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Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,
Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;

Our Strong-abodes and Castles see

The glory of their royalty.

How glad is Skipton at this hour—
Though she is but a lonely Tower!
Silent, deserted of her best,

Without an Inmate or a Guest,

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!

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,

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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 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! 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

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 kenn'd them taking wing:

And the Caves where Faeries sing

He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how Men liv'd of old.
Among the Heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be;
And, if Men report him right,
He can 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,

Is the longing of the Shield—

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;

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