Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, Our Strong-abodes and Castles see The glory of their royalty. How glad is Skipton at this hour— Without an Inmate or a Guest, Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; Of years be on her!-She shall reap Oh! it was a time forlorn When the Fatherless was born Give her wings that she may fly, Swords that are with slaughter wild She is speechless, but her eyes Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child! Now Who is he that bounds with joy In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed God loves the Child; and God hath willed The last she to her Babe did say, My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, Alas! when evil men are strong 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. Hear it, good Man, old in days! Thou Tree of covert and of rest For this young Bird that is distrest; 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 That learned of him submissive ways; And comforted his private days. To his side the Fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The pair were Servants of his In their immortality; eye They moved about in open sight, To and fro, for his delight. He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt On the Mountains visitant; He hath kenn'd them taking wing: And the Caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told On the blood of Clifford calls ;- Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield— Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; |