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 hor 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!
IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND.
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.
By night or day, blow foul or fair, Ne'er will the best of all your train Play 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 Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now 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.
Alas! 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.
BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER.
LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat; But benefits, his gift, we trace
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear vale, his native place.
To stately hall and cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold, Light pleasures every day renewed; And blessings half a century old.
Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone From memory, prolong their stay For charity's sweet sake alone.
Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave.*
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 lies
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 (Silene acaulis, of Linnæus.) This most beautiful plant is scarce in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its native bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches in diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since sought for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against carrying off, inconsiderately, rare and beautiful plants. This has often been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they grew.
See among the Poems on the "Naming of places," No. vi., [and "THE PRELUDE," Book XIV., ad. fin. — H. R.]
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 wake 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 Reliques
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 me?-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 glance
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.
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