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, 110 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 chearful company, That learn'd of him submissive ways; 120 And comforted his private days. To his side the Fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The Eagle, Lord of land and sea, Stoop'd down to pay him fealty; And both the undying Fish that swim Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him, The pair were Servants of his eye In their immortality, They moved about in open sight, 130 To and fro, for his delight. He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt On the Mountains visitant; He hath kenn'd them taking wing: And the Caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told By Voices how Men liv'd of old. Among the Heavens his eye can see Face of thing that is to be; And, if Men report him right, 140 He can whisper words of might. --Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom: He hath thrown aside his Crook, And hath buried deep his Book; Armour rusting in his Halls On the blood of Clifford calls;-- "Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance, "Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield-- 150 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd, in his power, Mail'd and hors'd, with lance and sword, To his Ancestors restored, Like a reappearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the Flock of War!" 160 Alas! the fervent Harper did not know That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed, Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, Was softened into feeling, sooth'd, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie, His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage Virtue of the Race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: 170 Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred. Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth; The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more: And, ages after he was laid in earth, "The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.