IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the cedar thrive that near them stands, Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. One wooed the silent Art with studious pains,- These groves have heard the other's pensive strains; Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight. May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the tree, And love protect it from all injury!
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, Darken the brow of this memorial stone, And to a favourite resting-place invite, For coolness grateful and a sober light; Here may some painter sit in future days, Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned When inspiration hovered o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield In civil conflict met on Bosworth Field; And of that famous youth, full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.
OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers are laid in dust; And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great: Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, And all its stately trees are passed away, This little niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive.-And be it known That it was scooped within the living stone,- Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains Of labourer plodding for his daily gains, But by an industry that wrought in love,
With help from female hands, that proudly strove To shape the work, what time these walks and bowers Were framed, to cheer dark Winter's lonely hours.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE IN THE SAME GROUNDS
YE lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed urn, Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return; And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they at length have framed a darksome aisle ;- Like a recess within that awful pile
Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead, In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
-There, though by right the excelling painter sleep Where death and glory a joint sabbath keep, Yet not the less his spirit would hold dear Self-hidden praise, and friendship's private tear: Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I Raised this frail tribute to his memory, From youth a zealous follower of the Art That he professed, attached to him in heart; Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.
FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.
BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Stand yet, but, stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU; Erst a religious house, that day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the spot gave birth To honourable men of various worth:
There, on the margin of the streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and empires die,- And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish:-but the intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a pile that ne'er decays.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMEKE.
RUDE is this edifice, and thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet as it is Do take it in good part:-alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village, had no help From the great city; never, on the leaves Of red morocco folio, saw displayed The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of beauties yet unborn, the rustic box, Snug cot, with coach-house, shed, and hermitage. Thou seest a homely pile, yet to these walls' The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts
Among the mountains) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks towards the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
Fair sights-and visions of romantic joy!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB, CUMBERLAND.
STAY, bold adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge eminence, from blackness named, And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That, on the summit whither thou art bound, A geographic labourer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task, Week after week pursued!-To him was given Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed On timid man) of Nature's processes Upon the exalted hills. He made report That once, while there he plied his studious work Within that canvass dwelling, suddenly
The many-coloured map before his eyes Became invisible: for all around
Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimed- As if the golden day itself had been Extinguished in a moment; total gloom, In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes, Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, UPON A STONE THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE of THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen stones
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the cairn Of some old British chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little dome
Or pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle knight Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised, Entire forgiveness! But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,-if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,-think again, and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HER- BERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER.
THIS island, guarded from profane approach By mountains high and waters widely spread, Is that recess to which St. Herbert came In life's decline: a self-secluded man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things.
-Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth (Long be its mossy covering undisturbed!) Is reverenced as a vestige of the abode
In which, through many seasons, from the world Removed, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude.-But he had left
A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved As his own soul. And when within his cave Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle, and thought Of his companion, he would pray that both, (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:-as our chronicles report, Though here the hermit numbered his last day, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour.
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