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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.






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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