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From earth, perhaps by Shakespeare's self

approved,

Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

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

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

strove

II

To aid the work, what time these walks and

bowers

15

Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.

III.

1811. (?)

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:

15

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
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.

20

1811.

V.

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,

10

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

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!

30

1800.

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!

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Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art, 15
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued!-To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious
work

20

Within that canvass Dwelling, colours, lines, And the whole surface of the out-spread map, Became invisible: for all around

Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimed

As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!

1813.

25

VII.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE,
THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DE-
SERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT
RYDAL.

STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the
Cairn

5

Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned

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