་ 110 VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, Yet round her couch indulgent fancy drew And now to thee she comes; still, still the same, To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came; Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.* WHOEVER thou art, approach, and with a sigh, Mark where the small remains of greatness lie.t *After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox, on Friday, October 10, 1806. + Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, Bossuet. Oraison funebre de Louis de Bourbon. &c. VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 111 Oh say, of him now rests there but a name, What though with war the madding nations rung, 'Peace,' when he spoke, dwelt ever on his tongue! * Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que cetui a qui on les rend.-Bossuet Oraison de Louis de Bourbon. † Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802. Amidst the frowns of power, the tricks of state, When in retreat he laid his thunder by, TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept THE HERMIT. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: Remote from man, with God he passed the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seemed heaven itself, 'till one suggestion rose; That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost : So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow: But if a stone the gentle scene divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, E To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it right; (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass; And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair; Then near approaching, father, hail! he cried, And hail, my son, the reverend sire replied; Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kind deceived the road; "Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart; Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day When near the road a stately palace rose: Still made his house the wandering strangers home: |