_Haworth Churchyard._

APRIL, 1855.

Where, under Loughrigg, the stream Of Rotha sparkles through fields Vested forever with green, Four years since, in the house Of a gentle spirit now dead, Wordsworth’s son-in-law, friend,-- I saw the meeting of two Gifted women. The one, Brilliant with recent renown, Young, unpractised, had told With a master’s accent her feigned Story of passionate life; The other, maturer in fame, Earning, she too, her praise First in fiction, had since Widened her sweep, and surveyed History, politics, mind.

The two held converse; they wrote In a book which of world-famous souls Kept the memorial: bard, Warrior, statesman, had signed Their names: chief glory of all, Scott had bestowed there his last Breathings of song, with a pen Tottering, a death-stricken hand.

Hope at that meeting smiled fair. Years in number, it seemed, Lay before both, and a fame Heightened, and multiplied power.-- Behold! The elder, to-day, Lies expecting from death, In mortal weakness, a last Summons! the younger is dead!

First to the living we pay Mournful homage: the Muse Gains not an earth-deafened ear.

Hail to the steadfast soul, Which, unflinching and keen, Wrought to erase from its depth Mist and illusion and fear! Hail to the spirit which dared Trust its own thoughts, before yet Echoed her back by the crowd! Hail to the courage which gave Voice to its creed, ere the creed Won consecration from time!

Turn we next to the dead.-- How shall we honor the young, The ardent, the gifted? how mourn? Console we cannot, her ear Is deaf. Far northward from here, In a churchyard high ’mid the moors Of Yorkshire, a little earth Stops it forever to praise.

Where behind Keighley the road Up to the heart of the moors Between heath-clad showery hills Runs, and colliers’ carts Poach the deep ways coming down, And a rough, grimed race have their homes,-- There on its slope is built The moorland town. But the church Stands on the crest of the hill, Lonely and bleak; at its side The parsonage-house and the graves.

Strew with laurel the grave Of the early-dying! Alas! Early she goes on the path To the silent country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon; yet green Laurels she had, and a course Short, but redoubled by fame.

And not friendless, and not Only with strangers to meet, Faces ungreeting and cold, Thou, O mourned one, to-day Enterest the house of the grave! Those of thy blood, whom thou lovedst, Have preceded thee,--young, Loving, a sisterly band; Some in art, some in gift Inferior--all in fame. They, like friends, shall receive This comer, greet her with joy; Welcome the sister, the friend; Hear with delight of thy fame!

Round thee they lie; the grass Blows from their graves to thy own! She whose genius, though not Puissant like thine, was yet Sweet and graceful; and she (How shall I sing her?) whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Passion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died,-- The world-famed son of fire,--she who sank Baffled, unknown, self-consumed; Whose too bold dying song Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

Of one, too, I have heard, A brother: sleeps he here? Of all that gifted race Not the least gifted; young, Unhappy, eloquent; the child Of many hopes, of many tears. O boy, if here thou sleep’st, sleep well! On thee too did the Muse Bright in thy cradle smile; But some dark shadow came (I know not what) and interposed.

Sleep, O cluster of friends, Sleep! or only when May, Brought by the west-wind, returns Back to your native heaths, And the plover is heard on the moors, Yearly awake to behold The opening summer, the sky, The shining moorland; to hear The drowsy bee, as of old, Hum o’er the thyme, the grouse Call from the heather in bloom! Sleep, or only for this Break your united repose!