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 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 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 the 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 Faeries 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 could whisper words of might.
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;

88 SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE.

'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.

XXXI.

YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

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 !