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A recreant Harp, that sings of fear
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
That learned of him submissive ways;
To his side the Fallow-deer
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him,
The pair were Servants of his eye
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt
He hath kenned them taking wing:
He hath entered; and been told
- Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
On the blood of Clifford calls;
"Quell the Scot," exclaims the LanceBear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
SONG AT THE FEAST
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
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,
Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth; The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
YES! full surely 'twas the Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo !
Hears not also niortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
Have not We too? Yes we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,