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And the Stream whirl'd her down the dell | Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the Knight! When on firm ground

The rescued Maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion pass'd away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful Spirit flew,

His voice, beheld his speaking face;
And, dying, from his own embrace
She felt that he was true.

So he was reconciled to life:

Brief words may speak the rest:
Within the dell he built a cell,

And there was Sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling,-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,
[shade,
Where clouds, that spread in solemn
Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even;
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow!9

ODE,

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING.

[1833.

WHILE from the purpling East departs
The star that led the dawn,

For May is on the lawn.

A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
Foreran th' expected Power, [tree,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and
Shakes off that pearly shower.1

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
The tremulous heart excite;

And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when youths and
At peep of dawn would rise, [maids
And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song, -to grace the rite
Untouch'd the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feather'd Lieges bill and wings
In love's disport employ;

Warm'd by thy influence, creeping things

Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay plant
Where the slim wild deer roves; 2
And served in depths where fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing peak and trackless heath
Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
To honour thee, sweet May!
Where cities fann'd by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares
To open a bright eye.

9 This delectable poem, so steeped in the purest grace of romance, shows what the author conld do at the age of sixty. three. For the story of it, he had a slight hint, related in his notes as follows: "While we were making an excursion in 1 The meaning here is somewhat hidthis part of the Lake District, we heard den. The "freshening glee," I take it, is that Mr. Glover, the artist, while lodging a heavy dew or a rain, which impearled at Lyulph's Tower, had been disturbed "bush and tree" with drops of water. by a loud shriek, and upon rising he had The "expected Power" is May-Day dawn; learnt that it had come from a young and the" first-drawn breath "is the breeze woman in the house who was in the habit which, started by the rising Sun, shakes of walking in her sleep. In that state she off those drops of dew or rain. had gone down stairs, and, while attempt. 2 The poet is here illustrating the ubiing to open the outer door, either from quitous virtue of May: her revivifying some difficulty or the effect of the cold efficacy penetrates the deepest and thickstone upon her feet, had uttered the cry est forests, where the shyest and timidest which alarmed him. It seemed to us all animals seek to hide themselves.-Observe that this might serve as a hint for a poem," how the clogged expression of this line, &c. The persons here included under owing to the two spondees, "Slim wild the pronoun we were Sir George Beau- deer roves," images the difficulty of mov. mont and Rogers the poet.

ing in a dense and tangled forest.

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game; Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow,

Or love within the breast.

Earth, sea, thy presence feel; nor less,

If yon ethereal blue

With its soft smile the truth express,
The heavens have felt it too.
The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer;

And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brighten'd tear.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach Since thy return, through days and weeks

The soul to love the more;

Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.

Strip is the haughty one of pride, The bashful freed from fear, While rising, like the ocean-tide,

In flows the joyous year.

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Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse The service to prolong:

To yon exulting thrush the Muse

Entrusts th' imperfect song;

His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

Throughout the live-long day

Till the first silver star appear,
The sovereignty of May.s

TO MAY.

THOUGH many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And Bards, who hail'd thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odours! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
O, for a deathless song to meet
The soul's desire,- a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And Winter's dreariest hour.

3 This and the following poem origina ted in the lines, "How delicate the leafy veil," &c.-My daughter and I left Rydal Mount upon a tour through our mountains with Mr. and Mrs. Carr in the month of

May, 1826; and as we were going up the vale of Newlands I was struck with the appearance of the little chapel gleaming through the veil of half-opened leaves; and the feeling then conveyed to my mind was expressed in the stanza referred to above.-Author's Notes.

Of hope that grew by stealth,

How many wan and faded cheeks

Have kindled into health!

The Old, by thee revived, have said, "Another year is ours;"

And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers. .

Who tripping lisps a merry song

Amid his playful peers?

The tender Infant who was long
A prisoner of fond fears;
But now, when every sharp-edged blast
Is quiet in its sheath,

His Mother leaves him free to taste
Earth's sweetness in thy breath.

Thy help is with the weed that creeps
Along the humblest ground;
No cliff so bare but on its steeps
Thy favours may be found;
But most on some peculiar nook

That our own hands have drest,
Thou and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth When May is whispering, "Come! Choose from the bowers of virgin earth

The happiest for your home; [spread Heaven's bounteous love through me is From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, Drops on the mouldering turret's head, And on your turf-clad graves!"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,
Or "the rathe primrose as it dies
Forsaken" in the shade! 4
Vernal fruitions and desires

Are linked in endless chase;
While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.

