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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 ofvflrough'm.

How glad Pendragon though the sleep

Of years be on her! — She shall reap

A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble Stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:—
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair House by Emont's side,
This day distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer;
Him, and his Lady Mother dear.

Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the Fatherless was born —
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her Infant die!

Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the Mother and the Child.
Who will take them from the light?
— Yonder is a Man in sight—
Yonder is a House—but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the Caves, and to the Brooks,
To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
Save a Mother and her Child!

Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.

Can this be He who hither came

In secret, like a smothered flame?

O'er whom such thankful tears were shed

For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?

God loves the Child; and God hath will'd

That those dear words should be fulfill'd,

The Lady's words, when forc'd away,

The last she to her Babe did say,

"My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest

I may not be; but rest thee, rest,

For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"

Alas! when evil men are strong

No life is good, no pleasure long.

The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,

And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,

And quit the Flowers 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.

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