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IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
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.
And when its potent branches, wide outthrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
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.
IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.
OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
To aid the work, what time these walks and
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
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
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Hence on my patrimonial grounds, have I
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;
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.
RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage.
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
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
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, on
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs