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Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
Think not, O passenger! who read'st the lines
O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,
Six months to six years added he remained
In affectionate remembrance of Frances Fermor, whose remains are deposited in the church of Claines, near Worcester, this stone is erected by her sister, Dame Margaret, wife of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling not less than the love of a brother for the deceased, commends this memorial to the care of his heirs and successors in the possession of this place.
By vain affections unenthralled, Though resolute when duty called To meet the world's broad eye, Pure as the holiest cloistered nun That ever feared the tempting sun, Did Fermor live and die.
This Tablet, hallowed by hor name
Of fond regret be still thy choice,
“I AM THE WAy, the truth, and_the_life."
IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND.
By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
By night or day, blow foul or fair, Ne'er will the best of all your train Play with the locks of his white hair, Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours; But he could se the woods and plains, Could hear the wind and mark the showers Come streaming down the streaming panes. Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.
Mourn, shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
Thou one blind sailor, rich in joy
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.
Thou drooping sick man, bless the guide
Thy infancy with heavenly truth.
Ye striplings light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore, Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, A sigh to him whom we deplore.
For us who here in funeral strain With one accord our voices raise, Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.
And when our hearts shall feel a sting From ill we meet or good we miss, May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.
A power is passing from the earth
That man, who is from God sent forth,
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH,
COMMANDER OF THE E. 1. COMPANY'S SHIP, THE EARL OF ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6ти, 1805.
Composed near the Mountain track, that leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards Patterdale.
THE sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock, The buzzard mounted from the rock Deliberate and slow:
Lord of the air he took his flight;
Thus in the weakness of my heart I spoke (but let that pang be still) When rising from the rock at will, I saw the bird depart.
And let me calmly bless the Power
And grieve, and know that I must grieve, Not cheerless, though forlorn.
Here did we stop; and here looked round While each into himself descends
For that last thought of parting friends That is not to be found.
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight,
But time before him melts away,
Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
All vanished in single word,
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard,
That was indeed a parting! oh,
Glad am I, glad that it is past;
But they as well as I have gains;
From many an humble source, to pains
He would have loved thy modest grace, Meek flower! To him I would have said, "It grows upon its native bed
Beside our parting-place;
There, cleaving to the ground, it lies
- Brother and friend, if verse of mine Have power to make thy virtues known, Here let a monumental stone Stand sacred as a shrine;
And to the few who pass this way,
The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnæus.) This most beautiful plant is scarce in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its native bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches in diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since sought for it in vain.
Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against carrying off, inconsiderately, rare and beautiful plants. This has often been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they grew.
See among the Poems on the "Naming of places," No. vi., [and "THE PRELUDE," Book XIV., ad. fin. — H. R.]