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THE moving accident is not my trade:
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts

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For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell

What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his death-bed near the Well.

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
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier Hollow never shone;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone."

"Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green
leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

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,
That what we are, and have been, may be known;
But, at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

SONG

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,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.—
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long.

* 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,
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 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-
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 Brough'm.
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!

*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.

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"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,
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 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

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.

18

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.

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To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring Warbler! that love-prompted strain,
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;

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,
He hath it to himself—'t is all his own.
O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought
A startling recollection to my mind

Of the distinguished few among mankind,
Who dare to step beyond their natural race,

As thou seem'st now to do:- nor was a thought
Denied that even I might one day trace
Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!

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(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What Temper at the prospect did not wake
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
All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength
Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
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
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves; —
Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty
Did 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!*

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

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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,
Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.

Sce Note.

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