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.

Br 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 rest,-
Fulfilment of his own request;

Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree,
Less for the love of stream and rock,
Dear as they were, than that his Flock,
When they no more their Pastor's voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice

Through good and evil, help might have,
Admonished, from his silent grave,
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.

V.

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 Choir,

Will make a touching melody.

DIRGE.

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old gray 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 way,
A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.

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.

O 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 PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

I was thy neighbor 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.

*See, upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, the Fountain, &c., in the fourth volume of the Author's Poems.