ELEGIAC MUSINGS.

For some rude beauty of its own,

Was rescued by the Bard:
So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,

As one of the departed.

261

This inscription is still preserved on a brass plate in a stone, within the grounds at Rydal Mount.-ED.

ELEGIAC MUSINGS.

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THE LATE
SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.

[These verses were in part composed on horseback during a storm, while I was on my way from Coleorton to Cambridge: they are alluded to elsewhere.]+

In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a mural monument bearing an Inscription which, in deference to the earnest request of the deceased, is confined to name, dates, and these words :-"Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord!"

WITH copious eulogy in prose or rhyme1

Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time,

Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise
And still we struggle when a good man dies;
Such offering BEAUMONT dreaded and forbade,
A spirit meek in self-abasement clad.

Yet here at least, though few have numbered days
That shunned so modestly the light of praise-
His graceful manners, and the temperate ray
Of that arch fancy which would round him play,
Brightening a converse never known to swerve

* Sir George Beaumont died on Feb. 7, 1827.-ED. + See the Fenwick note to the next poem.-ED.

1835.

From courtesy and delicate reserve;

That sense, the bland philosophy of life,

Which checked discussion ere it warmed to strife-
Those rare accomplishments, and varied powers,
Might have their record among sylvan bowers.
Oh, fled for ever! vanished like a blast

That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed;—
Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky,
From all its spirit-moving imagery,

Intensely studied with a painter's eye,
A poet's heart; and, for congenial view,
Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue
To common recognitions while the line
Flowed in a course of sympathy divine;-
Oh! severed, too abruptly, from delights
That all the seasons shared with equal rights;—
Rapt in the grace of undismantled age,
From soul-felt music, and the treasured page
Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed

Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head;

While Friends beheld thee give with eye, voice, mien,
More than theatric force to Shakspeare's scene ;-

If thou hast heard me-if thy Spirit know

Aught of these bowers and whence their pleasures flow;

If things in our remembrance held so dear,

And thoughts and projects fondly cherished here,
To thy exalted nature only seem

Time's vanities, light fragments of earth's dream

1

1837.

Those fine accomplishments

1835.

Sir George Beaumont used frequently to read Shakspeare aloud to his household and friends at Coleorton.-ED.

ELEGIAC MUSINGS.

Rebuke1 us not!-The mandate is obeyed

That said, "Let praise be mute where I am laid;"

The holier deprecation, given in trust

To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust;
Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief
From silent admiration wins relief.

Too long abashed thy Name is like a rose
That doth "within itself its sweetness close;"
A drooping daisy changed into a cup
In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up.
Within these groves, where still are flitting by
Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh,
Shall stand a votive Tablet,* haply free,
When towers and temples fall, to speak of Thee!
If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom
Recal not there the wisdom of the Tomb,

Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth

263

Will fringe the lettered stone; and herbs spring forth.

Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound,
Shall penetrate the heart without a wound;
While truth and love their purposes fulfil,

Commemorating genius, talent, skill,

That could not lie concealed where Thou wert known;

Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone,

The God upon whose mercy they are thrown.

* This votive Tablet may still be seen, with its "green ivy," "fringing the lettered stone." Compare the Sonnet To the Author's Portrait, p. 265.-ED.

[I have reason to remember the day that gave rise to this Sonnet, the 6th of November, 1830. Having undertaken, a great feat for me, to ride my daughter's pony from Westmoreland to Cambridge, that she might have the use of it while on a visit to her uncle at Trinity Lodge, on my way from Batewell to Matlock I turned aside to Chatsworth, and had scarcely gratified my curiosity by the sight of that celebrated place before there came on a severe storm of wind and rain which continued till I reached Derby, both man and pony in a pitiable plight. For myself, I went to bed at noon-day. In the course of that journey I had to encounter a storm worse if possible, in which the pony could (or would) only make his way slantwise. I mention this merely to add that notwithstanding this battering I composed, on horseback, the lines to the memory of Sir George Beaumont, suggested during my recent visit to Coleorton.]

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,
With every semblance of entire content;
So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried!

Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth
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.

TO THE

ATHOR'S PORTRAIT.

[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St John's College, Cambridge.]

[The last six lines of this Sonnet are not written for poetical effect, but as a matter of fact, which, in more than one instance, could not escape my notice in the servants of the house.]

TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.

Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place;
And, if Time spare the colours* for the grace
Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt,
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt
And states be torn up by the roots,† wilt seem
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream,
And think and feel as once the Poet felt.
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown
Unrecognised through many a household tear
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew
By morning shed around a flower half-blown;
Tears of delight, that testified how true

To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

1 1837.

Το

* The colour has already faded somewhat.--Ed.

+ Compare Elegiac Musings, p. 263.-ED.

1835.

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