4 The quotation here made is from Milton's Lycidas," Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies."-Rathe is carly.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;
If expectations newly blown

Have perish'd in thy sight;

If lees and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare:
Such is the lot of all the young,

However bright and fair.

Lo! Streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Gargling in foamy water-break,

Loitering in glassy pool:
By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirm'd intent,
On that green mountain's side.

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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. 5—
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! [shield;
They came with banner, spear, and
And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
Not long th' Avenger was withstood,
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:
Saint George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land has utter'd 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.

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How glad is Skipton at this hour, Though lonely, a deserted Tower; Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and

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, distinguish'd without peer
To see her Master and to cheer, —
Him, and his Lady-mother dear!

5 The Houses of Lancaster and York, severally represented by the Red Rose and the White, were united, after the fall of Richard the Third, by the marriage of Henry the Seventh with Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward the Fourth.

6 This line is from a poem, entitled The Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont, brother of the celebrated dra matist.

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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 smother'd flame? [shed
O'er whom such thankful tears were
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath
will'd
[fill'a,

That those dear words should be ful.
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,9
And quit the flowers that Summer

brings

To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turn'd 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.

9 Blencathara is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddleback.

A recreant harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's car! 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 Again he wanders forth at will, [prime. 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 simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stoop'd down to pay him fealty; And both th' undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on The pair were servants of his eye [him:1 In their immortality;

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.

He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
And into caves where Fairies sing
He hath enter'd; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his cye can see
The face of thing that is to be;
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of
Now another day is come, [might.
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; 2-
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance;
'Bear me to the heart of France,'

1 It was imagined by the people of the country that there were two immortal Fish dwelling in this tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Tarn is a small mountain lake.

2 The four immediate progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is sup. posed to be spoken all died in the field. Several others of the family perished in the same manner. The Cliffords, indeed, of Cumberland were famed for their mar tial spirit, and were distinguished for fierceness even in that fierce age.

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Alas! th' impassion'd minstrel did not Mockery-or model roughly hewn,

know

[framed,

That for a tranquil soul the Lay was
Who, long compell'd in humble walks to
go,
[tamed.
Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and

Love had he found in huts where poor
men lie;
[rills,
His daily teachers had been woods and
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

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.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage-
hearth;
[and more;
The Shepherd-lord was honour'd more
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the name
he bore.3
[1807.

And left as if by earthquake strewn,
Or from the Flood escaped:
Altars for Druid service fit;
(But where no fire was ever lit,
Unless the glow-worm to the skies
Thence offer nightly sacrifice ;)
Wrinkled Egyptian monument;
Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;
Tents of a camp that never shall be
raised,
[gazed!
On which four thousand years have

II.

Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes!
Ye snow-white lambs that trip
Imprison'd 'mid the formal props
Of restless ownership!

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
To feed th' insatiate Prodigal! [fields,
Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and
All that the fertile valley shields;
Wages of folly, - baits of crime,
of life's uneasy game the stake,
Playthings that keep the eyes awake
Of drowsy, dotard Time; -
O care! O guilt!-O vales and plains,

3 Henry Lord Clifford, the subject of this grand lyric, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain in the battle of Towton, 1461. This John was the person wise came seldom to London or the Court; who, after the battle of Wakefield, 1460, and rather delighted to live in the counslew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of try, where he repaired several of his CasRutland, son to the Duke of York, who fell tles, which had gone to decay during the in that battle. Independent of this act, at late troubles." There is a tradition cur best a cruel and savage one, the family of rent in the village of Threlkeld and its Clifford had done enough to draw upon neighbourhood, his principal retreat, them the vehement hatred of the House that, in the course of his shepherd-life, of York; so that after the Battle of Tow- he had acquired great astronomical knowl ton there was no hope for them but in edge. I cannot conclude this note with. flight and concealment. Henry, the sub-out adding a word touching the feudal ject of the Poem, was deprived of his es- Edifices, spoken of in the Poem. The tate and honours during the space of Cliffords had always been distinguished twenty-four years; all which time he lived for an honourable pride in these Castles; as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, "when called to Parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but other.

and, after the wars of York and Lancas ter, they were rebuilt; in the civil wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pem. broke.

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