Inscribed with this memorial here is raised Think not, O passenger! who read'st the lines This Tablet, hallowed by hor name Of fond regret be still thy choice, "I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, and the LIFE." 9. O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood, May read them not without some bitter tears. Six months to six years added he remained EPITAPH 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 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, 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, All vanished in a single word, A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard, 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 But they as well as I have gains; He would have loved thy modest grace, There, cleaving to the ground, it lies - 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 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 dusky Shape within her arms imbound, Young, like the Crescent that above me shone, I saw (ambition quickening at the view) And when I learned to mark the Spectral-shape Now, dazzling Stranger! when thou meet'st my glance Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern; *See page 134. |