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IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR
GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
But by an industry that wrought in love ;
PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY
The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUOne wooed the silent Art with studious pains :
MONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains; Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS. By interchange of knowledge and delight.
Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn, May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree, Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return; And Love protect it from all injury !
And be not slow a stately growth to rear And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle ;Here may some Painter sit in future days,
That may recal to mind that awful Pile Some future Poet meditate his lays ;
Where Reynolds,'mid our country's noblest dead, Not mindless of that distant age renowned In the last sanctity of fame is laid. When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground, — There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.
FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.
Oft is the medal faithful to its trust
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
WRITTEN WITH A
PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE
ISLAND AT GRASMERE.
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB. Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,
Stay, bold Adventurer ; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and Empires die,
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence,-from blackness named, And things of holy use unhallowed lie;
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), ON THE That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent, Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
With books supplied and instruments of art, Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained To measure height and distance; lonely task, Proportions more harmonious, and approached Week after week pursued !—To him was given To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed But take it in good part:--alas! the poor
On timid man) of Nature's processes Vitruvius of our village had no help
Upon the exalted hills. He made report From the great City ; never, upon leaves
That once, while there he plied his studious work Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
Within that canvass Dwelling, colours, lines, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
And the whole surface of the out-spread map, Of Beauties yet unborn—the rustic Lodge
Became invisible: for all around Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimedNor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
As if the golden day itself had been
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the
QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.
STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief : 'tis nothing more He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake
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
A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy, Are monuments of his unfinished task.
Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, In earnest converse with beloved Friends, Was once selected as the corner-stone
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, Of that intended Pile, which would have been As from the beds and borders of a garden Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
spring And other little builders who dwell here,
Out of a farewell yearning-favoured more
With vain regrets—the Exile would consign Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
A HERMIT'S CELL.
Hopes what are they ?-Beads of morning There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
Strung on slender blades of grass ;
Or a spider's web adorning
INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND YEAR
The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread, This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, Draws lightning down upon the head
The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. It promised to defend.
Here stood his threshold ; here was spread the roof
That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, But Thou art true, incarnate Lord,
After long exercise in social cares Who didst vouchsafe for man to die;
And offices humane, intent to adore Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
The Deity, with undistracted mind, No change can falsify!
And meditate on everlasting things,
In utter solitude. But he had left I bent before thy gracious throne,
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved And asked for peace on suppliant knee;
As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER.
So prayed he:-as our chronicles report, If thou in the dear love of some one Friend Though here the Hermit numbered his last day Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, Will sometimes in the happiness of love
Those holy Men both died in the same hour.
1800. Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON