Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, And elegant enjoyments, that are pure Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 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 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, Both Roses flourish, Red and White. In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! 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, Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, 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 |