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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


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 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 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, 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 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,

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;

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,

Moved to and fro, for his delight.

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