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In which, through many feafons, from the world
Removed, and the affections of the world,
He dwelt in folitude.-But he had left
A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved
As his own foul. And when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore
Pealed to his orifons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small ifle, and thought
Of his companion, he would pray that both
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)
Might die in the fame moment. Nor in vain
So prayed he: as our chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit numbered his last day,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the fame hour.
AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,
Upon the restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Eftates and Honours of his Ancestors.
IGH in the breathless hall the minstrel fate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the fong,-
The words of ancient time I thus tranflate,
A feftal strain that hath been filent long:-
"From town to town, from tower to tower, The red rofe is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rofe is revived at laft ;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting bloffoming:
Both roses flourish, red and white;
In love and fifterly delight,
The two that were at ftrife 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 fits in state our rightful lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!
"They came with banner, fpear, 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 bleffed angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the land hath uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North:
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our strong abodes and castles fee
The glory of their loyalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour-
Though fhe is but a lonely tower!
Silent, deferted of her beft,
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,
Befide her little humble ftream;
And the that keepeth watch and ward,
Her ftatelier Eden's courfe 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 houfe by Emont's fide,
This day distinguished without peer;
To fee her master, and to cheer
Him and his lady mother dear!
"Oh! it was a time forlorn,
When the fatherlefs was born-
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or fhe fees her infant die!
Swords that are with flaughter wild
Hunt the mother and the child.
Who will take them from the light?
-Yonder is a man in fight-
Yonder is a houfe- but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks;
She is fpeechlefs, 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 bourds with joy On Carrock's fide, a fhepherd-boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be he who hither came
In fecret like a fmothered flame?
O'er whom fuch thankful tears were shed
For fhelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the child; and God hath willed
That those dear words fhould be fulfilled,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her babe did fay,
My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be ; but reft thee, reft,
For lowly fhepherd's life is beft!'
"Alas! when evil men are ftrong,
No life is good, no pleasure long.