Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
And industry of body and of mind;

And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As Nature is; too pure to be refined.

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his River murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid Spring
Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord ? That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade! More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword.

If he be One that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn; An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

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 sorrows 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.

G 5

Not long the Avenger was withstood,
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land hath utter'd 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 she is but a lonely Tower!

Silent, deserted of her best,

Without an Inmate or a Guest,

Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom;

We have them at the Feast of Brough'm.

How glad Pendragon though the sleep

Of

years

be on her!-She shall reap