Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART."
O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art
A creature of a "fiery heart"
These notes of thine - they pierce and pierce ; Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine; A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night; And steady bliss, and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze :
He did not cease; but cooed and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed : He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee ; That was the song - the song for me!
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 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 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 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,
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