"

'I've heard the moss is spotted red

With drops of that poor infant's blood : But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!

Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
The baby looks at you again.

'And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
It might not be the hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass-it shook upon the ground!
Yet all do still aver

The little babe is buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

And pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor
head:
[green;
Half-wasted the square mound of tawny
So that you just might say, as then I said.
Here in old time the hand of man hath
been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not
here,
And nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,

Came up the hollow:-him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired.

The shepherd stopped, and that same story told [hearsed. Which in my former rhyme I have reA jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now; the spot is

cursed.

Lulled by this fountain in the summer-tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side.

In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing; [born And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

"Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said,

FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS.*

HIGH in the breathless hall the minstrel sate, [song.And Emont's murmur mingled with the The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long :

Henry Lord Clifford, etc., etc., who is the subject of this poem, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is known to the reader of English history, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of

revenge" (say the authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmoreland) : "for the earl's father had slain his." A deed which worthily blemished the author (says Speed); but who, as he adds, "dare promise anything temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing; for so one maketh this lord to speak." This, no doubt, 1 would observe by the by, was an action suffi ciently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as represented; "for

the earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was born), that he was the next child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that king was then eighteen years of age; and for the small distance betwixt her children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622, where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord Clifford, age, had been a leading man and commander, who was then himself only twenty-n e years of two or three years together in the army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would

"From town to town, from tower to
The red rose is a gladsome flower. [tower,
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.

be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy from his youth.-But independent of this act, at the best a cruel and savage one, the family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York; so that after the battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his father-inlaw (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the court; and rather delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles." Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and its neighbourhoop, his principal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd-life he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal edifices, spoken of in the poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an ornament to that Interesting country. The Cliffords had always been distinguished for an honourable pride in these castles; and we have seen that after

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 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
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!

the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in the civil wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, etc., etc. Not more than twenty-five years after this was done, when the estates of Clifford had passed into the Family of Tufton, three of these castles, namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that when this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th Chapter, 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. "And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the es tates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all depredations.

This line is from the Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont (brother to the dramatist), whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony.