TO THE MEMORY OF LORD KEPPEL.
THOUGH Fortune bends to Life's unvarying doom,
And Nature stops her blessings at the tomb;
Though Wisdom's triumph and the boast of Birth
Must, undistinguish'd, mix with meanest Earth;
The lasting Moral faithful Fame supplies,
And Memory lends the mark that Death denies.
Yet the grav'd Pile in vain shall breathe, the Verse
In vain present to Time the blazon'd hearse,
Where Heaven's invalued bounties we debase,
The last in merit, though the first in place;
But thee, who oft in Virtue's dear defence
Bared thy bold breast, and urged thy manly sense,
Or, when thy country claim'd a soldier's care,
Borne on the wings of Glory to the war,
Or in fair Friendship's pledge, and proud array,
Oppos'd to guilty Faction's secret sway,
While every private wrong too soon forgiven,
Breath'd the meek spirit of forbearing heaven;
Thee-mild yet firm, thee-placable yet brave,
The Muse shall tell, and disappoint the grave,
And History guard thy deeds from envying Age
To moralize at once and grace her page.
Beautifully drawn by the Rev. William Bree, of Coleshill, in Warwickshire, and in the Possession of the Rev. Henry White, Cathedral Close, Lichfield.
AFTER a lonely course through yon deep woods,
And the green quietness of distant vales,
Now, gentle river, to the haunts of men
The rude stone arches stretching o'er thy flood
Note thine approach; and as with silent lapse
Thou stealest under them, the staid old cow
And lumpish horse above, are driven afield
By time-worn herdsman. Then, in swifter course,
Thy lately tranquil streams, jocund, and loud,
Rush down the Wier. Again, soon calm'd, they flow,
And the young day shines on their glassy train.
So dost thou wander by the pleasant base
Of a clean village, climbing up the steep
And shrubby knoll; while bosom'd in thick trees,
The church the hill top crowns. The day is young;
Clos'd yonder cottage door; the din and talk
Of clamorous infants and laborious man
Unheard as yet, tho' from the chimney tops
The grey smoke, rising to the church-yard trees,
Curls its light vapour round their boughs, and gives
Promise of morning's meal. Behold the cart,
That late, well-loaded, on thy pebbled bank
Had creaked and crept, at the yet silent mill
Stopt; those full stores resigning, which shall soon
Employ thy silent waters, and awake
The clattering hubbub of the busy scene.
Adown those rocky stairs, which to thy brink
Lead from the hamlet cots, erewhile shall step,
With cleanly pail light rocking on her head,
The rustic maid, new-risen; for she has seen,
Through lattice curtain'd by the briar rose,
Her cow slow pacing up thy left hand bank,
Intelligent of hour, the burden rich
Duteous to yield; and, yet more welcome, sees,
Not far behind, the youth belov'd, from cops'd
And hay-stack'd tenement down in the vale.
Yes! and thou soon shalt hear the tender vows
Of true love breath'd; and breath'd in sweeter sound
Than song of linnet, or the quiet tune
Of thine own streams when hush'd are all the woods.
Mark that clos'd door, for it shall open soon.
It is the good dame's school, and in shall throng
Like bees in spring time to their dusky hive,
The little troop, and in resembling huni
Mutter the morning task; but when yon tower
Shall tell, far heard, the welcome tale of noon,
Some striding and some tumbling o'er the sill,
The infant tribe releas'd, with prattle loud
Shall totter down, and on thy shelving bank
Shout, laugh, and squabble, strenuous while they hurl
The frequent stone; dividing thy smooth waves.
But, on the morrow, Sabbath bells shall ring,
And 'twixt the matin and the vesper hour,
And at the rosy setting of the sun,
That little lawless multitude, which late,
Noisy and wild, had clamour'd on thy bank,
In Sunday vestments, and with sober gait
Walk by their parents' side; while from each hand,
The varied posy, dappled pinks, and rose,
Woodbine, and fragrant southernwood, and thyme,
Scent the wide air. Leisure and quietness,
Apparel clean, and vacant looks, all speak
The sacred day of rest; and thou shalt bear,
From that wood-mantled tower, the holy chimes,
Silver'd and mellow'd on thy liquid course,
To neighbouring farm, and cot.
There we may trust
Right welcome is the sound, more welcome still
The Pastor's voice persuasive, when he speaks
Of hopes eternal. Charitable deeds
Shedding a daily beauty on his life,
That makes his doctrine saintly; while, combin'd,
They form a picture, delicate of trait,
As the soft scene now mirror'd on thy breast;
While the soft scene, and thou its mirror fair,
Are all the sweet creation of his hand,
Whose touch is Genius, and whose life is Love.
Inscribed on a Monument, erected to the Memory of Dr. Small, in a sequestered Grove, ut Soho, near Birmingham.
YE gay and young, who thoughtless of your doom,
Shun the disgustful mansions of the dead,
Where Melancholy broods o'er many a tomb,
Mouldering beneath the yew's unwholesome shade:
If chance ye enter these sequester'd groves,
And day's bright sunshine for a while forego,
Oh! leave to Folly's cheek the laugh and loves,
And give one hour to philosophic woe!
Here, while no titled dust, no sainted bone,
No lover weeping over Beauty's bier,
No warrior frowning in historic stone,
Extorts your praises, or requests your tear;
Cold Contemplation leans her aching head,
On human woe her steady eye she turns,
Waves her meek hand, and sighs for Science dead,
For Science, Virtue, and for SMALL, she mourns.
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