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In his own castle, where his husband’s part
Was played out with a zeal that gladdens still,
Worthy his Howard blood, his Howard name.
And here have Science and sweet Poesy,
Born of the soul despoilers still of ill,
Hung out their purer ensigns, the old wound
Of sorrow healing with the pleasant thrill
Of native harmony, whose modern round
Poor Anderson essayed, nor without skill,
To trance the native heart with native thought,
And give it back the life it erst had found
In Cumbria’s homely pleasures, all unfraught
With the soft manners of an age refined.
But Blamire did this best; her woman’s mind,
Soul of her song, its burden’s tender type,
Blent with her native lyre the touch and tone
Of purer genius; and her numbers ripe
All up and down this Border country strewn,
Have pierced the deeps of Cumbria’s gentler heart,
Refining it to virtue; and her song,
Sung here in pleasant guise with her sweet friend,
The gentle Gilpin, who in all had part,
Will in these hills and valleys linger long,
And cheer the native Cumbrian to the end.
Nor has there failed the bard of loftier fame;
For Wordsworth here, of Eden eloquent,
Sang as the poet should, with the true swell
Of a true heart, wrapt in its own intent;
The castled cliff, the craggy hill and dell,
All loud with voice of streams of Cumbrian frame,
Still gave his muse content, and here he found
His spirit still inspired, where’er he went.