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When under cloud of fear he lay,

A shepherd clad in homely grey,
Nor left him at his later day.

And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden field,
His eye could see the hidden spring,
And how the current was to flow;
The fatal end of Scotland's King,
And all that hopeless overthrow.
But not in wars did he delight,

This Clifford wished for worthier might;
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,
Most happy in the shy recess

Of Barden's humble quietness.

And choice of studious friends had he

Of Bolton's dear fraternity;

Who, standing on this old church tower,

In many a calm propitious hour,
Perused, with him, the starry sky;-
Or in their cells with him did pry
For other lore, -through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire:

But they and their good works are fled And all is now disquieted

And peace is none, for living or dead;

Ah, pensive Scholar! think not so, But look again at the radiant Doe! What quiet watch she seems to keep, Alone, beside that grassy heap!

Why mention other thoughts unmeet For vision so composed and sweet? While stand the people in a ring, Gazing, doubting, questioning; Yea, many overcome in spite Of recollections clear and bright; Which yet do unto some impart An undisturbed repose of heart. And all the assembly own a law Of orderly respect and awe; But see -they vanish, one by one, And last, the Doe herself is gone.

Harp! we have been full long beguiled

By busy dreams, and fancies wild;

To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this Pile we stand
In solitude, and utter peace:

But, harp! thy murmurs may not cease,
Thou hast breeze-like visitings;

For a Spirit with angel wings

Hath touched thee, and a Spirit's hand: A voice is with us a command

To chaunt, in strains of heavenly glory, A tale of tears, a mortal story!

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CANTO SECOND.

THE Harp in lowliness obeyed:

And first we sang of the green-wood shade,
And a solitary Maid;

Beginning, where the song must end,
With her, and with her sylvan Friend;
The friend who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguished light,
Her last companion in a dearth

Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

For She it was,

'twas She who wrought

Meekly, with foreboding thought,

In vermeil colours and in gold

An unblessed work; which, standing by,

Her Father did with joy behold,

Exulting in the imagery;

A Banner, one that did fulfil

Too perfectly his headstrong will:

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For on this Banner had her hand

Embroidered (such was the command)
The Sacred Cross; and figured there
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,

And float in rueful company!

It was the time when England's Queen
Twelve years had reigned, a sovereign dread;
Nor yet the restless crown had been
Disturbed upon her virgin head;

But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight

In Percy's and in Neville's right,

Two earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who

gave their wishes open vent; And boldly urged a general plea,

The rites of ancient piety

To be triumphantly restored;

By the dread justice of the sword!

And that same Banner, on whose breast
The blameless Lady had exprest,

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