The boy muft part from Mofedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the flowers that Summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Muft vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heavinefs and fear.
-- Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise;
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou tree of covert and of reft
For this young bird that is diftreft;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play
When falcons were abroad for prey.

"A recreant harp, that fings of fear
And heavinefs in Clifford's ear!
I faid, 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 feen
Such garb with such a noble mien ;
Among the fhepherd-grooms no mate

Hath he, a child of ftrength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for folemn glee,
And a cheerful company,

That learned of him fubmiffive ways,
And comforted his private days.

To his fide the fallow-deer
Came, and refted without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and fea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowfcale-Tarn did wait on him;

The pair were fervants of his eye

In their immortality;

They moved about in open fight,

To and fro, for his delight.

He knew the rocks which angels haunt

On the mountains vifitant;

He hath kenned them taking wing:

And the caves where fairies fing

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 can whisper words of might.
-Now another day is come,
Fitter hope and nobler doom:

He hath thrown afide his crook,
And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rufting 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;

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 horfed, with lance and sword,

To his ancestors restored,

Like a re-appearing ftar,

Like a glory from afar,

Firft fhall head the flock of war!"

Alas! the fervent harper did not know

That for a tranquil foul the lay was framed, Who, long compelled in humble walks to go, Was foftened into feeling, foothed, and tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie, His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The filence that is in the ftarry sky,

The fleep that is among the lonely hills.