In the parish of Castle-Sowerby, the ten principal estates were anciently called _Red Spears_, on account of the singular service by which the tenants held them, viz:--that of riding through the town of Penrith on Whit-Tuesday, brandishing their spears. Those who held by this tenure were of the order of Red Knights, mentioned in our law books; a name derived from the Saxon, who held their lands by serving the lord on horseback. _Delient equitare cum domino suo de manerio in manerium, vel cum domini uxore._ In times of peace, it is presumed they held the annual service above noted as a challenge to the enemies of their country, or those who might dispute the title of their lord, similar to the parade of the Champion of England at a coronation. The spears were about nine feet in length, and till within the last century, some of them remained in the proprietors' houses, where they were usually deposited; and were sureties to the sheriff for the peaceable behaviour of the rest of the inhabitants. The ancient owners of the Red Spears estates annually served as jurors at the forest court held near Hesket, on St. Barnabas Day, by which they were exempted from all parish offices. ERMENGARDE. It was the early summer time, When Maidens stint their praying To wander forth at morning's prime, With happy hearts, a maying; To wash their rosy cheeks with dew, And roam the meadows over: And ask the winds to tell them true Of some far distant lover. Then little Ermengarde, the while To graver thoughts awaking, Look'd sadly on St. Herbert's Isle As morn was brightly breaking. Some tapestry for his altar wrought Beside her bed was lying; Her beads, and little scroll for thought, No conscious look descrying. And now when might the gentle Saint Be at his service bending; His earnest life, without a taint Of earth still heavenwards tending-- His silver voice, oft heard in prayer, Or in direction pleading-- His manhood's bright angelic air-- Her thought too fond were feeding. In little Ermengarde her love With God the Saint divided. Unknown even to herself she wove The threads her passion guided. And when she trembled on her knees Confessing faith before him-- Ah! can this be but Man she sees, So heart and soul adore him! So little Ermengarde with pale And thoughtful cheek sat sighing, When rode an Elf-man down the vale Her open lattice eyeing. "Good morrow! May my Lady's thought, This happy May-day, blossom; And tenfold blessedness be wrought Within that gentle bosom!"