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.'

IV

EPITAPH

1824

IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND

Y playful smiles, (alas! too oft

BY

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
Το 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.

V

1841

ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE

I

VILLAGE SCHOOL OF

1798

COME, ye little noisy Crew,

Not long your pastime to prevent;

Theard the blessing which to you

ΤΟ

20

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
He rests a prisoner of the ground.

ΤΟ

mound

20

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.

30

DIRGE

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.

40

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.1

1798

VI

50

60

70

ELEGIAC STANZAS

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM,
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT

I

WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:

I saw thee every day; and all the while

Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

1 See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, the 'Matthew' poems, vol. II., pp. 337 foll.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there ;
It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.

Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
Το express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile
Amid a world how different from this!
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven ;-

Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine

The

very sweetest had to thee been given.

A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,

Such Picture would I at that time have made:
And seen the soul of truth in every part,
A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.

So once it would have been,-'tis so no more;

I have submitted to a new control:

A

power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;

10

20

30

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

40

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the

Friend,

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,

This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

O'tis a passionate Work!-yet wise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne !
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.-
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

50

60

1805

S

VII

TO THE DAISY

WEET Flower! belike one day to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,

I welcome thee once more:

But He, who was on land, at sea,
My Brother, too, in loving thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.

Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
When to that Ship he bent his way,
To govern and to guide:

His wish was gained: a little time

Would bring him back in manhood's prime

And free for life, these hills to climb,

With all his wants supplied.

And full of hope day followed day

While that stout Ship at anchor lay

Beside the shores of Wight;

The May had then made all things green;

And, floating there, in pomp serene,

That Ship was goodly to be seen,
His pride and his delight!

ΤΟ

20