SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil;
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream * Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear
Since thou dost bear it,-a memorial theme For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
The River Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.
A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL.
"MISERRIMUS!" and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone; Nought but that word assigned to the unknown, That solitary word-to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
Who chose his Epitaph ?-Himself alone Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; Nor doubt that He marked also for his own Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place, That every foot might fall with heavier tread, Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly! To save the contrite, Jesus bled.
DISCOVERED AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire :-The men that have been reappear; Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year,
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil :
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
Of tenderness the Wolf, whose suckling Twins The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil,
CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy rent
Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide As in a dear and chosen banishment,
every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried! Yet He whose heart in childhood gave To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favoured life, may honour both.
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