My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain. All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone I cannot fear to die.
Alas! ye might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer?
When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;
And oh how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer, My Friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, My Friends, when ye were gone away.
My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange working did I see ; -As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child.
My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my Friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send ; Too soon, my Friends, ye went away; For I had many things to say.
I'll follow you across the snow; Ye travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. ---My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood; The wolf has come to me to-night And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I,
Then wherefore should I fear to die?
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 Eamont'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:
Both Roses flourish, Red and White. In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended, And all old troubles now are ended.- Joy! joy to both! but most to her Who is the flower of Lancaster! Behold her how She smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array! 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,
Not long the Avenger was withstood- Earth helped him with the cry of blood : St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered 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 hourThough she is but a lonely Tower! To vacancy and silence left;
Of all her guardian sons bereft
Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom : We have them at the feast of Brougham. 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 Eamont'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 willed That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The Lady's words, when forced away The last she to her Babe did say,
'My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
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,
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