Where battlement and moated gate
Are objects only for the hand
Of hoary Time to decorate;
Where shady hamlet, town that breathes Its busy smoke in social wreaths, No rampart's stern defence require, Nought but the heaven-directed spire, And steeple tower (with pealing bells Far-heard) our only citadels.
O Lady! from a noble line
Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore The spear, yet gave to works divine A bounteous help in days of yore, (As records mouldering in the Dell Of Nightshade' haply yet may tell)
1 Bekangs Ghyll-or the Dell of Nightshade-in which stands
St. Mary's Abbey in Low Furness.
Thee kindred aspirations moved To build, within a vale beloved, For Him upon whose high behests All peace depends, all safety rests.
How fondly will the woods embrace This daughter of thy pious care, Lifting her front with modest grace To make a fair recess more fair; And to exalt the passing hour ; Or soothe it with a healing power Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, Before this rugged soil was tilled, Or human habitation rose To interrupt the deep repose!
Well may the villagers rejoice! Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, Will be a hindrance to the voice
That would unite in prayer and praise ; More duly shall wild wandering Youth Receive the curb of sacred truth,
Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear The Promise, with uplifted ear;
And all shall welcome the new ray
Imparted to their sabbath-day.
Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced,
His fancy cheated—that can see
A shade upon the future cast,
Of time's pathetic sanctity;
Can hear the monitory clock Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock At evening, when the ground beneath Is ruffled o'er with cells of death; Where happy generations lie, Here tutored for eternity.
Lives there a man whose sole delights Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noon-tide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To him, their verdure from the fields; And take the radiance from the clouds In which the sun his setting shrouds.
A soul so pitiably forlorn,
If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest-compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
Alas! that such perverted zeal
Should spread on Britain's favoured ground!
That public order, private weal,
Should e'er have felt or feared a wound
From champions of the desperate law
Which from their own blind hearts they draw; Who tempt their reason to deny
God, whom their passions dare defy,
And boast that they alone are free Who reach this dire extremity!
But turn we from these "bold bad The way, mild Lady! that hath led Down to their "dark opprobrious den," Is all too rough for Thee to tread. Softly as morning vapours glide
Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, Should move the tenor of his song
Who means to charity no wrong;
Whose offering gladly would accord
With this day's work, in thought and word.
Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love, And hope, and consolation, fall,
Through its meek influence, from above, And penetrate the hearts of all; All who, around the hollowed Fane, Shall sojourn in this fair domain; Grateful to Thee, while service pure, And ancient ordinance, shall endure, For opportunity bestowed
To kneel together, and adore their God!
O DEARER far than light and life are dear, Full oft our human foresight I deplore ;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; While all the future, for thy purer soul, With "sober certainties" of love is blest.
That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, Tells that these words thy humbleness offend; Yet bear me up else faltering in the rear Of a steep march: support me to the end.
Peace settles where the intellect is meek,
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the Creed.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S
OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, Fragments of far-off melodies,
With ear not coveting the whole,
A part so charmed the pensive soul. While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height Loose vapours have I watched, that won Prismatic colours from the sun;
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