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THE moving accident is not my trade:
For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side.
In April here beneath the scented thorn
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone."
"Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
The Pleasure-house is dust: - behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, The Shepherd, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS.
HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
* See Note.
"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,
Both Roses flourish, Red and White,
The two that were at strife are blended,
"They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstood Earth helped him with the cry of blood:* St George was for 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-
Of all her guardian sons bereft;
*This line is from the "The Battle of Bosworth Field," by Sir John Beaumont (brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony; and have deservedly been reprinted lately in Chalmer's Collection English Poets.
"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 Blencathra'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 Tree of covert and of rest! For this young Bird that is distrest; Among 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 4 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,
That learned of him submissive ways;
They moved about in open sight,
He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt
On the Mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing:
And, if Men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
Now another day is come,
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field:
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; hut 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.
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood;
It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,
Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy! "T is Hesperus-there he stands with glittering crown First admonition that the sun is down,
For yet it is broad daylight! clouds pass by;
A few are near him still and now the sky,
Of the distinguished few among mankind,
As thou seem'st now to do:- nor was a thought
Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
To wield it; they, too, who of gentle mood,
Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where!
GOLD AND SILVER FISHES,
IN A VASE.
THE soaring Lark is blest as proud, When at Heaven's gate she sings; The roving Bee proclaims aloud
Her flight 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
Where Fear is but a transient Guest,