VI. LINES WRITTEN, NOVEMBER 13, 1814, ON A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM THE EXCURSION," UPON HEARING 66 OF THE DEATH OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL. To public notice, with reluctance strong, Which pious, learned MURFITT saw and read ;- He conned the new-born Lay with grateful heart— Foreboding not how soon he must depart; Unweeting that to him the joy was given Which good men take with them from earth to heaven. VII. INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. FEBRUARY, 1816. 1. "REST, rest, perturbèd Earth! O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind!" A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than the wind: “ From regions where no evil thing has birth I come-thy stains to wash away, Thy cherished fetters to unbind, And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day. The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that have risen From out thy noisome prison; The penal caverns groan With tens of thousands rent from off the tree Of hopeful life,-by battle's whirlwind blown Unpitied havoc! Victims unlamented! But not on high, where madness is resented, The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly augmented. II. "False Parent of Mankind! Obdurate, proud, and blind, I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, Scattering this far-fetched moisture from my wings, Of which the rivers in their secret springs, Shall be attended with a bolder prayer May she, who once disturbed the seats of bliss Be chained for ever to the black abyss! The Spirit ended his mysterious rite, VIII. ELEGIAC STANZAS. (ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW.) 1824. O FOR a dirge! But why complain? A garland of immortal boughs To bind around the Christian's brows, We pay a high and holy debt; Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief That flings itself on wild relief When Saints have passed away. Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, For ever covetous to feel, And impotent to bear! Such once was hers-to think and think On severed love, and only sink From anguish to despair! But nature to its inmost part Faith had refined; and to her heart Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest Was ever Spirit that could bend So promptly from her lofty throne ?- Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek When aught that breathes had felt a wound; But hushed be every thought that springs Her quiet is secure ; No thorns can pierce her tender feet, As climbing jasmine, pure |