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TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (am 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;
Long hast Thou serv'd a reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The toiling many and the resting few;

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 band 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 Heirloom in his cottage wilt thou be: —
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!


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 1

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 L

Behold her how She smiles to day

On this great throng, this bright array I

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.

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