Woodspring Abbey, 1836.[14]

These walls were built by men who did a deed Of blood:--terrific conscience, day by day, Followed, where'er their shadow seemed to stay, And still in thought they saw their victim bleed, Before God's altar shrieking: pangs succeed, As dire upon their heart the deep sin lay, No tears of agony could wash away: Hence! to the land's remotest limit, speed! These walls are raised in vain, as vainly flows Contrition's tear: Earth, hide them, and thou, Sea, Which round the lone isle, where their bones repose, Dost sound for ever, their sad requiem be, In fancy's ear, at pensive evening's close, Still murmuring{b} MISERERE, DOMINE.

Three mailed men, in Canterbury Cathedral, rushed on the Archbishop of Canterbury, and murdered him before the altar. Conscience-stricken, they fled and built Woodspring Abbey, in the remote corner of Somersetshire, near Western Super Mare, where the land looks on the Atlantic sea. There are three unknown graves on the Flat Holms.

LACOCK NUNNERY.

JUNE 24, 1837.

I stood upon the stone where ELA lay, The widowed founder of these ancient walls, Where fancy still on meek devotion calls, Marking the ivied arch, and turret gray-- For her soul's rest--eternal rest--to pray; Where visionary nuns yet seem to tread, A pale dim troop, the cloisters of the dead, Though twice three hundred years have flown away! But when, with silent step and pensive mien, In weeds, as mourning for her sisters gone, The mistress of this lone monastic scene Came; and I heard her voice's tender tone, I said, Though centuries have rolled between, One gentle, beauteous nun is left, on earth, alone.

"Eternam Requiem dona."

ON A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE.

Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life. Here, all is still as fair; the stream, the tree, The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear, No thought of Time's swift wing, or closing night, That comes to steal away the long sweet light-- No sighs of sad humanity are here. Here is no tint of mortal change; the day,-- Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy Gambol, with look, and almost bark, of joy,-- Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay. Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.

ART AND NATURE.

THE BRIDGE BETWEEN CLIFTON AND LEIGH WOODS.

Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand, Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand Severed for ever! The vast ocean-tide, Leaving its roar without at his command, Shrank, and beneath the woods through the green land Went gently murmuring on, so to deride The frowning barriers that its force defied! But Art, high o'er the trailing smoke below Of sea-bound steamer, on yon summit's head Sat musing; and where scarce a wandering crow Sailed o'er the chasm, in thought a highway led; Conquering, as by an arrow from a bow, The scene's lone Genius by her elfin-thread.

CLIFTON, 27th August 1836.

PICTURE OF AN OLD MAN.

Old man, I saw thee in thy garden chair Sitting in silence 'mid the shrubs and trees Of thy small cottage-croft, whilst murmuring bees Went by, and almost touched thy temples bare, Edged with a few flakes of the whitest hair. And, soothed by the faint hum of ebbing seas, And song of birds, and breath of the young breeze, Thus didst thou sit, feeling the summer air Blow gently;--with a sad still decadence, Sinking to earth in hope, but all alone. Oh! hast thou wept to feel the lonely sense Of earthly loss, musing on voices gone! Hush the vain murmur, that, without offence, Thy head may rest in peace beneath the churchyard stone.

PICTURE OF A YOUNG LADY.

When I was sitting, sad, and all alone, Remembering youth and love for ever fled, And many friends now resting with the dead, While the still summer's light departing shone, Like many sweet and silent summers gone; Thou camest, as a vision, with a mien And smile like those I once on earth had seen, And with a voice of that remembered tone Which I in other days, long since, had heard: Like Peace approaching, when distempers fret Most the tired spirit, thy fair form appeared; And till I die, I never shall forget,-- For at thy footstep light, the gloom was cheered,-- Thy look and voice, oh! gentle Margaret.

HOUR-GLASS AND BIBLE.

Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that glass That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days, And years; it speaks not, yet, methinks, it says, To every human heart: so mortals pass On to their dark and silent grave! Alas For man! an exile upon earth he strays, Weary, and wandering through benighted ways; To-day in strength, to-morrow like the grass That withers at his feet!--Lift up thy head, Poor pilgrim, toiling in this vale of tears; That book declares whose blood for thee was shed, Who died to give thee life; and though thy years Pass like a shade, pointing to thy death-bed, Out of the deep thy cry an angel hears, And by his guiding hand thy steps to heaven are led!

MILTON.

ON THE BUSTS OF MILTON, IN YOUTH AND AGE, AT STOURHEAD.

IN YOUTH.

Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair, That brow untouched by one faint line of care, To mar its openness, we seem to trace The front of the first lord of human race, 'Mid thine own Paradise portrayed so fair, Ere Sin or Sorrow scathed it: such the air That characters thy youth. Shall time efface These lineaments as crowding cares assail! It is the lot of fall'n humanity. What boots it! armed in adamantine mail, The unconquerable mind, and genius high, Right onward hold their way through weal and woe, Or whether life's brief lot be high or low!

IN AGE.

And art thou he, now "fall'n on evil days," And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek, These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak! A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,-- A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek, As in the sight of God intent to seek, 'Mid solitude or age, or through the ways Of hard adversity, the approving look Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride Of wisdom, patient and content to brook All ills to that sole Master's task applied, Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind, Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ON ACCIDENTLY MEETING AND PARTING WITH SIR WALTER SCOTT, WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN FOR MANY YEARS, IN THE STREETS OF LONDON, MAY 1828.

Since last I saw that countenance so mild, Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care, Had gently touched, methought, some features there; Yet looked the man as placid as a child, And the same voice,--whilst mingled with the throng, Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,-- That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled! That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed At parting,--wheresoe'er our various way, In this great world,--but from the banks of Tweed, As slowly sink the shades of eventide, Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed, Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say, A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!

ELEGY WRITTEN AT THE HOTWELLS, BRISTOL,

JULY, 1789.