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From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recalled the Name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day
On which the Traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable Tale I tell !
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This Dog, had been through three months' space
A Dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that since the day
When this ill-fated Traveller died
The Dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his Master's side:
How nourished here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

XXV.

TO THE LADY

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION

OF

CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND.

Blest is this Isle our native Land;
Where battlement and moated gate
Are objects only for the hand
Of hoary Time to decorate;
Where shady hamlet, town that breathes
Its busy smoke in social wreaths,
No rampart's stern defence require,
Nought but the heaven-directed Spire,
And steeple Tower (with pealing bells
Far heard) - our only Citadels.

O Lady! from a noble line
Of Chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore

The spear, yet gave to works divine
A bounteous help in days of yore,
(As records mouldering in the Dell
Of Nightshade * haply yet may tell)
Thee kindred aspirations moved
To build, within a Vale beloved,
For Him upon whose high behests
All peace depends, all safety rests.

Well may the Villagers rejoice!
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,
Will be a hindrance to the voice
That would unite in prayer and praise ;
More duly shall wild-wandering Youth
Receive the curb of sacred truth,
Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear
The Promise, with uplifted ear ;
And all shall welcome the new ray
Imparted to their Sabbath-day.

*

Bekangs Gbyll — or the Vale of Nightshade – in which stands St. Mary's Abbey, in Low Furness.

Even Strangers, slackening here their pace,
Shall bless this work of pious care,
Lifting its front with modest grace
To make a fair recess more fair ;
And to exalt the passing hour;
Or soothe it, with a healing power
Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled,
Before this rugged soil was tilled,
Or human habitation rose
To interrupt the deep repose !

Not yet the corner stone is laid
With solemn rite; but Fancy sees
The tower time-stricken, and in shade

Embosomed of coeval trees;

Hears, o'er the lake, the warning clock
As it shall sound with gentle shock
At evening, when the ground beneath
Is ruffled o'er with cells of Death ;
Where happy Generations lie,
Here tutored for Eternity.

Lives there a Man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noon-tide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To him, their verdure from the fields;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the Sun his setting shrouds.

A Soul so pitiably forlorn,
If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,
May turn indifference to pride,
And still be not unblest - compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and Christian hope ;
Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
False fires, that others may be lost.

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