Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/68

60 Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,

Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;

Our Strong-abodes and Castles see

The glory of their royalty.

How glad is Skipton at this hour—

Though she is but a lonely Tower!

Silent, deserted of her best,

Without an Inmate or a Guest,

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!