was I beyond all blessing! "In my wife and children blest: "In my friends and in my fortune— "Yet in peace I could not rest. "Never in his prosperous greatness, "Can himself the wisest trust; "God has weighed and found me wanting— Oft before the cross, the altar, Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest; To his God, and to his Saviour— And the Virgin Mother blest. And for love unto the Virgin Finds in Heaven his prayer chief grace! "Mary, Mother, me deliver, "From the horrors of this place! "Others crave more worldly guerdon— "Wealth, or fame, or station high; "Love I seek—to see my country— "My own people—and to die!" Praying thus, old legends tell us, Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed; When, O, happy inward vision, To him was his home revealed. There his patrimonial mansion, He beheld in moonlight sleep, Saw with joy though mystery veiled it— Sadness and a silence deep. And, O miracle of gladness! More, those ancient legends say, Was permitted him to witness, Waking, in the open day. In his old church-porch awaking— Trance, or voyage all unknown; O'er his own domains he wandered— Had chance Voyagers beheld him, In a trance, who slumbering bore, By some heavenly impulse, guided Him unto his native shore? Not so—says the holy legend— Force of penitential prayer— And the love he bore the Virgin— Won for him that transit fair. Spare the legend for its beauty— Carp not—what is it to you If the letter is a fable? In its spirit it is true. Leave we unto old tradition That which its dim mist sublimes, Nor submit the ancient spirit To the light of later times! See! before his welcome threshold! Once again, Sir Francis stand: Oh! the transport,—it is real!— He is in his native land! Part III.Merry once again is England, Civil warfare is forgot; Now another Charles is reigning Spring is like a present angel; Loosened waters leap in light: Flowers are springing, birds are singing, All the world is glad and bright. May, the blue-eyed bloomy creature, From God's presence yearly sent, Works with sweet ethereal fingers, Till both heaven and earth are blent. Lovliest is a rural village In the May-time of the year; With its hall, its woods and waters, Verdant slopes, and herds of deer. And in one, joy is exultant— For this day the manly heir Of Sir Francis Leke is wedded— Wedded too, his daughter fair. Age rejoices; in the Mansion Rural hinds find wassail cheer; And bright troops of Knights and Ladies, Crowd the Hall from far and near. Who is this in weeds unseemly, Half a man that seems, half beast, Who obtrudes himself unbidden On the merry marriage feast? Hermit is he, or some Pilgrim, Entering boldly his own cell? No,—he lacks those ancient symbols, All the youngsters titter; anger Flushes cheeks austere and cold: Whilst the aged look complacent On a beggar that is bold. "Bear this Ring unto your Mistress," To a Page Sir Francis cried; And his words emphatic uttered Rung throughout the dwelling wide. One there is—an age-blind servant— Who in darkness sits apart— Carried forth to feel the sunshine— She has heard him in her heart; And in agony of gladness, At that voice so long desired, She has loudly named her Master— And then instantly expired. Pensive in her room, the Matron Grieved—but distant from the crowd; She would not with selfish sorrow Their bright countenances cloud. There her Ring receiving; Lucy Knew the sender of her gift, And, it seemed, by feet unaided, To him she descended swift. There upon the rugged stranger, Gazed, with momentary check, Gazed, but for a passing moment, Twice ten weary summers absent; By his faithful wife deplored; Like Ulysses to his Consort, Good Sir Francis is restored. 'Tis a time of double gladness— Never was a scene like this; Joy o'erflows the Hall, the Village— 'Tis a time of boundless bliss! Clothed as instantly became him, Of Vile Skins all disarrayed, In his old Paternal Mansion He is honoured and obeyed. All he prayed for to the Virgin, She has granted him and more; Not to die, his own beholding, First, when on his native shore. Added years of happy ending, Are accorded him of right; 'Midst a cloud of friends descending, In a sunset warm and bright. |
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