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Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move
Before me?-nothing blemished the fair sight;
On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love,
Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight,
And by that thinning magnifies the great,
For exaltation of her sovereign state.

And when I learned to mark the spectral Shape
As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time,
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape;
Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime,
To see or not to see, as best may please

A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease.

Now, dazzling Stranger! when thou meet'st my


Thy dark Associate ever I discern;

Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance

While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern;
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain.

So changes mortal Life with fleeting years;
A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring
The timely insight that can temper fears,
And from vicissitude remove its sting;

While Faith aspires to seats in that domain
Where joys are perfect-neither wax nor wane.





[AFTER thanking Lady Fleming in prose for the service she had done to her neighbourhood by erecting this Chapel, I have nothing to say beyond the expression of regret that the architect did not furnish an elevation better suited to the site in a narrow mountain-pass, and, what is of more consequence, better constructed in the interior for the purposes of worship. It has no chancel; the altar is unbecomingly confined; the pews are so narrow as to preclude the possibility of kneeling with comfort; there is no vestry; and what ought to have been first mentioned, the font, instead of standing at its proper place at the entrance, is thrust into the farther end of a pew. When these defects shall be pointed out to the munificent Patroness, they will, it is hoped, be corrected.]


BLEST is this Isle-our native Land;

Where battlement and moated gate

Are objects only for the hand.

Of hoary Time to decorate;

Where shady hamlet, town that breathes
Its busy smoke in social wreaths,
No rampart's stern defence require,
Nought but the heaven-directed spire,
And steeple tower (with pealing bells
Far-heard)-our only citadels.


O Lady! from a noble line

Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore
The spear, yet gave to works divine
A bounteous help in days of yore,


(As records mouldering in the Dell
Of Nightshade haply yet may tell ;)
Thee kindred aspirations moved

To build, within a vale beloved,
For Him upon whose high behests
All peace depends, all safety rests.


How fondly will the woods embrace
This daughter of thy pious care,
Lifting her front with modest grace
To make a fair recess more fair;
And to exalt the passing hour;
Or soothe it with a healing power
Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled,
Before this rugged soil was tilled,
Or human habitation rose
To interrupt the deep repose!


Well may the villagers rejoice!

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,

Will be a hindrance to the voice

That would unite in prayer and praise;

More duly shall wild wandering Youth
Receive the curb of sacred truth,

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear

The Promise, with uplifted ear;

And all shall welcome the new ray

Imparted to their sabbath-day.

* Bekangs Ghyll-or the dell of Nightshade-in which stands St. Mary's Abbey in Low Furness.

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Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced,
His fancy cheated—that can see
A shade upon the future cast,
Of time's pathetic sanctity;
Can hear the monitory clock

Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock
At evening, when the ground beneath
Is ruffled o'er with cells of death;
Where happy generations lie,
Here tutored for eternity.


Lives there a man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,

Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noon-tide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To him, their verdure from the fields;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the sun his setting shrouds.


A soul so pitiably forlorn,

If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,
May turn indifference to pride;
And still be not unblest-compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and christian hope;
Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
False fires, that others may be lost.


Alas! that such perverted zeal

Should spread on Britain's favoured ground!
That public order, private weal,

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound

From champions of the desperate law

Which from their own blind hearts they draw;

Who tempt their reason to deny

God, whom their passions dare defy,

And boast that they alone are free
Who reach this dire extremity!


But turn we from these 'bold bad' men;
The way, mild Lady! that hath led
Down to their 'dark opprobrious den,'
Is all too rough for Thee to tread.
Softly as morning vapours glide
Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side,
Should move the tenor of his song
Who means to charity no wrong;

Whose offering gladly would accord

With this day's work, in thought and word.


Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love,
And hope, and consolation, fall,

Through its meek influence, from above,
And penetrate the hearts of all;
All who, around the hallowed Fane,
Shall sojourn in this fair domain;
Grateful to Thee, while service pure,
And ancient ordinance, shall endure,
For opportunity bestowed

To kneel together, and adore their God!

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