Hubert! though the blast be blown

He is helpless and alone:

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!

And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord.

Speak! astounded Hubert cannot ;

And, if power to speak he had,

All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs :
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned,

Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.

TO A CHILD

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM

SMALL service is true service while it lasts:

Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.

INSCRIPTIONS

INSCRIPTIONS

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,
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.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME

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 aid the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were shaped 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 ye have framed, at length, a darksome aisle ;
Like a recess within that sacred pile

Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,