any great event takes place; and for this his salary is a pension of £100 a year, and a certain grant of wine from the royal stores.' This honourable post he held until his death in 1850.

LESSON 39.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

(Continued.)

Wordsworth's chief works are The Excursion, Lyrical Ballads, The White Doe of Rylstone, The Prelude, and Peter Bell. The piece appended is a song supposed to be sung at the feast of Brougham Castle, upon the restoration of Lord Clifford, the shepherd, to the estates and honours of his ancestors. His father having been slain in the battle of Towton, the hero of this poem fled from home, as he could expect no mercy from the house of York, and lived as a shepherd for twenty-five years. Upon the accession of Henry VII. he was restored to his rank and state.

THE GOOD LORD CLIFFORD.

High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the song.
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long.

'From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming

Both roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight

The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how she smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall;
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!

'They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth field. Not long the avenger was withstoodEarth helped him with the cry of blood: St. George was with us, and the might Of blessed angels crowned the right. Loud voice the land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful north: Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming; Our strong abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty.

'How glad is Skipton at this hour, Though she is but a lonely tower! To vacancy and silence left,

Of all her guardian sons bereft—

Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom ;
We have them at the Feast of Brougham.
How glad Pendragon, though the sleep
Of years be on her! She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.

Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem,
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,
This day distinguished without peer,
To see her master, and to cheer
Him and his lady mother dear!

'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-
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!

'Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be he 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!"

'Alas! when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long. The boy must part from Mosedale's groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear.Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! Hear it, good man, old in days! Thou free of covert and of rest For this young bird, that is distrest; Among the 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.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 strength 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 faëries 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 ;-
"Quell the Scot!" exclaims the lance;
Bear me to the heart of France!