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. -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 simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 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;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing: And into caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told By Voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see The face of thing that is to be; And, if that men report him right, His tongue could 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 flock of war!"
Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was
How he, long forced 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.
In him the savage virtue of the Race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : ́ Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth; The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom, bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw, And music from that pipe could draw Like sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods.
Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height.
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore
A military casque he wore,
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung: But no! he spake the English tongue, And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak : -While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness
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