My books command me to lay bare And in my glass significants there are Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. For this, approaching, One by One, So, for the favoured One, the Flower Once more: but, if unchangeable her doom, If life departed be for ever gone, Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, May teach him to bewail his loss; Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises And melts; but grief devout that shall endure, And a perpetual growth secure Of purposes which no false thought shall cross, A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." "So be it," said the King;-"anon, Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial; Knights each in order as ye stand Step forth."-To touch the pallid hand Sir Agravaine advanced; no sign he won From Heaven or earth ;-Sir Kaye had like denial. Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away; Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure; Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere He reached that ebon car, the bier Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel lay, Full thrice had crossed himself in meek composure. And high expectancy, no sign was granted. Next, disencumbered of his harp, Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother, Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued No change; the fair Izonda he had wooed With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, From hope too distant, not to dread another. Not so Sir Launcelot;-from Heaven's grace A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition; The royal Guinever looked passing glad When his touch failed.-Next came Sir Galahad; He paused, and stood entranced by that still face Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. For late, as near a murmuring stream He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady. Nina, the good Enchantress, shed A light around his mossy bed; And, at her call, a waking dream Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed, And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine, As o'er the insensate Body hung THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE Written at Rydal Mount. This dove was one of a pair that had been given to my daughter by our excellent friend, Miss Jewsbury, who went to India with her husband, Mr. Fletcher, where she died of cholera. The dove survived its mate many years, and was killed, to our great sorrow, by a neighbour's cat that got in at the window and dragged it partly out of the cage. These verses were composed extempore, to the letter, in the Terrace Summer-house before spoken of. It was the habit of the bird to begin cooing and murmuring whenever it heard me making All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch The tear whose source I could not guess, And venture on your praise. What though some busy foes to good, Too potent over nerve and blood, Lurk near you-and combine To taint the health which ye infuse; This hides not from the moral Muse Your origin divine. How oft from you, derided Powers ! The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift, Shall vanish, if ye please, Like morning mist: and, where it lay, Star-guided contemplations move Through space, though calm, not raised above Prognostics that ye rule; The naked Indian of the wild, But who can fathom your intents, A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, The laughter of the Christmas hearth With sighs of self-exhausted mirth Ye feelingly reprove; And daily, in the conscious breast, And exercise of love. ELEGIAC MUSINGS IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THE LATE SIR G. H BEAUMONT, BART. These verses were, in part composed on horseback during a storm, while I was on my way from Coleorton to Cambridge: they are alluded to elsewhere. In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a mural monument bearing an Inscription which, in deference to the earnest request of the deceased, is confined to name, dates, and these words:" Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O LORD!" WITH copious eulogy in prose or rhyme Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise And still we struggle when a good man dies: Such offering BEAUMONT dreaded and forbade, A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. Yet here at least-though few have numbered days That shunned so modestly the light of praise His graceful manners, and the temperate ray Of that arch fancy which would round him play, Brightening a converse never known to swerve From courtesy and delicate reserve; Those rare accomplishments, and varied powers, Might have their record among sylvan bowers. Oh, fled for ever! vanished like a blast That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed; Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky, From all its spirit-moving imagery, That could not lie concealed where Thou wert known; Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, "CHATSWORTH! THY STATELY MANSION, AND THE PRIDE" I have reason to remember the day that gave rise to this Sonnet, the 6th of November 1830. Having undertaken, a great feat for me, to ride my daughter's pony from Westmoreland to Cambridge, that she might have the use of it while on a visit to her uncle at Trinity Lodge, on my way from Bakewell to Matlock I turned aside to Chatsworth, and had scarcely gratified my curiosity by the sight of that celebrated place before there came on a severe storm of wind and rain which continued till.I reached Derby, both man and pony in a pitiable plight. For myself, I went to bed at noon-day. In the course of that journey I had to encounter a storm, worse if possible, in which the pony could (or would) only make his way slantwise. I mention this merely to add that notwithstanding this battering I composed, on horseback, the lines to the memory of Sir George Beaumont, suggested during my recent visit to Coleorton. CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy rent Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide |