noble mansion on his patrimony which lord Clifford would reach on his return from exile. It was, in fact, the most magnificent of the four structures, as its remains yet testify; and in the great hall, which occupied one of the stories of the massive Norman tower, did the friends and retainers of lord Clifford assemble to celebrate his restoration. Here also, there can be little doubt, as she survived the happy event six years*, came his mother, lady Clifford, and with her, in all probability, the venerable partner of her days, sir Lancelot Threlkeld. The scene of festivity which we may suppose to have taken place on this occasion has furnished to one of the most original poets of the present day a pleasing opportunity for the exercise of his talents; and as the song of exultation which, for this purpose, he has put into the mouth of the family minstrel, is beautifully illustrative of the character and
She died at Londsborough, where, on a plain brass near the altar of the church, may be read the following inscription in black letter, the oldest memorial of the family, says Whitaker, now remaining:
"Orate pro anima Margarete D'ne Clyfford, et Vescy, olim sponse nobilissimi viri Joh's D'ni Clifford et Westmorland, filie et heredis Henrici Bromflet quondam D'ni Vescy, ac matris Henrici Domini Clyfford, Westmorland, et Vescy, quæ obiit xv die mens' Aprilis, Anno Domini MCCCCICI. cujus corpus sub hoc marmore est humatum."
disposition of lord Clifford, and of some of the incidents which befel him during his sojourn in the wilds of Cumberland, I shall not, I am convinced, be accused of irrelevancy in transferring it hither.
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:
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 crown'd the right.
Loud voice the Land hath 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 hour-
Though 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 Brough'm. How glad Pendragon-though the sleep
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 slaugh'er 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 smother'd 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
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 turn'd 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 solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
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