Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.
Think not, O passenger! who read'st the lines
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me;
No- he was one whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.
This Tablet, hallowed by her name
One heart-relieving tear may claim;
But if the pensive gloom
Of fond regret be still thy choice,
Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice
Of Jesus from her tomb!
"I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE
O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes; - I, weeping bitterly,
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led
May read them not without some bitter tears.
Six months to six years added he remained
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained:
O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed
A child whom every eye that looked on loved
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine!
By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft
And gentle nature, and a free
Yet modest hand of charity,
Through life was OWEN LLOYD endeared
To young and old; and how revered
Had been that pious spirit, a tide
Of humble mourners testified,
When, after pains dispensed to prove
The measure of God's chastening love,
Here, brought from far his corse found rest,-
Fulfilment of his own request; —
Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree;
Less for the love of stream and rock,
Dear as they were, than that his flock
When they no more their pastor's voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice
Through good and evil, help might have
Admonished, from his silent grave,
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.
In affectionate remembrance of Frances Fermor, whose remains are deposited in the church of Claines, near Worcester, this stone is erected by her sister, Dame Margaret, wife of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling not less than the love of a brother for the deceased, commends this memorial to the care of his heirs and successors in the possession of this place.
By vain affections unenthralled, Though resolute when duty called To meet the world's broad eye, Pure as the holiest cloistered nun That ever feared the tempting sun, Did Fermor live and die.
ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF
I COME, ye little noisy crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common friend and father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand: it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
Br night or day, blow foul or fair, Ne'er will the best of all your train Pay with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours; But he could se the woods and plains, Could hear the wind and mark the showers Cne streaming down the streaming panes. New stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.
Aas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your orphan quire
Will make a touching melody.
A power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-
That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH,
COMMANDER OF THE E. 1. COMPANY'S SHip, the earl of ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6TH, 1805.
Composed near the Mountain track, that leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards Patterdale.
THE sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo!
That instant, startled by the shock,
The buzzard mounted from the rock
Deliberate and slow:
Lord of the air he took his flight;
Oh! could he on that woeful night
Have lent his wing, my brother dear,
For one poor moment's space to thee,
And all who struggled with the sea,
When safety was so near.
Thus in the weakness of my heart
I spoke (but let that pang be still)
When rising from the rock at will,
I saw the bird depart.
And let me calmly bless the Power
That meets me in this unknown flower,
Affecting type of him I mourn!
With calmness suffer and believe,
And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
Not cheerless, though forlorn.
Here did we stop; and here looked round
While each into himself descends
For that last thought of parting friends
That is not to be found.
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight,
Our home and his, his heart's delight,
His quiet heart's selected home.
But time before him melts away,
And he hath feeling of a day
Of blessedness to come,
Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
In sorrrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!
All vanished in a single word,
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard,
Sea-ship-drowned-shipwreck—so it came
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
He who had been our living John
Was nothing but a name.
That was indeed a parting! oh,
Glad am I, glad that it is past;
For there were some on whom it cast
Unutterable woe.
But they as well as I have gains;
From many an humble source, to pains
Like these, there comes a mild release;
Even here I feel it, even this plant
Is in its beauty ministrant
To comfort and to peace.
He would have loved thy modest grace,
Meek flower! To him I would have said,
"It grows upon its native bed
Beside our parting-place;
There, cleaving to the ground, it les
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss;
But we will see it, joyful tide!
Some day, to see it in its pride,
The mountain will we cross."
Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental stone
Stand sacred as a shrine;
And to the few who pass this way,
Traveller or shepherd, let it say,
Long as these mighty rocks endure, -
Oh do not thou too fondly brood,
Although deserving of all good,
On any earthly hope, however pure!"
*The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (S acaulis, of Linnæus.) This most beautiful plant is s in England, though it is found in great abundance up mountains of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw it, in its native bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cash being at least eight inches in diameter, and the root portionably thick. I have only met with it in two pla among our mountains, in both of which I have since son for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution the against carrying off, inconsiderately, rare and bea plants. This has often been done, particularly from t borough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the spec have totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers nature living near the places where they grew. See among the Poems on the " Naming of plas No. vi., [and "THE PRELUDE," Book XIV., ad ja
Fra November 13, 1814, on a blank leaf in a copy of the Author's Poem "The Excursion," upon hearing of the Death of the late Vicar of Kendal.
ublic notice, with reluctance strong,
Od I deliver this unfinished Song;
Tet for one happy issue; and I look
With self-congratulation on the Book
Wach pious, learned MURFITT saw and read;
on my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed;
He conned the new-born Lay with grateful heart—
Foreboding not how soon he must depart;
Unweeting that to him the joy was given
Wach good Men take with them from Earth to
Heaven.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A
STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
Slike, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.
A! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou Hoary Pile!
And a world how different from this!
Beste a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
Lycan quiet, without toil or strife;
V motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Sh, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such Picture would I at that time have made
And seen the soul of truth in every part;
A faith, a trust, that could not be betrayed.
That neighbourhood of grove and field
To Him a resting-place should yield,
A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing and ocean make
A mournful murmur for his sake
And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wa Upon his senseless grave.*
"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme." Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Reta
ONCE I could hail (howe'er serene the sky)
The Moon re-entering her monthly round,
No faculty yet given me to espy
The dusky Shape within her arms imbound,
That thin memento of effulgence lost
Which some have named her Predecessor's Ghost.
Young, like the Crescent that above me shone,
Nought I perceived within it dull or dim;
All that appeared was suitable to One
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim;
To expectations spreading with wild growth,
And hope that kept with me her plighted troth.
I saw (ambition quickening at the view)
A silver boat launched on a boundless flood;
A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw
Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood;
But not a hint from under-ground, no sign
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine.
Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move
Before ine?-nothing blemished the fair sight;
On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love,
Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight,
And by that thinning magnifies the great,
For exaltation of her sovereign state.
And when I learned to mark the Spectral-shape
As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time,
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape;
Such happy privilege hath Life's gay Prime,
To see or not to see, as best may please
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease.
Now, dazzling Stranger! when thou meet'st my glanc
Thy dark Associate ever I discern;
Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance
While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern;
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that to gain
Their fill of promised lustre wait in vain.
|