["YET is it one that other rivulets bear." There is the Shakspeare Avon, the Bristol Avon; the one that flows by Salisbury, and a small river in Wales, I believe, bear the name; Avon being in the ancient tongue the general name for river.]
AVON-a precious, an immortal name!
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear Like this contented, though unknown to Fame: For great and sacred is the modest claim
Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go, Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame. But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears, Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent blood Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears: Never for like distinction may the good
Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleased ears.
SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD
[THE extensive forest of Inglewood has been enclosed within my memory. I was well acquainted with it in its ancient state. The Hart's-horn tree mentioned in the next Sonnet was one of its remarkable objects, as well as another tree that grew upon an eminence not far from Penrith : it was single and conspicuous; and being of a round shape, though it was universally known to be a Sycamore, it was always called the "Round Thorn,” so difficult is it to chain fancy down to fact.]
THE forest huge of ancient Caledon Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood: On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison.
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck bestrown; The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, That he may watch by night, and lessons con Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.
HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.
HERE stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, Among its withering topmost branches mixed, The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, Whom the Dog Hercules pursued his part Each desperately sustaining, till at last
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat! High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; Say, rather, with that generous sympathy That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat; And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORN TREE*!
THE Lovers took within this ancient grove Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove, Not mute, where now the linnet only sings: Thus every where to truth Tradition clings, Or Fancy localises Powers we love. Were only History licensed to take note Of things gone by, her meagre monuments Would ill suffice for persons and events: There is an ampler page for man to quote, A readier book of manifold contents, Studied alike in palace and in cot.
[SUGGESTED by the recollection of Julian's Bower and other traditions connected with this ancient forest.]
On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription :
'This Pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 47. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!'
WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time May this bright flower of Charity display
Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime Lovelier-transplanted from heaven's purest clime! 'Charity never faileth:' on that creed, More than on written testament or deed,
The pious Lady built with hope sublime.
Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever! 'LAUS DEO.' Many a Stranger passing by Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour; And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed, Has ended, though no Clerk, with 'God be praised "'
(FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.)
How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull!
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, To have no seat for thought were better doom, Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they? Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp? The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay? Mere Fibula without a robe to clasp; Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recals; Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!
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