wear

WEATHER.)

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST.

THE forest huge of ancient Caledon

AT HAMILTON PALACE.

AMID a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalize this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brother-
hood

(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large

Over the burning wilderness, and charge The wind with terror while they roar for food.

Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and

ear;

That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:

On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone;

Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be

none,

Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign

With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,

To kill for merry feast their venison.
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck be
strown;

FANCY AND TRADITION. THE Lovers took within this ancient grove Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs

The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would
rove,

Not mute, where now the linnet only sings:
Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localizes 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.

XXIV.

COUNTESS' PILLAR.

[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 4. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April forever, 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, forever! "LAUS DEO." Many a Stranger passing by

Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavor: And, fastening on those lines an eye tearglazed,

Has ended, though no Clerk, with "God be praised!"

XXV.

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. (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 recalls;
Urns without ashes, teariess lacrymals!

XXVI. APOLOGY

FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS.

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt-as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lay's

Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent-like those Shapes dis

tinct

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.

I.

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 awhile 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

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.

BERLAND.

Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams.

Look round;-of all the clouds not one is moving;

'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.

Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky, The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:

Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er

The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?

No; 'tis the earth voice of the mighty sea, Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

Thou Power supreme! who, arming to

rebuke

Where now the ships that drove before the blast,

Threatened by angry breakers as they passed;

And by a train of flying clouds bemocked; Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace, Saved by His care who bade the tempest

cease;

And some, too heedless of past danger, court
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port;
But near, or hanging sea and sky between,
Not one of all those wingèd powers is seen,
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard;
Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred
By some acknowledgment of thanks and
praise,

Soft in its temper as those vesper lays
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;
Till into one loved vision all things melt;
A sea-born service through the mountain felt
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver
sound

And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound;
Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.
Now when the star of eve comes forth to
shine

On British waters with that look benign?
Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,
May silent thanks at least to God be given
With a full heart; "our thoughts are heard

in heaven!" 1833.