XIII.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

(ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.) 1824.

[ON Mrs. Fermor. This lady had been a widow long before I knew her. Her husband was of the family of the lady celebrated in the "Rape of the Lock," and was, I believe, a Roman Catholic. The sorrow which his death caused her was fearful in its character as described in this poem, but was subdued in course of time by the strength of her religious faith. I have been, for many weeks at a time, an inmate with her at Coleorton Hall, as were also Mrs. Wordsworth and my Sister. The truth in the sketch of her character here given was acknowledged with gratitude by her nearest relatives. She was eloquent in conversation, energetic upon public matters, open in respect to those, but slow to communicate her personal feelings; upon these she never touched in her intercourse with me, so that I could not regard myself as her confidential friend, and was accordingly surprised when I learnt she had left me a legacy of £100, as a token of her esteem. See, in further illustration the second stanza inscribed upon her Cenotaph in Coleorton church.]

O FOR a dirge! But why complain?
Ask rather a triumphal strain
When FERMOR's race is run;
A garland of immortal boughs

To twine around the Christian's brows,
Whose glorious work is done.

We pay a high and holy debt;
No tears of passionate regret
Shall stain this votive lay;

Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief

That flings itself on wild relief

When Saints have passed away.

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,
For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear!

Such once was hers-to think and think

On severed love, and only sink

From anguish to despair!

But nature to its inmost part

Faith had refined; and to her heart

A peaceful cradle given:

Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest

Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast
Till it exhales to Heaven.

Was ever Spirit that could bend
So graciously?-that could descend,
Another's need to suit,

So promptly from her lofty throne ?-
In works of love, in these alone,
How restless, how minute!

Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak
When aught had suffered wrong,—

When aught that breathes had felt a wound;
Such look the Oppressor might confound,
However proud and strong.

But hushed be every thought that springs
From out the bitterness of things;

Her quiet is secure;

No thorns can pierce her tender feet,
Whose life was, like the violet, sweet,
As climbing jasmine, pure-

As snowdrop on an infant's grave,
Or lily heaving with the wave
That feeds it and defends;

As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed

The mountain top, or breathed the mist
That from the vale ascends.

Thou takest not away, O Death!
Thou strikest-absence perisheth,
Indifference is no more;

The future brightens on our sight;
For on the past hath fallen a light
That tempts us to adore.

XIV.

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 rhyme
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
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—

Rebuke 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,

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.

Nov. 1830.