INSCRIPTIONS.

I.

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.

1808.

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: 5 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

15

In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed

From earth, perhaps by Shakespeare's self Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

approved,

20

II.

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

6

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

I I

strove

To aid the work, what time these walks and

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 have learned to frame a darksome

aisle ;

5

That may recall to mind 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

11

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

15

Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

1811.

IV.

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, which day and night 5
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 a streamlet wild,

Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; 10 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, 15
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.

V.

20

1811.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.

5

RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
But take it in good part:-alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great City; never, upon leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn-the rustic Lodge
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced,
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined her-

mitage.

10

Thou seest a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 15

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,

20

(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 25 Of his own Household: nor, while from his

bed

He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake

And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep-
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!

1800.

30

VI.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON
THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.

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, 5
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!

IO