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They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth field. Not long the avenger was withstoodEarth helped him with the cry of blood St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed 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 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,-
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 distressed;
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 th' undying fish that swim

Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him,

The pair were servants of his eye

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 kenned them taking wing:

And the caves where fairies sing
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.

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-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;
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 horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored,

Like a re-appearing star,

Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the flock of war!".

Alas! the fervent harper did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed and tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
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;
The shepherd lord was honoured more and more:
And, ages after he was laid in earth,

"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

XXX.

THE ECHO.

YES! full surely 'twas the echo,

Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to thee, shouting cuckoo1

Giving to thee sound for sound.

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like-but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal life?
Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife,
Voices of two different natures?

Have not we too?-Yes we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!

Such within ourselves we hear
Ofttimes, ours though sent from far:
Listen, ponder, hold them dear
For of God,-of God they are!

XXXI.

FRENCH REVOLUTION,

AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT.

Он, pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,

But to be young was very heaven! Oh, times!
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!

When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress-to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise that which sets
(To take an image which was felt no doubt
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers,-who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it; they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,

* Reprinted from "The Friend."

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