On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learned that one poor moment can suffice To equalise the lofty and the low. We sail the sea of life-a Calm One finds, And One a Tempest-and, the voyage o'er, Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition ye would know, Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang Of noble parents: seventy years and three Lived I-then yielded to a slow disease.
TRUE is it that Ambrosio Salinero
With an untoward fate was long involved In odious litigation; and full long, Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults Of racking malady. And true it is That not the less a frank courageous heart And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain; And he was strong to follow in the steps Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, That might from him be hidden; not a track Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he Had traced its windings.-This Savona knows, Yet no sepulchral honors to her Son She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled Only by gold. And now a simple stone 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 me; 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.
DESTINED to war from very infancy Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took In Malta the white symbol of the Cross: Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. So lived I, and repined not at such fate: This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, That stripped of arms I to my end am brought On the soft down of my paternal home. Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt In thy appointed way, and bear in mind How fleeting and how frail is human life!
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 out-pourings 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.
Nor without heavy grief of heart did He On whom the duty fell (for at that time The father sojourned in a distant land) Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved! FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne, POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house; And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid, The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. Alas! the twentieth April of his life Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time, By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his country: to his kin He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts His friends had in their fondness entertained,* He suffered not to languish or decay. Now is there not good reason to break forth Into a passionate lament?-O Soul! Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world, Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, An everlasting spring! in memory Of that delightful fragrance which was once From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.
*In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original :e degli amici
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.
PAUSE, courteous Spirit!-Balbi supplicates That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. This to the dead by sacred right belongs; All else is nothing.-Did occasion suit To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime, And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, Enriched and beautified his studious mind: With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine near their loved Permessus.-Finally, Himself above each lower thought uplifting, His ears he closed to listen to the songs Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old; And his Permessus found on Lebanon. A blessed Man! who of protracted days Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; But truly did He live his life. Urbino, Take pride in him!-O Passenger, farewell!
By a blest Husband guided, Mary came From nearest kindred, Vernon her new name; She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. O dread reverse! if aught be so, which proves That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given, And troubles that were each a step to Heaven: Two Babes were laid in earth before she died; A third now slumbers at the Mother's side; Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford A trembling solace to her widowed Lord.
Reader! if to thy bosom cling the pain Of recent sorrow combated in vain;
Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart Time still intent on his insidious part, Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts asleep, Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep; Bear with Him--judge Him gently who makes known His bitter loss by this memorial Stone; And pray that in his faithful breast the grace Of resignation find a hallowed place.
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 her 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.'
IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND.
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.
ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF.
I COME, ye little noisy Crew, Not long your pastime to prevent; I heard the blessing which to you Our common Friend and Father sent. I kissed his cheek before he died; And when his breath was fled, I raised, while kneeling by his side, His hand :-it dropped like lead. Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all That can be done, will never fall Like his till they are dead. 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 see 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.
BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER.
LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; But benefits, his gift, we trace- Expressed in every eye we meet Round this dear Vale, his native place.
To stately Hall and Cottage rude Flowed from his life what still they hold, Light pleasures, every day, renewed ; And blessings half a century old.
Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, Thy faults, where not already gone From memory, prolong their stay For charity's sweet sake alone.
Such solace find we for our loss; And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave.*
* See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces the Fountain, &c. &c., pages 365, 366.
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH, COMMANDER OF THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE EARL OF ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6TH, 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; 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 sorrow, but for higher trust,
How miserably deep!
All vanished in a single word,
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard.
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