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Crime might lie better hid. And, should the change
Take from the horror due to a foul deed,
Pursuit and evidence so far must fail,
THOUGH to give timely warning and deter
To which her judgments reverently defer.
And being, to preclude or quell the strife
Of individual will, to elevate
The grovelling mind, the erring to recal,
And fortify the moral sense of all.
OUR bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine
So sacred, so informed with light divine,
Deed and intent, should turn the Being adrift
Aн, think how one compelled for life to abide
With every hope that mutual cares provide ;
Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride.
Leaving the final issue in His hands
Whose goodness knows no change, whose love is sure, Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge amiss,
And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss.
SEE the Condemned alone within his cell
Tears of salvation. Welcome death! while Heaven
While yet the solemn heed the State hath given
YES, though He well may tremble at the sound.
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
THE formal World relaxes her cold chain
The cause of grateful reason to sustain;
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats
TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.
FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.-1811.
[THIS poem, opened when first written, with a paragraph that has been transferred as an introduction to the first series of my Scotch Memorials. The journey, of which the first part is here described, was from Grasmere to Bootle on the south-west coast of Cumberland, the whole among mountain roads through a beautiful country; and we had fine weather. The verses end with our breakfast at the head of Yewdale in a yeoman's house, which, like all the other property in that sequestered vale, has passed or is passing into the hands of Mr. James Marshall of Monk Coniston,-in Mr. Knott's, the late owner's, time called Waterhead. Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, a lieutenant in the Navy they lived together for some time at Hacket, where she still resides as his widow. It was in front of that house, on the mountain side, near which stood the peasant who, while we were passing at a distance, saluted us, waving a kerchief in her hand as described in the poem. (This matron and her husband were then residing at the Hacket. The house and its inmates are referred to in the fifth book of the "Excursion," in the passage beginning
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark
The dog which we met with soon after our starting belonged to Mr. Rowlandson, who for forty years was curate of Grasmere in place of the rector who lived to extreme old age in a state of insanity. Of this Mr. R. much might be said both with reference to his character, and the way in which he was regarded by his parishioners. He was a man of a robust frame,