And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman's form, Lovely in perfect rest reclined, As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The folded hands, the calm pure face, Throned on the matron brow; There stands an eagle, at the feet There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue; She was a mother. -in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf, The record of her children's grief! She saw their birthright's warrior crown The standard of their sires borne down, The shield's bright blazon soil'd: She met the tempest meekly brave, She slumber'd; but it came - it came, Her land's redeeming hour, With the glad shout, and signal-flame, Fast through the realm a spirit moved 'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. Then was her name a note that rung And the crown'd eagle spread again His pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chainSo was the triumph won! But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone Still blends with victory's-She was gone! THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:-"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616.” See Notes to the "Pleasures of Memory." Hast thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd, Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, Rogers. MOTHER and child! whose blending tears Have sanctified the place, Where, to the love of many years Was given one last embrace; A spell to waken solemn thought, A still, small under-tone, That calls back days of childhood, fraught And smites, perchance, the hidden source, For who, that gazes on the stone But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, For oh! though painful be th' excess, And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, But didst thou meet the face no more, No other voice could pierce the maze No other smile to thee could bring Yet, while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, While on thy name, 'midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign; Can I, while yet these tokens wear Think of the love embodied there, A perish'd thing, the joy and flower Not so!-I will not bow me so, Life's farewell words to bear. Mother and child!—your tears are past— Surely your hearts have met at last! VOL. V. -20 |