That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And naught untunes that Infant's voice; no trace Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek
That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood! whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched, unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was gray When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream*
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear
Since thou dost bear it, a memorial theme For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
GRAVESTONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL.
"MISERRIMUS!" and neither name nor date, Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;
*The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.
Naught but that word assigned to the unknown,
That solitary word, to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Most wretched one, Himself alone
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; Nor doubt that He marked also for his own Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place, That every foot might fall with heavier tread, Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly! To save the contrite, Jesus bled.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire: The men that have been reappear; Romans for travel girt, for business gowned; And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year, Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil:
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
the Wolf, whose suckling Twins
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.
CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy rent Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide As in a dear and chosen banishment,
With every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried!
Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, That not for Fancy only pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favored life, may honor both.
A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE,
'TIS said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face to face, Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place
A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil
Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they In opposite directions urged their way
Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial; the trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide plain; Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all, Eternity.
(On the Way-side between Preston and Liverpool.)
UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it, his last work on earth: Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath
In annual renovation thus it stands,
Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,
And redbreasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.
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