Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,-
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn :
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
'One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:
The next, with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne :Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.
(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the estates and honours of his ancestors.)
HIGH in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Eamont's murmur mingled with the Song.-
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal Strain that hath been silent long.
'From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,
The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The Red Rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming :
Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife 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 sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!
'They came with banner, spear, 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 blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the Land has 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 loyalty.
'How glad is Skipton at this hourThough she is but a lonely Tower! To vacancy and silence left;
Of all her guardian sons bereft
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom:
We have them at the feast of Brougham.
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 Eamont'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 bornGive 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,
|