Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-house), on the Island at Grasmere Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Her- bert's Island, Derwent-Water. Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera. Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air. Perhaps some needful service of the State O thou who movest onward with a mind There never breathed a man who, when his life O flower of all that springs from gentle blood Not without heavy grief of heart did he Pause, courteous Spirit! - Balbi supplicates By a blest Husband guided, Mary came. 147 Epitaph in the Chapel-Yard of Langdale, Westmoreland 146 Address to the Scholars of the Village School of Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, Lines composed at Grasmere, during a Walk one Even- ing, after a Stormy Day, the Author having just read Invocation to the Earth. February, 1816 Lines written on a Blank Leaf in a Copy of the Author's Poem "The Excursion," upon hearing of the Death Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. Written after the Death of Charles Lamb 177 185 Preface to the Second Edition of several of the foregoing MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I. EPISTLE TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. From the Southwest Coast of Cumberland. 1811. FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, Frowns, deepening visibly his native gloom, What on the Plain we have of warmth and light, From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee; Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Darkening the window, ill defends the door a Fortress bare, Where strength has been the Builder's only care; Whose rugged walls may still for years demand The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. - This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, Tired of my books, a scanty company! And tired of listening to the boisterous sea Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. But if there be a Muse who, free to take Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake Those heights, (like Phoebus when his golden locks He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks,) |