TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground. Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee through the yielding soil with pride. Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; 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; 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, 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, And all old sorrows now are ended.- Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! 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. |