Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/70

62 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed

For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?

God loves the Child; and God hath willed

That those dear words should be fulfilled,

The Lady's words, when forced away,

The last she to her Babe did say,

"My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest

I may not be; but rest thee, rest,

For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"

Alas! when evil men are strong

No life is good, no pleasure long.

The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,

And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,

And quit the Flowers that Summer brings

To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;

Must vanish, and his careless cheer

Be turned to heaviness and fear.

—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!

Hear it, good Man, old in days!

Thou Tree of covert and of rest

For this young Bird that is distrest;

Among thy branches safe he lay,

And he was free to sport and play,

When Falcons were abroad for prey.