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!
No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt—as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls. Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis; each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy, In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift to be presented at the throne Of the Great King; and others, as they go In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power, The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door, Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which may itself be cherished and caressed More than enough; a fault so natural (Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay) For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear! The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, Had closed his door before the day was done, And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, And joins his little children in their sleep. The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth With burring note, which Industry and Sloth.
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
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