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110 VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

That in her veins a secret horror slept,

That her light footsteps should be heard no more,
That she should die-nor watched alas, nor wept
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.

Yet round her couch indulgent fancy drew
The kindred forms her closing eye required.
There didst thou stand-there, with the smile she knew,
She moved her lips to bless thee and expired.

And now to thee she comes; still, still the same,
As in the hours gone unregarded by !

To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came;
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!

Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,
By the way-side she shed her parting tears-
For ever lovely in the light of youth!

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
There sleeps the dust of him forever gone;
How near the scene where once his glory shone!
And, though no more ascends the voice of prayer.
Though the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still like an awful dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see, while through the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite;
The moving pomp along the shadowy isle,
That, like a darkness, filled the solemn pile
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those that loved him living, mourned him dead,
Of those, the few, that for their country stood
Round him who dared be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but himself alone!*

Oh say, of him now rests there but a name,
Wont, as he was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the absent! guardian of the dead!†
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
Such as he shed on NELSON's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy he gave!
In him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong;
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ?

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,
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapours gathered round;
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The clouds that rise to quench the orb of day,
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

When in retreat he laid his thunder by,
For lettered ease and calm philosophy,
Blest were his hours within the silent grove,
Where still his god-like spirit deigns to rove;
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer,
For many a deed, long done in secret there.
There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page.
There listening, sate the hero and the sage ;
And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most he loved, and in whose arms he died.
Friend of all human-kind! not here alone
The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown,
Wilt thou be missed-o'er every land and sea.
Long, long shall England be revered in thee!
And, when the storm is hushed-in distant years-
Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingled with her thou lovest in fields of light,
And, where the flowers of paradise unfold,
Quaff fragant nectar from their cups of gold.

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy!

-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept!
And such is man, soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

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,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder ran.

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
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey;
Nature in silence bid the world repose:

When near the road a stately palace rose:
There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass.
It chanced the noble master of the dome,

Still made his house the wandering strangers home:
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.

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