And what if thou, sweet May, hast known
Mishap by worm and blight;
If expectations newly blown
Have perish'd in thy sight;
If loves and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare:
Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.
Lo! Streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool:
By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirm'd intent,
On that green mountain's side.
How delicate the leafy veil
Through which yon house of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale By few but shepherds trod! And lowly huts, near beaten ways, No sooner stand attired
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.
sate, And Emont's murmur mingled with the The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long:
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. 5-
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! [shield;
They came with banner, spear, and
And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
Not long th' Avenger was withstood,-
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:
Saint George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land has utter'd 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 hour, Though lonely, a deserted Tower; Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and
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, distinguish'd without peer
To see her Master and to cheer,-
Him, and his Lady-mother dear!
5 The Houses of Lancaster and York, severally represented by the Red Rose "From town to town, from tower to and the White, were united, after the fall
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,
of Richard the Third, by the marriage of Henry the Seventh with Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward the Fourth.
6 This line is from a poem, entitled The Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont, brother of the celebrated dra matist.
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 smother'd flame? [shed
O'er whom such thankful tears were
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath
will'd
[fill'd,
That those dear words should be ful-
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
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,9
And quit the flowers that Summer
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turn'd 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 distrest;
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 car!
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
Again he wanders forth at will, [prime,
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 simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stoop'd down to pay him fealty;
And both th' undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on
The pair were servants of his eye [him: 1
In their immortality;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
And into caves where Fairies sing
He hath enter'd; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing that is to be;
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of
Now another day is come, [might.
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; 2-
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance;
'Bear me to the heart of France,'
1 It was imagined by the people of the country that there were two immortal Fish dwelling in this tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Tarn is a small mountain lake.
2 The four immediate progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken all died in the field. Several others of the family perished in the same manner. The Cliffords, indeed,
name of the mountain vulgarly called tial spirit, and were distinguished for Blencathara is the old and proper of Cumberland were famed for their mar
fierceness even in that fierce age.
hearth; [and more; The Shepherd-lord was honour'd more And, ages after he was laid in earth, "The good Lord Clifford" was the name [1807.
WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,
A deep delight the bosom thrills,
Oft as I pass along the fork
Of these fraternal hills:
Where, save the rugged road, we find
Νο
appanage of human kind,
Nor hint of man; if stone or rock
Seem not his handiwork to mock
By something, cognizably shaped;
Mockery — or model roughly hewn,
And left as if by earthquake strewn,
Or from the Flood escaped:
Altars for Druid service fit;
(But where no fire was ever lit,
Unless the glow-worm to the skies
Thence offer nightly sacrifice ;)
Wrinkled Egyptian monument;
Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;
Tents of a camp that never shall be
raised,-
[gazed!
On which four thousand years have
Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes!
Ye snow-white lambs that trip
Imprison'd 'mid the formal props
Of restless ownership!
Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
Glad were the vales, and every cottage-To feed th' insatiate Prodigal! [fields,
Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and
All that the fertile valley shields;
Wages of folly, - baits of crime,
of life's uneasy game the stake,
Playthings that keep the eyes awake
Of drowsy, dotard Time;-
O care! O guilt!-O vales and plains,
3 Henry Lord Clifford, the subject of this grand lyric, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain in the battle of Towton, 1461. This John was the person wise came seldom to London or the Court; who, after the battle of Wakefield, 1460, and rather delighted to live in the counslew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of try, where he repaired several of his CasRutland, son to the Duke of York, who fell tles, which had gone to decay during the in that battle. Independent of this act, at late troubles." There is a tradition curbest a cruel and savage one, the family of rent in the village of Threlkeld and its Clifford had done enough to draw upon neighbourhood, his principal retreat, them the vehement hatred of the House that, in the course of his shepherd-life, of York; so that after the Battle of Tow- he had acquired great astronomical knowlton there was no hope for them but in edge. I cannot conclude this note withflight and concealment. Henry, the sub-out adding a word touching the feudal ject of the Poem, was deprived of his es- Edifices, spoken of in the Poem. The tate and honours during the space of Cliffords had always been distinguished twenty-four years; all which time he lived for an honourable pride in these Castles; as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, "when called to Parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but other
and, after the wars of York and Lancas ter, they were rebuilt; in the civil wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke.
The scene that opens now?
Though habitation none appear
The greenness tells, man must be there;
The shelter,-that the pérspective
Is of the clime in which we live;.
Where Toil pursues his daily round;
Where Pity sheds sweet tears; and Love,
In woodbine bower or birchen grove,
Inflicts his tender wound.-
Who comes not hither ne'er shall know
How beautiful the world below;
Nor can he guess how lightly leaps
The brook adown the rocky steeps.-
Farewell, thou desolate Domain !
Hope, pointing to the cultured plain,
Carols like a shepherd-boy;
And who is she?-Can that be Joy?
Who, with a sunbeam for her guide,
Smoothly skims the meadows wide;
While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, To hill and vale proclaims aloud, [ed dare, "Whate'er the weak may dread, the wickThy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair!" 4 [1817.
