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XLVIII.
AT FURNESS ABBEY.

Well have yon Eailway Labourers to This

ground "Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they

walk Among the Ruins, but no idle talk Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound; And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire 6 And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was

raised, To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace: All seem to feel the spirit of the place, 11

And by the general reverence G-od is praised: Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, While thus these simple-hearted men are

moved?

June 21, 1845.

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN

SCOTLAND.

1803.

I.
DEPARTURE

FROM THE TALE OF GEASMEEE. ATJGTJST, 1803.

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains
Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;
Even for the tenants of the zone that lies
Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,
Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap 5
At will the crystal battlements, and peep
Into some other region, though less fair,
To see how things are made and managed there.
Change for the worse might please, incursion

bold Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 10

O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer,
And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.
Such animation often do I find,
Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind.
Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 15
Perchance without one look behind me cast,
Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.
O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; 20
Not like an outcast with himself at strife;
The slave of business, time, or care for life,
But moved by choice; or, if constrained in

part, Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;— To cull contentment upon wildest shores, 25 And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; "With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, And having rights in all that we behold. —Then why these lingering steps ?—A bright

adieu, For a brief absence, proves that love is true; 30 Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn That winds into itself for sweet return.

1811.

II.

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS.

1803.

SEVEN TEARS AFTEE HIS DEATH.

I Shiveb, Spirit fierce and bold,

At thought of what I now behold:

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold

Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould

Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Oft weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts !—they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay 15

The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay

From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth

He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, 20

Rose like a star that touching earth,

For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth

With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 25

The struggling heart, where be they now ?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,

The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low

And silent grave. 30

I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne 35

On' humble truth.

Alas! where'er the current tends,
Eegret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge CriffePs hoary top ascends

By Skiddaw seen,— 40

Neighbours we were, and loving friends

We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined, 45

Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined

More closely stil1.

The tear will start, and let it flow;

Thou "poor Inhabitant below," 50

At this dread moment—even so—

Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed 55
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!

But why go on ?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

His grave grass-grown. 60

There, too a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,

Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied 65

Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,

Harboured where none can be misled,

Wronged, or distrest; 70

And surely here it may be said

That such are blest.

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