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The boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the Aowers 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, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy youth, And thankful through a weary time, 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 Such garb with such a noble mien ; Among the shepherd-grooms no mate

Hath he, a child of strength and state ! :
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
That learned of him submissive ways,
And comforted his private days.
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty ;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him ;
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality ;
They moved about in open fight,
To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which angels haunt
On the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing :
And the caves where fairies sing
He hath entered ; and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be ;
And, if men report him right,
He can whisper words of might.
-Now another day is come,
Fitter hope and nobler doom :

He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book ;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls ;-
· Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance--
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield-
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ;
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 Aock of war!”

Alas! the fervent harper did not know

That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed, Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,

Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

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.

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