KEEP for the Young th' impassion'd smile. Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee stand
High on that chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, A slender volume grasping in thy hand,— (Perchance the pages that relate
The various turns of Crusoe's fate,) —
Ah, spare th' exulting smile,
And drop thy pointing finger bright
As the first flash of beacon light;
But neither veil thy head in shadows dim,
Nor turn thy face away
From One who, in the evening of his day, To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn!
Bold Spirit! who art free to rove
Among the starry courts of Jove,
And oft in splendour dost appear
Embodied to poetic eyes,
While traversing this nether sphere,
Where Mortals call thee ENTERPRISE.
Daughter of Hope! her favourite Child,
Whom she to young Ambition bore,
When Hunter's arrow first defiled
The grove, and stain'd the turf with gore;
Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed
On broad Euphrates' palmy shore,
And where the mightier Waters burst
From caves of Indian mountains hoar!
She wrapp'd thee in a panther's skin;
And Thou, thy favourite food to win,
The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare
From her rock fortress in mid air,
With infant shout; and often sweep,
Pair'd with the ostrich, o'er the plain;
Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep
Upon the couchant lion's mane!
With rolling years thy strength increased;
And, far beyond thy native East,
To thee, by varying titles known
As variously thy power was shown,
4 Thoughts and feelings of many walks in all weathers, by day and night, over this Pass, alone, and with beloved friends. -Author's Notes.
Did incense-bearing altars rise,
Which caught the blaze of sacrifice,
From suppliants panting for the skies!
What though this ancient Earth be trod
No more by step of Demi-god
Mounting from glorious deed to deed,
As thou from clime to clime didst lead;
Yet still, the bosom beating high,
And the hush'd farewell of an eye,
Where no procrastinating gaze
A last infirmity betrays,
Prove that thy heaven-descended sway
Shall ne'er submit to cold decay.
By thy divinity impell'd,
The Stripling seeks the tented field;
Th' aspiring Virgin kneels; and, pale
With awe, receives the hallow'd veil,
A soft and tender Heroine
Vow'd to severer discipline:
Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy
Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy,
And of the ocean's dismal breast
A play-ground, or a couch of rest:
'Mid the blank world of snow and ice,
Thou to his dangers dost enchain
The Chamois-chaser awed in vain
By chasm or dizzy precipice:
And hast Thou not with triumph seen
How soaring mortals glide between
Or through the clouds, and brave the light
With bolder than Icarian flight? 5
How they, in bells of crystal, dive,
(Where winds and waters cease to strive,)
For no unholy visitings,
Among the monsters of the Deep;
And all the sad and precious things
Which there in ghastly silence sleep?
Or, adverse tides and currents headed,
And breathless calms no longer dreaded,
In never-slackening voyage go
Straight as an arrow from the bow;
5 Alluding, of course, to the bold spirit of Enterprise as displayed in balloon-voyaging. The unclassical reader may like to be told that Icarus was the son of that wonderful mechanic, Dædalus, whose triumphs of ingenuity caused him to be im. prisoned by Minos. Being released by Pasiphaë, to aid his flight from Minos, he procured wings for himself and his son, and fastened them on with wax. In their flight, the youngster, being something over-bold, flew too near the Sun, so that the wax was melted, and he fell down into what was thence called the Icarian sea.
And, slighting sails and scoring oars,
Keep faith with Time on distant shores?—
Within our fearless reach are placed
The secrets of the burning Waste;
Egyptian tombs unlock their dead,
Nile trembles at his fountain head;
Thou speak'st,-and, lo! the polar Seas
Unbosom their last mysteries.- [reward,
But, O! what transports, what sublime
Won from the world of mind, dost thou
For philosophic Sage; or high-souled Bard Who, for thy service train'd in lonely woods, [the air, Hath fed on pageants floating through Or calentured in depth of limpid floods; " Nor grieves, though doom'd thro' silent night to bear
The domination of his glorious themes, Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams! III.
If there be movements in the Patriot's soul, [worth, From source still deeper, and of higher "Tis thine the quickening impulse to control,
And in due season send the mandate forth: Thy call a prostrate Nation can restore, When but a single Mind resolves to crouch
Dread Minister of wrath!
Who to their destined punishment dost urge [harden'd heart! The Pharaohs of the Earth, the men of Not unassisted by the flattering stars, Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path When they in pomp depart
6 This is the only instance I remember to have met with of calenture thus used as a verb. The word properly means a fever, and hence is put for the furious delirium or frenzy caused by the heat of the tropical sun at sea, which often leads sailors to throw themselves into the water. The sense of the word in this place may be gathered from a passage in Swift's South Sea Project, 1721:
"So, by a calenture misled,
The mariner with rapture sees,
On the smooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamell'd fields and verdant trees:
With eager haste he longs to rove
In that fantastic scene, and thinks
It must be some enchanted grove:
And in he leaps and down he sinks."
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