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.

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XI.

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 á new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

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.

1803-6.

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200

"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;

5

IO

15

Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song - the song for me!

20

1806.

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 be on her! She shall reap

Of

years
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,

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45

50

55

60

65

Maid and Mother undefiled,

70

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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80

85

The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,

90

And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;