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.

V.

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 honours 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.

VI.

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 shail 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!

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
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Into a passionate lament?-O Soul!
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.

IX.

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!

1.

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,

V.

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.

11.

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!

III.

CENOTAPH.

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'

IV. EPITAPH

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

ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF

1798.

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.

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.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,

Give, when your thoughts are turned this

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.

VI.

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TEELE CASTLE,
IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAU-
MONT.

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.

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,

To 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 stedfast 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.

*See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces the Fountain, &c. &c., page 296.

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;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
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.
1805.

VII.

TO THE DAISY.

SWEET 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!

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought

The tender peace of rural thought:

In more than happy mood

To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers! He then would steal at leisure hours, And loved you glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude.

But hark the word!-the ship is gone ;-
Returns from her long course :-anon
Sets sail :-in season due,

Once more on English earth they stand:
But, when a third time from the land
They parted, sorrow was at hand
For Him and for his crew.

Ill-fated Vessel!-ghastly shock !
-At length delivered from the rock,
The deep she hath regained;

And through the stormy night they steer;
Labouring for life, in hope and fear,
To reach a safer shore-how near,
Yet not to be attained!

"Silence!" the brave Commander cried;
To that calm word a shriek replied,
It was the last death-shriek.
-A few (my soul oft sees that sight)
Survive upon the tall mast's height;
But one dear remnant of the night-
For Him in vain I seek.

Six weeks beneath the moving sea
He lay in slumber quietly;
Unforced by wind or wave

To quit the Ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied ;)

And there they found him at her side;
And bore him to the grave.

Vain service! yet not vainly done
For this, if other end were none,
That He, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet

For such a gentle Soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturbed retreat
Near what he loved, at last-

That neighbourhood of grove and field
To Him a resting-place should yield,
A meek man and a brave!

The birds shall sing and ocean make

A mournful murmur for his sake;

And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake Upon his senseless grave. 1805.

VIII.

ELEGIAC VERSES,

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.

1805.

I.

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.

II.

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.

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr Fox was hourly expected. LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up

With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale ;-this inland Depth

In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top

Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad-
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

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?
1806.

The rivers stained so oft with human gore,
Are conscious ;-may the like return no more!
May Discord-for a Seraph's care
Shall be attended with a bolder prayer-
May she, who once disturbed the seats of bliss
These mortal spheres above,

Be chained for ever to the black abyss!
And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and
love,

And merciful desires, thy sanctity approve!"
The Spirit ended his mysterious rite,
And the pure vision closed in darkness infinite.

XI. LINES

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY OF THE
AUTHOR'S POEM "THE EXCURSION,' UPON
HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE LATE VICAR
OF KENDAL.

To public notice, with reluctance strong,
Did I deliver this unfinished Song;
Yet for one happy issue;-and I look
With self-congratulation on the Book
Which pious, learned, MURFITT saw and
read :-

Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed;
He conned the new-born Lay with grateful
heart

Foreboding not how soon he must depart;
Unweeting that to him the joy was given

Which good men take with them from earth to heaven.

x.

XII.

INVOCATION TO THE EARTH.

FEBRUARY, 1816,

1.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

(ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.)

1824.

O FOR a dirge! But why complain?
Ask rather a triumphal strain
When FERMOR's race is run;
A garland of immortal boughs

To twine around the Christian's brows,
Whose glorious work is done.
We pay a high and holy debt;
No tears of passionate regret
Shall stain this votive lay;

Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief
That flings itself on wild relief
When Saints have passed away.

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,
For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear!

Such once was hers-to think and think
On severed love, and only sink
From anguish to despair!

But nature to its inmost part

Faith had refined; and to her heart

A peaceful cradle given:

Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest

Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast
Till it exhales to Heaven.

Was ever Spirit that could bend

So graciously?-that could descend,
Another's need to suit,

So promptly from her lofty throne ?