LYRE! though such povser do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain Recal the not unwilling Maid,
Assist me to detain
The lovely Fugitive:
Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort Of contemplation, the calm port By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity.
But if no wish be hers that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. Where all things are so fair,
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather;
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy
Shade upon the sunshine lying
Faint and somewhat pensively;
And downward Image gaily vying With its upright living tree
Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.
Nor less the joy with many a glance
Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest;
Or watch, with mutual teaching,
The current as it plays
In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Adown a rocky maze;
Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance !) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem,
So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.
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 Emont'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 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 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 hour— Though lonely, a deserted Tower;
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and 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.
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