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Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.

Think not, O passenger! who read'st the lines
That an exceeding love hath dazzled mo;
No- he was one whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.


O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes; - I, weeping bitterly,
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led
May read them not without some bitter tears.

Six months to six years added he remained
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained:
O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed
A child whom every eye that looked on loved
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine!


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
One heart-relieving tear may claim;
But if the pensive gloom

Of fond regret be still thy choice,
Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice
Of Jesus from her tomb!

“I AM THE WAy, the truth, and_the_life."



By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft
And gentle nature, and a free
Yet modest hand of charity,
Through life was OWEN LLOYD endeared
To young and old; and how revered
Had been that pious spirit, a tide
Of humble mourners testified,
When, after pains dispensed to prove
The measure of God's chastening love,
Here, brought from far his corse found rest,
Fulfilment of his own request;
Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree;
Less for the love of stream and rock,
Dear as they were, than that his flock
When they no more their pastor's voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice
Through good and evil, help might have
Admonished, from his silent grave,
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.

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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.
Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your orphan quire
Will make a touching melody.


Mourn, shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
Thou angler, by the silent flood:
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted boy!

Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.

Thou drooping sick man, bless the guide
Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
As he before had sanctified

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.

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A power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-

That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return? -
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?




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;
Oh! could he on that woeful night
Have lent his wing, my brother dear,
For one poor moment's space to thee,
And all who struggled with the sea,
When safety was so near.

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
That meets me in this unknown flower,
Affecting type of him I mourn!
With calmness suffer and believe,

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,
Our home and his, his heart's delight,
His quiet heart's selected home.

But time before him melts away,
And he hath feeling of a day
Of blessedness to come,

Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
In sorrrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!

All vanished in single word,

A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard,
Sea-ship-drowned-shipwreck-so it came,
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
He who had been our living John
Was nothing but a name.

That was indeed a parting! oh,

Glad am I, glad that it is past;
For there were some on whom it cast
Unutterable woe.

But they as well as I have gains;

From many an humble source, to pains
Like these, there comes a mild release;
Even here I feel it, even this plant
Is in its beauty ministrant
To comfort and to peace.

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
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss;
But we will see it, joyful tide!
Some day, to see it in its pride,
The mountain will we cross.'


- 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,
Traveller or shepherd, let it say,
Long as these mighty rocks endure, —
Oh do not thou too fondly brood,
Although deserving of all good,
On any earthly hope, however pure!*

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.]

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