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Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,
Our Strong-abodes and Castles see
The glory of their royalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour—
Without an Inmate or a Guest,
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom;
Of years be on her!-She shall reap
Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the Fatherless was born
Give her wings that she may fly,
Swords that are with slaughter wild
She is speechless, but her eyes
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Save a Mother and her Child!
Now Who is he that bounds with joy
In secret, like a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
God loves the Child; and God hath willed
The last she to her Babe did say,
My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
Alas! when evil men are strong
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.
Hear it, good Man, old in days!
Thou Tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
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
That learned of him submissive ways;
And comforted his private days.
To his side the Fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
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
On the blood of Clifford calls ;-
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield—
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;