V.

Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart. and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same Grounds.

YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
And be not slow a stately growth to rear

Of Pillars, branching off from year to year

Till they at length have framed a darksome Aisle ;

Like a recess within that awful Pile

Where Reynolds, mid our Country's noblest Dead,
In the last sanctity of Fame is laid.

-There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise and Friendship's private tear:
Hence on my patrimonial Grounds have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory,
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed, attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

VI.

Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton.

BENEATH yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground,
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,
The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;

Erst a religious House, that day and night

With hymns resounded, and the chaunted rite:
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth

To honourable Men of various worth:

There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child;
There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,
With which his genius shook the buskined Stage.
Communities are lost, and Empires die,-

And things of holy use unhallowed lie;
They perish; but the Intellect can raise,

From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.

VII.

Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere.

RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace.

Yet as it is

Do take it in good part:-alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help
From the great City; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

Thou seest a homely Pile, yet to these walls

The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row

His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof

He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights and visions of romantic joy!