INSCRIPTIONS
IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE

          THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
          Will not unwillingly their place resign;
          If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
          Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
          One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:
          These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
          Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
          By interchange of knowledge and delight.
          May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
          And Love protect it from all injury!                        10
          And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
          Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
          Here may some Painter sit in future days,
          Some future Poet meditate his lays;
          Not mindless of that distant age renowned
          When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
          The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
          In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
          And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
          From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,          20
          Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.
                                                              1808.

INSCRIPTIONS
IN A GARDEN OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.

          OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
          When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
          And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
          That things obscure and small outlive the great:
          Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim
          Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
          And all its stately trees, are passed away,
          This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
          Perchance may still survive. And be it known
          That it was scooped within the living stone,--              10
          Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
          Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
          But by an industry that wrought in love;
          With help from female hands, that proudly strove
          To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers
          Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.
                                                              1811.

INSCRIPTIONS
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS

          YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
          Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
          And be not slow a stately growth to rear
          Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
          Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;--
          That may recall to mind that awful Pile
          Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,
          In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
          --There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
          Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,                 10
          Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
          Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear:
          Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
          Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
          From youth a zealous follower of the Art
          That he professed; attached to him in heart;
          Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
          Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.
                                                              1808.

INSCRIPTIONS
FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.

          BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
          Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground
          Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,
          The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;
          Erst a religious House, which day and night
          With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
          And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
          To honourable Men of various worth:
          There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
          Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;                 10
          There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,
          Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
          Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
          Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
          Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,
          With which his genius shook the buskined stage.
          Communities are lost, and Empires die,
          And things of holy use unhallowed lie;
          They perish;--but the Intellect can raise,
          From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.            20
                                                              1811.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL
FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND

          SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
          Night has brought the welcome hour,
          When the weary fingers feel
          Help, as if from faery power;
          Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
          Turn the swift wheel round and round!

          Now, beneath the starry sky,
          Couch the widely-scattered sheep;--
          Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
          For the spindle, while they sleep,                          10
          Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
          Gathering up a trustier line.

          Short-lived likings may be bred
          By a glance from fickle eyes;
          But true love is like the thread
          Which the kindly wool supplies,
          When the flocks are all at rest
          Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
                                                              1812.

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE

          WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
          These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
          Angels of love, look down upon the place;
          Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
          Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
          Even for such promise:--serious is her face,
          Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
          With gentleness, in that becoming way
          Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
          No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
          But, when the closer view of wedded life
          Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
          From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
          To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
                                                              1812.

WATER-FOWL
OBSERVED FREQUENTLY OVER THE LAKES OF RYDAL AND GRASMERE

          MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood,
          With grace of motion that might scarcely seem
          Inferior to angelical, prolong
          Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
          (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars
          High as the level of the mountain-tops)
          A circuit ampler than the lake beneath--
          Their own domain; but ever, while intent
          On tracing and retracing that large round,
          Their jubilant activity evolves                             10
          Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
          Upward and downward, progress intricate
          Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
          Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done--
          Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;
          But lo! the vanished company again
          Ascending; they approach--I hear their wings,
          Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,
          Past in a moment--and as faint again!
          They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;              20
          They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,
          To show them a fair image; 'tis themselves,
          Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,
          Painted more soft and fair as they descend
          Almost to touch;--then up again aloft,
          Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
          As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!
                                                              1812.

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB

          THIS Height a ministering Angel might select:
          For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name
          Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
          Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
          That British ground commands:--low dusky tracts,
          Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
          To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
          And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
          The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
          To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde:--           10
          Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
          Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
          Right at the imperial station's western base
          Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
          Far into silent regions blue and pale;--
          And visibly engirding Mona's Isle
          That, as we left the plain, before our sight
          Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly
          (Above the convex of the watery globe)
          Into clear view the cultured fields that streak             20
          Her habitable shores, but now appears
          A dwindled object, and submits to lie
          At the spectator's feet.--Yon azure ridge,
          Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
          Do we behold the line of Erin's coast?
          Land sometimes by the roving shepherdswain
          (Like the bright confines of another world)
          Not doubtfully perceived.--Look homeward now!
          In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene
          The spectacle, how pure!--Of Nature's works,                30
          In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,
          A revelation infinite it seems;
          Display august of man's inheritance,
          Of Britain's calm felicity and power!
                                                              1813.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB

          STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
          On this commodious Seat! for much remains
          Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
          Of this huge Eminence,--from blackness named,
          And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
          A favourite spot of tournament and war!
          But thee may no such boisterous visitants
          Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
          And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
          Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,                     10
          From centre to circumference, unveiled!
          Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
          That on the summit whither thou art bound,
          A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
          With books supplied and instruments of art,
          To measure height and distance; lonely task,
          Week after week pursued!--To him was given
          Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
          On timid man) of Nature's processes
          Upon the exalted hills. He made report                      20
          That once, while there he plied his studious work
          Within that canvas Dwelling, colours, lines,
          And the whole surface of the out-spread map,
          Became invisible: for all around
          Had darkness fallen--unthreatened, unproclaimed--
          As if the golden day itself had been
          Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
          In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
          Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
                                                              1813.

NOVEMBER 1813

          Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
          Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow
          Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
          Insensible. He sits deprived of sight,
          And lamentably wrapt in twofold night,
          Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
          Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
          Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
          Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
          To his forlorn condition! let thy grace                     10
          Upon his inner soul in mercy shine;
          Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace
          (Though it were only for a moment's space)
          The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!