II.

ritten with a Slate-pencil, on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black Comb.

STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top

Of this huge Eminence, from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That, on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,

Week after week pursued!—To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes

Upon the exalted hills. He made report

That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly

The many-coloured map before his eyes
Became invisible: for all around

Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimed-
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,

In which he sate alone with unclosed eyes
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!

Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland: its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other Mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain. See page 305, Vol. I.

III.

In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart. Leicestershire.

THE embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine
Will not unwillingly their place resign;

If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains,-
These Groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite

By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!

And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
And to a favourite resting-place invite,
For coolness grateful and a sober light;
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;

Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of Him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth Field;

And of that famous Youth, full soon removed

From earth, perhaps by Shakespear's self approved, Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

IV.

In a Garden of the same.

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 shape the work, what time these walks and bowers

Were framed to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.

VOL. II.

U