Inscriptions - In A Garden Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart.

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust; And 'tis a common ordinance of fate That things obscure and small outlive the great: Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, And all its stately trees, are passed away, This little Niche, unconscious of decay, Perchance may still survive. And be it known That it was scooped within the living stone,— Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains Of labourer plodding for his daily gains, But by an industry that wrought in love; With help from female hands, that proudly strove To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.