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For thurteen hours he ran a desperate race;

“From Town to Town from Tower to 'Tower, And in my simple mind we cannot tell

The Red Rose is a gladsome flower,
What cause the Hart might have to love this place, Her thirty years of winter past,
And come and make his death-bed near the Well. The Red Rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring,
Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,

For everlasting blossoming : Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide;

Both Roses flourish, Red and White, This water was perhaps the first he drank

In love and sisterly delight When he had wandered from his mother's side.

The two that were at strife are blended,

And all old troubles now are ended. In April here beneath the scented thorn

Joy! Joy to both! but most to her He heard the birds their morning carols sing;

Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born

Behold her how She smiles to-day Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

On this great throng, this bright array!

Fair greeting doth she send to all Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;

From every corner of the Hall; The sun on drearier Hollow never shone ;

But, chiefly from above the Board So will it be, as I have often said,

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone."

A Clifford to his own restored! "Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;

“They came with banner, spear, and shield ; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:

And it was proved in Bosworth-field. This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;

Not long the Avenger wàs withstood —

Earth helped him with the cry of blood :* His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

St George was for us, and the might The Being, that is in the clouds and air,

Of blessed Angels crowned the right. That is in the green leaves among the groves,

Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, Maintains a deep and reverential care

We loudest in the faithful North: For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,

Our Streams proclaim a welcoming: The Pleasure-house is dust :— behind, before,

Our Strong-abodes and Castles see This is no common waste, no common gloom;

The glory of their loyalty. But Nature, in due course of time, once more

“How glad is Skipton at this hour – Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

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written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony; and have

Though she is but a lonely Tower!

To vacancy and silence left; She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

Of all her guardian sons bereft; That what we are, and have been, may be known;

Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom : But, at the coming of the milder day,

We have them at the feast of Brough'm. These monuments shall all be overgrown.

How glad Pendragon — though the sleep

Of years be on her! She shall reap One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

A taste of this great pleasure, viewing Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals, As in a dream her own renewing. Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”

Beside her little humble Stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;

They both are happy at this hour,

Though each is but a lonely Tower:

But here is perfect joy and pride

For one fair house by Emont's side,
UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, This day distinguished without peer

To see her Master and to cheer
Higu in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,

Him, and his Lady Mother dear!
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.– * This line is from the «The Batle of Bosworth Field," by
The words of ancient time I thus translate,

Sir John Beaumont (brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are
A festal strain that hath been silent long.

deservedly been reprinted lately in Chalmer's Collection * See Note.




"Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born -
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child ?
Who will take them from the light?

-Yonder is a Man in sight me Yonder is a House — but where?

No, they must not enter there.
To the Caves, and to the Brooks,
To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Save a Mother and her Child !

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“Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy ? No thoughts bath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be lie who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame ! O'er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter and a poor Man's bread! God loves the Child; and God hath willed That those dear words should be fulfilled, The Lady's words, when forced away The last she to her Babe did say, "My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, For lowly Shepherd's life is best!'

- Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a Flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate
Hath he, a Child of ength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
That learned of him submissive ways;
And comforted his private days.
To his side the Fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him ;*
The Pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality ;
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt
On the Mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing:
And the Caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the Heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be ;
And, if Men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
- Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom ;
He hath thrown aside his Crook,
And hath buried deep his Book ;
Armour rusting in his Halls
On the blood of Clifford calls; t-
"Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance -
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield –
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his Ancestors restored

* Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,
And leave Blencathra's rugged Coves,
And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Just vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
- Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise !
Hear it, good Man, old in days!
Thou Tree of covert and of rest!
Por this young Bird that is distrest;
Arnong thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play,
When falcons were abroad for prey.

"A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear
I said, when evil Men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,
A weak and cowardly untruth !
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.

* It is imagined by the people of the country that there are two immortal Fish, inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. - Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.

+ The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English history; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, that besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the Person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field.

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Like a re-appearing Star,

To the last point of vision, and beyond, Like a glory from afar,

Mount, daring Warbler! that love-prompted strain, First shall head the Flock of War !"

('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Alas! the fervent harper did not know

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,

All independent of the leafy spring.
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
The silence that is in the starry sky,

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! In him the savage virtue of the Race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.

*This, and the Extract, page 80, and the first Piece of this

Class, are from the unpublished Poem of which some account

It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,

And is descending on his embassy ; Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth; Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to esp!! The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more; 'T is Ilesperus — there he stands with glittering crown And, ages after he was laid in earth,

First admonition that the sun is down, “ The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. For yet it is broad daylight! clouds pass by ;

A few are near him still — and now the sky.
He hath it to himself - 't is all his own.

O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brough
Yes, it was the mountain Echo,

A startling recollection to my mind
Solitary, clear, profound,

Of the distinguished few among mankind,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo

Who dare to step beyond their natural race,
Giving to her sound for sound !

As thou seem'st now to do: – nor was a thought

Denied that even I might one day trace Unsolicited reply

Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength above, To a babbling wanderer sent;

My Soul, an Apparition in the place, Like her ordinary cry,

Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove ! Like but oh, how different! Hears not also mortal Life ? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,

FRENCH REVOLUTION, Voices of two different Natures ?


REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND." Answers, and we know not whence.

On! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! Echoes from beyond the grave,

For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then stood Recognised intelligence!

Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! Often as thy inward ear

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, Catches such rebounds, beware,

But to be young was very heaven !- Oh! times, Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

In which the mengre, stale, forbidding ways
For of God, of God they are.

Of custom, law, and stature, took at once
The attraction of a country in Romance !
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,

When most intent on making of herself

A prime Enchantress

to assist the work ETHEREAL Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky !

Which then was going forward in her name! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth, Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye The beauty wore of promise — that which sets Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

he preface to the EXCURSION.

How beautiful! yet none knows why

This ever-graceful change,
Renewed — renewed incessantly –

Within your quiet range.
Is it that ye with conscious skill

For mutual pleasure glide;
And sometimes, not without your will

Are dwarfed, or magnified ?

(als at some moment might not be un felt

Among the bowers of paradise itself)
2. T'he budding rose above the rose full blown.
be the What Temper at the prospect did not wake
pret. To happiness unthought of? The inert

Were roused, and lively Nature rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made

Al powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength
Fl. Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred

Among the grandest objects of the sense,
W And dealt with whatsoever they found there

As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it;- they, too, who of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these

Ikad fitted their own thoughts, schemers more inild, met bot And in the region of their peaceful selves;

Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty fit Dhid both find helpers to their heart's desire,

And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, subterranean Fields,
Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, — the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!*

Fays — Genii of gigantic size —

And now, in twilight dim, Clustering like constellated Eyes

In wings of Cherubim, When they abate their fiery glare:

Whate'er your forms express, Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are,

All leads to gentleness.

Cold though your nature be, 't is pure;

Your birthright is a fence
From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense.
Ah! not alone by colours bright

Are ye to Heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,

Ye mingle, or divide.



For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled

Day-thoughts while limbs repose ; For moonlight fascinations mild

Your gift, ere shutters close; Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise ;

And may this tribute prove That gentle admirations raise

Delight resembling love.


The soaring Lark is blest as proud,

When at Heaven's gate she sings;
The roving Bee proclaims aloud

Her fight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,

Your silent lives employ
For something more than dull content

Though haply less than joy."
Yet might your glassy prison seem

A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam

Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,

Your motions, glittering Elves !
Ye weave — no danger from without,

And peace among yourselves.
Type of a sunny human breast

Is your transparent Cell;
Where Fear is but a transient Guest,

No sullen humours dwell;
Where, sensitive of every ray

That smites this tiny sea,


[ Addressed to a Friend; the Gold and Silver Fishes having been removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount.)

“ The liberty of a people consists in being governed by lazus which they have made for themselves, under whatever form i be of government, The liberty of a private man, in being mas ter of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his countrey. Of this latter we are here to discourse."-COWLEY.

Your scaly panoplies repay

The loan with usury.

THOSE breathing Tokens of your kind regard,
(Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard;
Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling,
In lonely spots, become a slighted thing :)

See Note.

Those silent Inmates now no longer share,
Nor do they need, our hospitable care,
Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell
To the fresh waters of a living Well;
That spreads into an elfin pool opaque
Of which close boughs a glimmering mirror make,
On whose smooth breast with dimples light and small
The fly may settle, leaf or blossom fall.
There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower
Fearless (but how obscured :) the golden Power,
That from his bauble prison used to cast
Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast;
And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome,
The silver Tenant of the crystal dome;
Dissevered both from all the mysteries
Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes.
They pined, perhaps, they languished while they shone;
And, if not so, what matters beauty gone
And admiration lost, by change of place
That brings to the inward Creature no disgrace?
But if the change restore his birthright, then,
Whate'er the difference, boundless is the gain.
Who can divine what impulses from God
Reach the caged Lark, within a town-abode,
From his poor inch or two of daisied sod?
O yield him back his privilege: No sea
Swells like the bosom of a man set free ;
A wilderness is rich with liberty.
Roll on, ye spouting Whales, who die or keep
Your independence in the fathomless Deep !
Spread, tiny Nautilus, the living sail;
Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale!
If unreproved the ambitious Eagle mount
Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount,
Bays, gulfs, and Ocean's Indian width, shall be,
Till the world perishes, a field for thee!

While musing here I sit in shadow cool, And watch these mute Companions, in the pool, Among reflected boughs of leafy trees, By glimpses caught—disporting at their ease— Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal Cell; To wheel with languid motion round and round, Beautiful, yet in a mournful durance bound. Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred; On their quick sense our sweetest music jarred; And whither could they dart, if seized with fear ! No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near. When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room They wore away the night in starless gloom And, when the sun first dawned upon the streams, How faint their portion of his vital beams! Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, While not one joy of ours by them was shared.

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Which Horace needed for his spirit's health;
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome
By noise, and strife, and questions wearisome,
And the vain splendours of Imperial Rome!
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire,
And fiction animate his sportive lyre,
Attuned to verse that crowning light Distress
With garlands cheats her into happiness;
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains,
As a chance sunbeam from his memory fell
Upon the Sabine Farm he loved so well;
Or when the prattle of Bandusia's spring
Haunted his ear—he only listening–
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit
To win the palm of gaiety and wit:
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread,
Shrinking from each new favour to be shed,
By the World's Ruler, on his honoured head!

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade;

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