With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An _Heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:-- 30
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!






_SONG_, 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;